Sad Puppy Dog Eyes And Divorce

When I was in third grade we had this writing assignment, to write about an inanimate object and tell how we were like it.

This is what I imagined as a child only gloomier
now you can buy it on Etsy

I wrote about a velvet painting of a puppy dog with the saddest eyes. This painting I wrote hung inside of a little Italian restaurant that my family frequented. That this resturant was where we celebrated birthdays, special occasions and had Sunday dinners. It was my favorite place. I wrote that because I loved it so much, my parents decided to take me there to break the news. The awful news. The news that they were getting divorced.

The inanimate object that I was like was that painting. That puppy. I was like him because I knew the same sadness and loneliness that the puppy knew. When I saw those sad puppy dog eyes, I knew that painting and I were cut from the same cloth. Painted by the same artist.

I don't remember if I wrote more or if that's where my story ended. It probably ended there. After all I was only in third grade. I didn't give this story another thought. It got a gold star. My stories always got a gold star.

A couple of months later we had parent teacher conferences. My teacher was very surprised that they (my parents) came together (she was likely just expecting a mom). She showed them my paper and told them she was worried about me, but that I was a strong resilient girl. My school work hadn't suffered.

My parents needed her to explain what she was saying a few times. Possibly because English was their newly acquired second language. Eventually they understood what she was saying.

My parents laughed. They explained to her that I had a vivid imagination and that I loved to tell stories. Interesting stories, whether real or imagined. They were not divorced, not getting divorced and we NEVER went out for Italian food. Chinese yes, Italian never.

My parents were amused, the teacher was not.

She felt duped I guess, and suggested to my parents that I might need to see a therapist. My parents disagreed, and had a nice chuckle about my creative writing.