Essay 8: True/Untrue Autobiographies

Have you ever met the dog from hell? I have. I was walking my little cousin home from school one day. We were less than two blocks from our house, casually minding our own business as we talked about video games and how we loves to skateboard. There was a metal fence to our right. We’d passed the house numerous times on our way home; we never gave it a second thought. Suddenly we heard a growl, something deep, that it shook the ground beneath our feet.
Behind the fence, almost invisible next to the wall that bore the same color as its coat, was the largest dog I had ever seen. It was a shade of light brown with white legs and a white muzzle; his head as high as my chest sitting down. His eyes were a sickly yellow, as if he had not see the sun in ages and decided to focus his irritation on us. My cousin froze next to me. The dog could easily have fit his whole head inside his mouth if he opened it wide enough. He tried to hide his burgeoning fear behind a worried smile, and he looked at me, expecting me to tell him it was okay and the dog could not hurt us.
I wasn’t too sure to tell you the truth. The dog had powerful legs that looked like they could give Superman pointers when it came to bounding tall objects with a single bound. I half expected him to jump over the gate. So close was he to us that it seemed he would barrel right through it at any moment. I smiled at my cousin, trying to be brave, though felt dread seeping into my bones. I wanted to get as far away from him as possible so I urged my cousin along; only to realize that the gate was open.
The dog stuck his head out. Suddenly I felt the urge to run. Foam cultivated at the roots of his teeth, splattering the ground with an unyielding drip-drip that turned my stomach. I made sure my cousin was out of reach but left me between him and the dog. Did I make him run so I could hold it off? Did I call the owner to take the animal back inside? I didn’t know what to do. I felt myself walking casually by, doing my best to ignore those strange yellow eyes as I did so. My cousin walked beside me. The dog looked at us. I could hear him grumbling. I didn’t run. Running would be suicide. What maniac leaves the gate open for his hell hound to pounce on unsuspecting pedestrians?
Fortunately the dog from hell did not chase after us. We continued walking and did not look back. I was afraid that if I turned around I would see the canine following me, like he wanted to know where I lived so that he could break into my house in the middle of the night. After we turned the corner I dared to look over my shoulder. The dog wasn’t there. I breathed a sigh of relief and exchanged a strained smile with my cousin. That was a close call. If anything, it was a bonding experience.


I’m not as comfortable flying as I used to be. This has nothing to do with the events of 9/11 or the recent war on terror. I’ve come to realize that a plane is essentially a flying coffin. “What is he talking about?” One might ask. Let me explain. A plane is a completely enclosed space. Room is tight. Air is circulated but not infinite. You cannot open the windows or step outside to grab a cigarette. And what’s worse, if the whole thing goes down, you’re going with it. No parachutes. No airbags. You. The ground. BOOM! Now you get it? A coffin.
I’ve traveled much in my life. My most recent visit to China was twelve and a half long hours on a plane. Imagine looking outside your window knowing that civilization is a thousand miles back the way you came. There is nothing beneath you but water. Cold and fathomless. What’s down there, I wonder? If I fell, would there be anything in there that can eat me? There’s my paranoia sinking in. I need a break. Let me off…oh wait…I can’t. I’m stuck in a coffin forty-thousand feet the air.
Turbulence. How it loves to play with airplanes. I used to play with airplanes when I was a kid. I destroyed my toy plane unintentionally all out of having fun. I want to say now that I deeply regret the terror I placed my imaginary crew in for the sake of my amusement. It’s not fun. I hate the way the plane rocked and banked. Aeolus, god of the wind, must have sensed my displeasure for he sent air currents bouncing off of our hull like a wave. He was always a mischievous god. I always loved Greek mythology so as my imagination began to override my common sense, my brain began to try to make sense of what my fear was trying to tell me. “It’s a long flight. Plenty of time for something to go terribly wrong. Hope you settled your affairs, kiddo.”
“Shut up!” I think. I’ve flown a hundred times before and nothing ever happened. Well, there was that one time over New Mexico when I could see a thunderstorm brewing in the distance. Did I mention it was night? Well it was. It’s bad enough all you can see is white. All I saw then was darkness. We were a tiny plane lost in the pit of Oblivion, trying to find out way to Paradise. There goes my mind again. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to land nice and safe. I’m going to enjoy this trip and have the time of my life.” Life? What’s life to the forces of nature? If it’s my time it’s my time but not when I choose it. They say flying is the safest way to travel but you have a greater chance at surviving a car crash then you do a plane. They say landing in water guarantees our chances of survival. That may be true but then the things down below can eat us. People have died at sea. Some have just disappeared. I think I’d rather die than “disappear.” Dying is finality. To disappear is as if you never existed. I don’t like flying anymore.