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How My English Teacher Saved My Dog; the Power of Point of View

The Power of Point of View.

Those words, which were the title of my new book, excited me. But when I opened it, the material, although useful, was dry and technical. I was disappointed. When I had seen the title, I had something else in mind – a memory.

It started long ago with my sixth grade teacher. Every week she would write on the blackboard writing exercises like this: “Pretend you are a flea. Pretend you are a slave. Pretend you are a cat. And write a story from their point of view.\”

I loved those exercises. They gave me the feeling that I could leave my body, escape the classroom, and inhabit the mind of someone, or something, else. I felt that way sometimes when reading too. Something happened later that made me realize that these exercises were not just fun; they could be useful – even powerful.

I had a dog named Shazzu – a miniature Pekingese. I loved the name Shazzu because it sounded like it could be an Asian form of the word shaggy, which is what Shazzu was.

Shazzu had some bad habits, however. He would run toward oncoming cars, panting happily, and plop down in front of them, forcing the driver to get out and move Shazzu before pulling up into the driveway. Shazzu had another quirk; he played the game of “fetch” all wrong. He was fine with the fetching part; that is, he would retrieve his ball every time. The problem was, he would not return it to the thrower.

Instead, he would waddle off with the tennis ball in his mouth, snorting happily, and find a remote corner of the carport to lie down and face; then, glancing suspiciously from side to side, he would snort some more, and drool. The tennis ball was not much to look at, stained by his love. It was matted with dog fur, caked with dirt, and coated with canine saliva. But as long as he thought someone else wanted it, it was his greatest treasure.

If anyone tried to insist on the rules of fetch, and take the ball from Shazzu, a low growl would rise from his throat and he would shake like a lawn mower just starting up. I learned to let him keep it, rather than risk his wrath. Shazzu was not a smart dog, but he was mostly a happy dog, and I loved him.

I do not remember when exactly Shazzu changed, or the details of how it happened; only that a game of fetch between Shazzu and my dad or brother had gone awry – and an attempt to wrest the ball from Shazzu had ended in a vicious bite that had drawn blood. My dad was not happy. Around me Shazzu acted the same, all wagging and happy and wanting his belly rubbed. But after the incident, he no longer trusted my brother or my dad. Whenever they stepped outside, he would growl, snarl, bark, and threaten.

One day I came home from school and knew something was wrong. There were no happy puppy greetings, only silence. The tennis ball was there, forlorn, in the carport. Shazzu was not. I hurried into the house, only to have my worst suspicions confirmed. My dad had taken Shazzu to the pound.

My horrified protests filled the house; how could he do such a thing? I learned that Shazzu had bitten my dad when he was only trying to feed him; keeping an aggressive dog, he said, was unsafe for everyone. I defended the dog as best I could. I made the point that Shazzu had never bitten me, or tried to. I could start feeding him myself. Despite my pleas, my parents would not budge. I stormed off and locked myself in my room.

Once I had settled down, I tried to clear my head. I thought the problem was that Shazzu could not talk. If he could talk, he could tell how it felt to be a dog who did not own many things, and how happy it made him to have a dirty tennis ball that someone else wanted; how it felt to have a strong, tall figure hovering over him, using force to take away his prize; how he had done the only thing he knew to do. Pretend you are a flea. Pretend you are a slave. Pretend you are a dog who has been taken to the pound.

I found a blank notebook. I tried to imagine how it felt to be suddenly thrust into a strange room with cages and disturbing smells, what Shazzu might be thinking, and I wrote it all down. I cannot remember everything I wrote; but part of it went something like this:

Did they want my ball this badly? To bring me here, where I have no room to move? With smells I am afraid to breathe? With hands not here to pet, that I am afraid to sniff. The clang of metal, the strained yelps. The waiting. For what? They will be back, they will be back. Soon they will be back, they will say it has been enough; they will be back.

Once I had finished, I went to my dad and read my story aloud and watched the features of his face soften. The next day Shazzu was back in the carport, wagging his tail and snorting and drooling and wanting his belly rubbed. We kept him for many years after that.

Whenever I use point of view in writing fiction, I think about that day, and my sixth grade teacher and pretending to be a flea. Beyond just a fiction writing tool, it is a quest for understanding. It encourages looking beyond stereotypes. It means admitting that others, no matter how different or far away, are vibrantly real. It is far from mind reading; and yet, the imaginative attempt to understand another person or animal is nothing less than focused empathy. It can extend to a person, a bird, or a dog who loves a ball. And within it, the walls people use to keep them detached fall away.

That is the power of point of view.

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