What did you want to be when you grew up?

Really: what were those beams of light streaming out from the hands of the Mother of God? Everyone seemed to think they were beams of grace, or love, or peace, or something else intangibly exquisite. You weren’t so sure. Something about them reminded you of the death rays that flashed out of those Martian spaceships in War of the Worlds. The Blessed Mother's frequent pronouncements that one would have much to suffer was pretty much the same thing as a death ray, in your opinion. Perhaps a slow-acting death-ray, but a death-ray nonetheless.

          So it was that by age eight, you had already decided you wanted to grow up to be a dog. Certainly, you thought, the Mother of God would not be interested in making any Ethereal Appearances before dogs, or in beaming any death rays down on them. And you had grown quite close to Sally, the family dog who had become your guard and protector against Blessed Apparitions. Now she would also be your teacher and your mentor.

          You began beckoning the metamorphosis by sticking a rope into the back of your pants to create a tail, and by wearing knee pads to facilitate movement on all fours. Your parents not only humored you, they encouraged you. They patted you on the head. They call to you just like they’d call to Sally – “Here, girl, here girl!” And, although you were expected to eat dinner at the table with the rest of the human beings, your mother Mildred occasionally placed a bowl of water on the floor for you to lap to your heart’s content.

          Your big sister, Lara, was the only one in the family who was unhappy with your ambition to be a dog. Something had changed between you two when Lara began middle school that year. You sensed something was amiss when she started putting rollers in her hair at night, and when she began to wear dresses voluntarily. Whatever it was, it broke down the sisterly camaraderie you had both enjoyed. She did not smile at your canine whimpers, she ignored your howls, and sometimes when your parents weren’t looking, she’d angrily yank your tail out. You were unable to make Lara understand that dogs were the undercover saviors of the world, although it seemed so obvious to you. After all, they spoke a primordial language! They knew secret smells! They heard sounds no human could hear! They relished naps and backyards and red meat! But no amount of coaxing and nuzzling from you could get Lara to accept your desire to be a big, noisy dog -- a rangy mongrel with bushy black fur and eyes as bright as apples.

          Despite Lara’s displeasure, you practiced your craft every day. You became an expert at lolling in the sun and scratching your ears with your hind legs. You learned to roll ferociously in the grass as a way to soothe itches on your back. Sometimes, when you felt sure no one was looking, you defecated in the back yard as you’d seen Sally and the other family dogs doing. And you always howled along with your mentors when police sirens screamed in the distance...