REBEKAH

by Carla C. Lee, former Chief of Staff, King County Prosecuting Attorney's Office

Before her, I was met with narrowed eyes, clutched purses, crossed arms, careful distance. The calculations people make when a Black woman enters a room. Threat assessment complete in seconds, verdict rendered before a smile, before a hello, or maybe no hello. Room full with an empty seat next to you. No one brave enough to sit next to the spider lady, the Black lady.

Before her, there were Carrie-like moments at the office prom without the pig's blood but where no one spoke. Only suspicious stares, mean girl glances, backs turned. Even second-in-command didn't speak to me or socialize with me.

The microaggressions stack like bricks. You don't feel the wall going up until you're walled in, until the fatigue becomes your skin, until isolation is just the weather and you've forgotten what sun feels like. You can't breathe but you don't know why.

But then nine pounds of audacity with a face that could sell anything comes into my life. She loves me unconditionally. She is multi-colored and I am multi-faceted.

She walks up my body each morning, sits with her butt on my chest, looking down at me like a drill sergeant with floppy ears. I smell the shampoo mixed with her natural scent. Paws on chest, nose to nose, tongue on my cheek — and I am Lucy from Charlie Brown: AUGH! I've been kissed by a dog!

She paces when she wants to walk. She twirls when she really wants something or has something to say. She whimpers when I come home like I've returned from war, like my absence was unbearable, like I am the best thing that has ever happened to anyone. She barks at Amazon delivery with peanut butter covering her nose. No one will enter now.

She thinks she knows everything, walking around like a big show dog and Commander-in-Chief. She is Paw Patrol without the Nickelodeon check in the mail.

Nine pounds of joy who charges dogs four times her size. Buddy, Freddie, Marissa are her walking crew. All massive, all multicolored like her, all following her lead because she has never once considered that she might be small.

She smacks them on the muzzle with her paw when they get out of line.

Rebekah. AKA Tiny Loc.

She patrols. She protects. Chickadees threat. Squirrels threat. Domesticated cats suspicious. Amazon delivery threat. Coyotes finally, a worthy opponent.

Don't let the face fool you. She is a little terror who has never lost a fight she started in her mind. If thought bubbles could magically appear from her head, I'm sure hers would say: "Wait til they get a load of me."

She walked the halls of justice. Marble tunnels, fourth floor patrol, security guards saving treats, lawyers bending down to scratch her ears, HR personnel feeding her gummies. Right. She made friends I couldn't make, opened doors I couldn't open because people smile at dogs and the women who carry them.

Once, a Senator visited the office to discuss policy. Rebekah under the conference table in her backpack while a cordial disagreement ensued. She was silent the entire meeting until the Senator rose to leave, just as they approached the door, then a persistent growl.

She captured our thoughts exactly.

Everyone laughed. Someone said: Rebekah gets the last word. Another said: Impeccable timing, Rebekah. She read our thought bubbles.

Dogs bring out the best in most of us.

Outside the courthouse, she squatted to poop while police officers watched, trying to figure out her breed.

What kind of dog is that? they would ask.

Papillon and long-haired chihuahua, I would answer.

Smiles exchanged. No threatening looks, no suspicious observations. Just curious about the dog with the Black lady.

While vacationing in Mexico, she met some dogs who didn't speak her language. She barked instructions in English. They stared at her like: ¿Qué?

She did not adjust. She does not code-switch. She expects the world to understand her, and when it doesn't, she simply barks louder.

Sound familiar?

I am learning from her, or not.

The world slows down when I'm with her. I feel seen, valued, loved.

Now when I walk with her, people stop us, not with suspicion, not with fear, but with hands extended. May I pet her? What's her name? How old?

I can barely get through the park. Children want to play with her. Men and women, want to pet her. She acts as if she is Skye from Paw Patrol, the one all the pups look up to.

They see her first. Then they see me. And something in their face softens, because a woman with a dog like this must be safe, must be kind, must be human.

She did that.

Rebekah, a little nine-pound dog, sees me and she helps people see me too.

Nine pounds of diplomatic immunity. Passport to personhood. The cute little doggie face that says I am loved, therefore she is lovable.

Before her, I was tired. Before her, I was walled in. Before her, I walked alone through rooms that didn't want me.

Now I walk with Rebekah, AKA, Tiny Loc, the unofficial office protector, the Senator-growler, the big-dog-in-a-small-body, the morning alarm who sits on my chest with floppy ears, the one who whimpers when I return like I am everything, like I am enough, and like I am finally finally seen.

Rebekah: the dog who humanizes me.