Napoleon
A story by Emily Thompson.
I was six when we met.
He didn’t have a name. I knew him to be mine only by the red collar that wreathed his neck. But, by the irregular way he lumbered, like a toddler playing Blindman’s Bluff, I knew my parents had thought long and hard about the decision. His movements echoed the way I still tottered uneasily, despite the years of experience that should have given me the competency to walk.
He was too small to stroke while I stood. So, I sat, nestling in the kempt grass and crossing my legs to form a furrow, into which he half-climbed-half-fell. He yapped, and the sound made me laugh. “You’re too small to be scary,” I told him, giggling. “Like Napoleon. He was small too. But very brave.”
Three years later, my parents separated.
He curled around my head like drastically oversized earmuffs, as my mother stormed through the house, my father’s laptop in hand, screaming at him, telling him to get out – GET OUT. I sobbed into Napoleon’s thick black coat, my fingers curling through the hairs, finding a purchase and holding tight. I let the heavy scent of him, of spices and warmth, muffle the screams like a weighted blanket. Napoleon didn’t rise as my father left that day. He held me best he could and he didn’t let me go.
Napoleon remained my anchor after the separation, when I was learning how to cook and do DIY: filling the blank space my father had left.
I was there when reality became too much for my mother, when I would watch her cheeks moisten with sorrow. Napoleon was there when the façade of strength dissolved, and I was revealed for what I was: a nine-year-old girl.
Two years after that, I started secondary school.
He met me at the top of my road, as I stepped off my bus, his excited whines clawing at my heart. I knelt to greet him at once, my fingertips dancing over the red leather collar and the rounded eyebrows that cast a shadow over his chestnut eyes and provided him with such individual expressions. “Did you miss me?” I laughed.
We walked home together. The village smelt of summer – of the primrose and lilac that hung in wicker baskets outside my neighbours’ door, of dusty earth and warm tarmac – and birds sung in harmony and competition, the notes swooping like the swallows overhead, a melody to the steady rhythm of Napoleon’s panting as he walked by my side, unrestrained. I told him about my day as we walked. I knew my mother would be too busy to ask, to remember that, today, I had taken a step closer to adulthood. I wished the time away, back then.
A few months after my thirteenth birthday, I first tried alcohol.
“Here,” my mother said, placing a glass of inconspicuous liquid before me. “Archers and lemonade. You’re old enough now,” she added, and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she, like so many people my own age, saw drinking as a rite of passage – a feature of maturity.
I drank my first glass too quickly, my mother told me, but I didn’t feel like falling over, which appeared to be all drunk people wanted to do. Had I not tasted the subtle prick of acetone or the far too smooth hint of peaches, I would have been sceptical of it being alcoholic at all. But, I finished my drink and returned my attention to Napoleon, who had been watching me with a tilted head and inquisitive eyes. He lifted his nose to smell the air and, for the first time, I noticed the speckling of silver that peppered his chin like stars in a night’s sky.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I had my first kiss.
He lay his head across my ankle, his glossy coat soaking up the summer sunshine, like a reptile on a Mediterranean rock. Napoleon didn’t run anymore – couldn’t. His legs had stiffened to the point of borderline immobility. But he could never resist a walk through the fields. So, I had brought him on this, my first date, to my village recreation grounds, with a blanket, frisbee, and basket laden with food.
The picnic was nice, the girl I was with was even nicer and the July afternoon progressed into a gorgeous evening. The sky was a watercolour of oranges, pinks and purples, and the sun carved silhouettes of the surrounding trees into the ground, their branches overlapping, like couples linking arms or holding hands, as we were doing then. Our fingers intertwined, with her manicured nails lying on top, mine beneath, pressed into the cool grass.
The kiss was short and sweet and far less awkward than I had expected.
At eighteen, I moved out.
He limped outside to bid me farewell. I had a suitcase and a single box; everything else was in the car, ready to be transported to my dormitory. I set both down, sat, and opened my arms. The sun was nearly down and so the sky was a shade somewhere between navy and cadet blue, but I could still see Napoleon as clearly as if it had been midday as he nestled into my lap. He was heavy and didn’t fit, but neither of us cared.
I pressed my lips to his head and whispered my farewell and I knew, knew from the way his eyes lifted, knew from how he raised his nose to kiss my cheek, that he understood I was going to be okay.
I was ready for the world.
-----
I think he knew that our farewells that evening would be the last he ever saw of me, because a week later, I received the news: cushioned by the bedding I had not yet taken, Napoleon, his duty fulfilled, died.
He didn’t have a name. I knew him to be mine only by the red collar that wreathed his neck. But, by the irregular way he lumbered, like a toddler playing Blindman’s Bluff, I knew my parents had thought long and hard about the decision. His movements echoed the way I still tottered uneasily, despite the years of experience that should have given me the competency to walk.
He was too small to stroke while I stood. So, I sat, nestling in the kempt grass and crossing my legs to form a furrow, into which he half-climbed-half-fell. He yapped, and the sound made me laugh. “You’re too small to be scary,” I told him, giggling. “Like Napoleon. He was small too. But very brave.”
Three years later, my parents separated.
He curled around my head like drastically oversized earmuffs, as my mother stormed through the house, my father’s laptop in hand, screaming at him, telling him to get out – GET OUT. I sobbed into Napoleon’s thick black coat, my fingers curling through the hairs, finding a purchase and holding tight. I let the heavy scent of him, of spices and warmth, muffle the screams like a weighted blanket. Napoleon didn’t rise as my father left that day. He held me best he could and he didn’t let me go.
Napoleon remained my anchor after the separation, when I was learning how to cook and do DIY: filling the blank space my father had left.
I was there when reality became too much for my mother, when I would watch her cheeks moisten with sorrow. Napoleon was there when the façade of strength dissolved, and I was revealed for what I was: a nine-year-old girl.
Two years after that, I started secondary school.
He met me at the top of my road, as I stepped off my bus, his excited whines clawing at my heart. I knelt to greet him at once, my fingertips dancing over the red leather collar and the rounded eyebrows that cast a shadow over his chestnut eyes and provided him with such individual expressions. “Did you miss me?” I laughed.
We walked home together. The village smelt of summer – of the primrose and lilac that hung in wicker baskets outside my neighbours’ door, of dusty earth and warm tarmac – and birds sung in harmony and competition, the notes swooping like the swallows overhead, a melody to the steady rhythm of Napoleon’s panting as he walked by my side, unrestrained. I told him about my day as we walked. I knew my mother would be too busy to ask, to remember that, today, I had taken a step closer to adulthood. I wished the time away, back then.
A few months after my thirteenth birthday, I first tried alcohol.
“Here,” my mother said, placing a glass of inconspicuous liquid before me. “Archers and lemonade. You’re old enough now,” she added, and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she, like so many people my own age, saw drinking as a rite of passage – a feature of maturity.
I drank my first glass too quickly, my mother told me, but I didn’t feel like falling over, which appeared to be all drunk people wanted to do. Had I not tasted the subtle prick of acetone or the far too smooth hint of peaches, I would have been sceptical of it being alcoholic at all. But, I finished my drink and returned my attention to Napoleon, who had been watching me with a tilted head and inquisitive eyes. He lifted his nose to smell the air and, for the first time, I noticed the speckling of silver that peppered his chin like stars in a night’s sky.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I had my first kiss.
He lay his head across my ankle, his glossy coat soaking up the summer sunshine, like a reptile on a Mediterranean rock. Napoleon didn’t run anymore – couldn’t. His legs had stiffened to the point of borderline immobility. But he could never resist a walk through the fields. So, I had brought him on this, my first date, to my village recreation grounds, with a blanket, frisbee, and basket laden with food.
The picnic was nice, the girl I was with was even nicer and the July afternoon progressed into a gorgeous evening. The sky was a watercolour of oranges, pinks and purples, and the sun carved silhouettes of the surrounding trees into the ground, their branches overlapping, like couples linking arms or holding hands, as we were doing then. Our fingers intertwined, with her manicured nails lying on top, mine beneath, pressed into the cool grass.
The kiss was short and sweet and far less awkward than I had expected.
At eighteen, I moved out.
He limped outside to bid me farewell. I had a suitcase and a single box; everything else was in the car, ready to be transported to my dormitory. I set both down, sat, and opened my arms. The sun was nearly down and so the sky was a shade somewhere between navy and cadet blue, but I could still see Napoleon as clearly as if it had been midday as he nestled into my lap. He was heavy and didn’t fit, but neither of us cared.
I pressed my lips to his head and whispered my farewell and I knew, knew from the way his eyes lifted, knew from how he raised his nose to kiss my cheek, that he understood I was going to be okay.
I was ready for the world.
-----
I think he knew that our farewells that evening would be the last he ever saw of me, because a week later, I received the news: cushioned by the bedding I had not yet taken, Napoleon, his duty fulfilled, died.