I, Cosmo

1.

This year I am a turtle. I do not want to be a turtle.
“His tail’s between his legs,” Max notes, cocking his head. Worry spreads across his wonderful face. “You think the hat’s too tight?”
We are on the porch, and the strange pumpkin is smiling at us — the one Max carved last week, scooping out its guts. I ate the seeds even though he told me “No, Cosmo, no.” I find it difficult to stop myself when something smells so interesting and so new.
Max’s father, whose name is Dad, readjusts the turtle vest on my back. “Nah, he’s fine. He loves it! Look at him!”
This is one of those times — those infinite times — when I wish my tongue did not loll in my mouth. Because I would say, in perfect human language, that turtles are inferior creatures who cannot manage to cross roads, and I have crossed many roads, off-leash, by myself. This costume is an embarrassment.
At a loss, I roll gently onto my back, kicking my legs in the air. An ache creaks down my spine; I am not young like I used to be. But hopefully Max will understand the subtle meaning in my gesture.
“Dad, I really think he doesn’t like it.”
Yes, Max! Yes!
Scratching the fur on his chin, Dad says to me, “Okay, okay, no hat, but you’ve gotta keep the shell.”
And just like that, a small victory.
Emmaline bursts onto the porch then. She is all energy. She glows. “Cosmooooo.” Her little hands ruffle my ears, and it reminds me why I am a turtle in the first place — because Emmaline picked it out. Because it made her happy. I’ve long accepted that this is one of my roles.
Max grabs Emmaline’s hand and spins her around, like they’re dancing. Her purple superhero cape twirls with the movement. Last week, I helped Mom make the costume: guarding the fabric, keeping watch by her feet, and every once and a while, she held up her progress and asked me, “Whaddya think, Cosmo?”
A wonder, I told her with my eyes. It is a wonder.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mom?” Max asks. He is dressed in dark colors, patches on his shirt, and I suppose he is a cow or a giraffe, although I do not like thinking of him as either. Giraffes are remarkably stupid creatures, and Max is very, very smart. He can speak three languages, build model rockets, and fold his tongue into a four-leaf clover. He can even unscrew the lids off peanut butter jars. I’d like to see a giraffe do that.
Dad replies, “She’s late. Don’t want to miss all the good candy.”
Max says, “I just think —”
But Dad cuts him off with “Ready, Freddy,” which he is fond of saying, despite the fact that Max is called Max. After a pause, the four of us set off into the bluish night. Our house is a one-story brick structure with plenty of grass and a swing set that only Emmaline uses now. Paper lanterns line the driveway, lighting up the cul-de-sac.
The fur on the back of my neck begins to rise.
Halloween is the worst night of the year. If you disagree, please take a moment to consider my logic:
1. Most Halloween candy is chocolate. My fourth Halloween, I consumed six miniature Hershey’s bars and was immediately rushed to the emergency vet, where I spent four hours with an incredible tummy ache.
2. Young humans jump out from behind bushes and yell “Boo!” This is confusing. One of my best friends, a German shorthaired pointer, is named Boo.
3. Clowns.
4. Golden retrievers, like myself, are too dignified for costumes. I am not entirely opposed to raincoats if the occasion arises, but there is a line. For example, Mom bought me a cat costume once, and I have yet to wholly recover from the trauma.
5. The sheepdog is let loose.
Allow me to elaborate on this fifth point. I have never had an appetite for confrontation — not even when I was a puppy. But I make an exception for the sheepdog.
Five Halloweens ago, on a night just like this, Max and I approached a white-shingled house at the end of the street. A big, blocky van idled by the mailbox, and a roast-chicken smell wafted from two open windows. I knew immediately that we had new neighbors — the old neighbors were strictly beef-eaters. An eerie quietness settled over the street, a dark cloud moving to block
the moon. So quick that I did not even see it coming, the sheepdog emerged from behind a massive oak tree in their front yard. It was wearing an ominous pink tutu and fairy wings, its gray-and-white fur standing on end.
My immediate reaction was empathy — hadn’t we both succumbed to the same costumed fate? I began to trot over in my bunny outfit, intent on bowing in commiseration, and then welcoming it to the neighborhood with a friendly sniff of its butt. What happened next was not friendly. I have never seen anything like it in my thirteen years.
The sheepdog bared its teeth, a menacing snarl directed straight at me . . . And I swear its eyes glowed red.
I was horrified.
There are few things that truly frighten me: trips in the back of pickup trucks, the vacuum (the sound, the sharp smell, the way things disappear inside it), and anytime Max or Emmaline are in danger. That night, as the sheepdog cast a final red-eyed glance in my direction, its ears back and incisors gleaming, I added one more thing to the list.