It’s not so bad being a dog-faced girl, even a stray. Scared I’d bite the superstitious hand of the village, my mother left me to the nuns. My birth certificate is a sideshow flyer. It says Momma saw a man eaten by a wolf when her belly was a full moon. Then I was born, hairy. I imagine she’s howling somewhere.
~
In the orphanage Sister Bernadette tells me stories about Saint Wilgefortis, who grew a beard to avoid marrying an unbeliever. Fur has its uses, though she dies at the end.
I squeeze the doll she made me – a little stuffed dog wearing a peach dress. It’s like me, has a smile stitched to its fur.
~
Someone travels to meet me. I’m talented, he says, my talent’s just being myself. And that’s rare. The nuns kiss me goodbye, lips light as moths’ wings. Mr Barthley clips a lock of fur off my cheek for Sister Bernadette to remember me by. For anyone else, he says, he’d charge a buck.
~
On stage, I wear lace. A spotlight shines through it to poke at the fur. I sing love songs. Everyone laughs, except one man.
‘Scam. She’s not real! She’s wearing a mask.’
Mr Barthley shouts back, ‘Defamation of character! I’ll sue.’
He pays the man later for getting us in the newspaper again.
I touch my cheek, trying to find the edges of my mask, peel the look off my face.
~
I share a trailer with a tattooed lady with an inkless face. She wears long sleeves to town, brings back perfume samples and cake. I don’t go myself. Once, at night, I went to the beach and made a mermaid of sand. If I sunbathe the circus will fold. I’m sacred as a cow. No one need buy my milk if I leak it for free.
There’s always circus boys.
~
Every day I don’t see the lobster boy is seven years. Archie has beautifully smooth arms. He does everything with stumps so gracefully; my hands are paws. I sniff around his trailer. Outside Archie rolls a cigarette, flips it to his lips.
‘Hi.’
I whimper. These days I feel more dog than girl. Even my imagination is loyal; I can’t imagine anyone else loving me.
~
I ask the mirror if I’m pretty. My fur is impressive, people say. I’m not sure it’s the same. The razor winks at the sun. I shave, dab my face and tie ribbons in my hair. Furless, I’m silver, a ghost. I don’t look like me. I walk to Archie’s with candy, ready for him to drop his tobacco, beg a kiss.
‘Dog girl?’ he says. Then he yells, ‘Check this out! She won’t be able to work for a month! Roll up, roll up. See the world’s dumbest girl!’
Lobster laughter scuttles back to my mirror behind me. It’s not so bad being a dog girl – it’ll be harder to be a dog-faced woman, I feel.