Ever by My Side Read Online Free PDF Page A

pet of my own, of any type, were always met with some variation on a recurring theme. Dad was undoubtedly the softer target, and he seemed genuinely receptive to the idea, but every time I tried to pin him down he would say, “Go ask your mother,” which I have come to understand is universal code among fathers for “I’d love to help, but when it comes to major decisions it is my wife and not I who actually wears the trousers in our relationship!”
    Whenever I approached my mother, no matter how I phrased the request—piggybacked onto a stream of compliments, offered as barter for completion of chores, whimpered in a weak voice from a sickbed—her answer went something like this:
    “Oh, Nicholas, don’t be so silly. You can’t even look after yourself let alone a pet.”
    Disappointed, eyes filled with tears, I would trudge back to my bedroom, fall face down on my bed, and try to cry loud enough to be heard—kicking, thumping my fists, and wailing. No one ever checked on me to see if I was all right, except perhaps my sister, and only then so that she could savor my anguish or report back on thesatisfactory state of my distress. Eighteen months is all that separates me from my only sibling and no matter how hard I tried—how much quality Barbie time we spent together, how large the stash of candy I offered in the bribe—Fiona seemed lackluster in her support for us getting a pet.
    To be honest I didn’t really care whether it was a dog or a cat. Either was as ridiculous as a rhinoceros to my mother, but my father did show a deliberately detached interest in the possibility of us acquiring a dog, so it was in this species that I invested my very best effort, pretty much exhausting every trick in the “How kids get what they want from their parents” handbook.
    Having failed with temper tantrums I decided to move on to negotiations and deals, which, for most kids, equates to telling out-and-out lies. To a parental chorus of “Uh-huh,” “Right,” and “Of course you will,” we kids promise to take our new pet dogs for walks, to feed them regularly and without needing to be nagged, to happily replenish their empty water bowl when necessary and, as though it goes without saying, to supervise their potty training. Naturally we have thought none of this through. We are convinced that our parents will be so bowled over by the shock of our gesture, so consumed by the decency in its intent, that one if not both will crack, guaranteed to hold this promise over us for the life of the animal, understanding that
they
will be the ones charged with all these tasks when the novelty wears off and the real work of raising a puppy begins.
    This ruse was fooling no one, least of all my mother, so I quickly moved on to pouting, moodiness, and impersonating a Trappist monk for extended periods of time. I had just started kindergarten and the adjustment to school life was proving difficult. Surely, if I appeared increasingly reclusive and socially stunted, Mum might see the benefits of having a puppy in a new light. Sadly, for me, mymother seemed to welcome my attempt at isolation and indifference, but then, given her choice of career, I shouldn’t have been surprised that she was accustomed to such tactics.
    My kindergarten teacher was, to my dismay, disproportionately strict with me compared to my fellow classmates. She seemed indifferent to my academic effort and participation, constantly ignoring my raised hand. She never sent me home with a report card at the end of each term and if I ever misbehaved, ordered to face the wall at the back of the room, my threats to report her to my father were met with howls of laughter. Worst of all my parents appeared to be unreceptive to my distress.
    “Oh, I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” said Mum, almost willing me to grow a British stiff upper lip and tough it out.
    “But Mum,” I whined, “I thought you loved me?”
    My mother flashed me a perfunctory smile before being