We once had a fat, farting, sullen Dalmatian named Annie who liked only two things in this world. The kid across the street named Greg and anything with wheels: riding mower, wagon, wheel barrow, cars. We’d often look out and see Annie sitting on the seat of the riding mower. I do believe if we’d left the keys in she would have cranked it. She’d even try to sit perched ridiculously on top of the push mower. If we left a car door open, she’d go flying in, hopping in the driver’s seat, perched behind the wheel. When she did make a car trip, we had to restrain her to keep her in the back.
Bud acquired a red MG Midget with a rag top. Can you guess where this is headed? Annie fell in love with it, thinking it was just her size. It was in really good condition, except for a dime-sized snag in the rag top just over the driver’s seat. Bud normally parked it in the garage, but he carelessly left it in the drive one night. When he came out the next morning, Annie was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. She wouldn’t look to the right or the left. She had wanted to get in that car so badly, she’d climbed on top and fallen through the ragtop. I heard him shrieking and wondered what catastrophe had taken place. He tore the door open trying to get at her. She ripped by him, making a beeline for the protection of the fiberglass igloo doghouse she’d never even stuck a toe in before that day. Bud kicked at her(I hope the statute of limitations has run out on cruelty to animals)but she made it in before he connected. He got a huge bruise on his shin from kicking the doghouse. Though she lived to be fourteen, she never did get to drive.
Louie’s brother and family lived directly across the dusty road from him, probably his only social contacts other than his mother. That sultry August afternoon, Mother put her seventeen-month-old, Connie, down for a nap, flanked by a pillow on each side, on the big bed in her own bedroom for a nap before scooping up her colicky newborn, Marilyn, to feed and rock. It was so hot she could hardly catch her breath. The only hope of a cooling breeze was the rocker in front of the bedroom window. The attic fan pulled a breeze through that window. Mother could her two of her older children playing in the sand under the window. Periodically, the attic fan would pull in a bit of dust and Mother had to make a decision whether she’d rather endure the occasional dust spray or call out the kids and wake the cranky baby who was just drifting off. Carefully, she eased the sleeping baby into her crib without waking her, optimistically hoping she could slip in bed next to the sleeping Connie and catch a little nap. Tiptoeing out she told Phyllis, her oldest to keep an eye on me and Bill and slipped quietly in next to Connie.
Her own breathing slowed and she was almost asleep when she got the creepy feeling someone was looking at her. She jerked awake to see Louie standing in her bedroom door, staring at her. She hopped up, horrified and furious. She squeaked hoarsely. “Louie! What are you doing in here? I’ve told you not to come in my house!” It turned out Phyllis had forgotten to latch the screen when she came back in.
“Boogereater done dead.” Louie pronounced in a monotone. Boogereater had gotten his name for obvious reasons.
Confused, Mother shooed him out angrily and latched the screen just as couple of neighbor ladies showed up at her door.
“Junior, (Boogereater’s proper name) is passed out or maybe dead! He took the gas cap off your car and sniffed. He’s laying out by your car.”
Mystified, Mother followed the women out. Sure enough the boy was lying by her car, flaccid and pale with blue lips. He sure looked dead!
Just then, Boogereater’s mama rushed up and grabbed her lifeless boy. “Somebody’s got to take him to the doctor!” She looked fiercely at Mother. “You got to take him!”
Louie interjected.”Boy’s done dead.”
Withering under the accusing eyes of the presumed dead boy’s mother. Mother offered feebly. “ I can’t go. Both my babies are asleep!”
Boogereater’s Mama stared her down, pronouncing, “It was your gas he sniffed.”
Mother has always had a gift for feeling guilty.
Boogereater’s mama glared at her. “Sally and Freddie May can watched your youngun’s. You the only one with a car. Go git your keys! I’ll put him in the car.”
Defeated, Mother went to get her purse and keys. Sally and Freddie May followed her in. As she headed out, she peaked in on her sleeping babies. Marilyn was fine, but Connie was missing.
“I can’t go. My baby’s missing! She was right here on the bed! We were taking a nap!” She wailed. “ I can’t go! My car might not even start.” Mother insisted.
“ That baby ain’t got out! Them women can find her while we’re gone.” demanded the boy’s mother, hard on her heels.
Checking the back door and finding it still latched, Mother turned on Phyllis, reading just outside the bedroom. “Did Connie slip out past you?”
“No ma’am. I’ve been sitiing here the whole time she’s got to be in the house. I’ll find her.” Phyllis was dependable.
Guilt-ridden and bullied, Mother grabbed her things and rushed to the car. Sadly for her, the car started on the first crank.
Louie watched as Mother backed out. “Boy done dead.” He pronounced.
That was the beginning of Boogereater’s gas sniffing.
A New York City yuppie moved to the country and bought a piece of land. He went to the local feed and livestock store and talked to the proprietor and asked to buy one hundred chicks.
“That’s a lot of chicks,” commented the proprietor. “I mean business,” the city slicker replied.
A week later the yuppie was back again. “I need another hundred chicks,” he said. “Boy, you are serious about this chicken farming,” the man told him.
“Yeah,” the yuppie replied. “If I can iron out a few problems.” “Problems?” asked the proprietor. “Yeah,” replied the yuppie, “I think I planted that last batch too close tog
Grandma J was known for her placid nature. Her family never mentioned her being rattled. The same couldn’t be said for Grandpa J. His family was wary of his outbursts. It would have been interesting to observe the two one particular afternoon as they worked together in their garden.
Grandma was chopping weeds along the fence when she set aside her hoe and called out to Grandpa.
“ Well, would you look at this fierce little worm? I’ve never seen a worm act like this!” He turned to see her holding up a small “worm” wiggling vigorously trying its best connect with her wrist.
“Throw it down! Throw it down!” He shrieked, rushing toward her. “It’s a snake! It’s gonna bite you.!”
Grandma dropped the snake, and backed up. Grandpa hurried over, brandishing his hoe. This was before the days of conservation and concern for preservation of endangered animals. He chopped up Grandma’s baby rattlesnake and dug into its brotherhood of tiny rattlesnakes cuddled up in their cozy den with their loving Mother, ushering the family into their reptile afterlife with his hoe.
I got my daughter a Dalmatian for her thirteenth birthday. I do believe that was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. For about a day and a half, Annie was sweet. As soon as she got her bearings,she became a hyperactive, maniacal buzz saw, plundering and eviscerating everything in her path from shoes to the rag top on my husband’s MG, but that’s a story for another post.
At eighteen months, Annie’s hormones kicked in. Overnight, she was transformed into a nasty-tempered, sullen,farting, bitch, such a blessed relief. One day she was sitting between Bud and Mother farting up a storm. Bud and Mother each kept looking accusingly at the other, thinking surely the other would do the decent thing and excuse themselves.
Deciding to take her show on the road one morning, Annie decided the best thing for her to do was to tunnel under our neighbor’s back fence to pay him a call. Brian wasn’t in the yard, so she trotted into the house looking for him. He was deep in thought, sitting on the toilet, enjoying some quality time. Inspired by his wise example, Annie squatted and produced a fine example of her own. Though I didn’t see the actual event, I did get to hear about it in great detail.
We’ve been known and owned by numerous dogs over the years. In our life when we had nothing but poverty, the only thing money can’t buy, we adopted dogs from overjoyed people burdened with a litter of mutt puppies. Those were unfailingly good dogs. Our first was a small dog reminiscent of Snoopy. I had hopes of finding a basset hound pup, so the opportunist who endowed us assured the dog’s father was indeed a basset hound. I don’t believe a basset hound had ever even walked through that neighborhood. It was immaterial anyway since I was accompanied by a five-year-old boy intent on taking a puppy home. A look of love passed between the two sealing the deal. Spotty made every step John made for the next thirteen years. John is past fifty now and can still tear up when we talk about her.
Joe found his dog lying out behind his car, not moving. He grabbed Fido up and ran him in to the vet.
Vet: “”I’m sorry. Your dog is dead. That’ll be fifty bucks.”
Joe: “No, he can’t be!” He threw Fido in the car and drove a few miles to see Vet #2. This one put him up on the exam table, checked him over good then brought a Labrador Retriever Into the room. The Lab sniffed Fido, poked him with his foot, but Fido didn’t respond. Next the vet brought a cat in and waved him over Fido.
Vet#2: “Sorry, your dog’s dead, alright. That’ll be three-hundred and fifty dollars.”
Joe: “Now hold on. The other vet only charged me fifty dollars!”
Vet #2: “Yeah, but I did a Lab test and Cat scan!”
When Grandpa J got up at four-thirty, everybody got up. The women headed for the kitchen and the stove. At Grandpa’s orders, the menfolk headed for the barn to milk the numerous cows, bring the milk in, slop the hogs, and get the tractors and equipment ready for the day’s farm work. By six am, they’d have scraped their boots and cleaned up enough to gather around the large, rough table for breakfast. Grandma stood before the large wood stove , her face flushed with its heat, flipping pancakes and eggs on its many griddles. She served them cups steaming coffee, and pint jars warm rich milk fresh from the cows. The girls and women were kept busy, passing passing pancakes, eggs, bacon and molasses, and pouring refills on coffee and milk. The women didn’t even try to eat before the men got out of the way. It was the first item of business to get the men off to work before they could get the kids off to school and start their day of taking care of the milk, cooking, housework and gardening.
The busy farm couple had eleven kids between nine and twenty-one at this particular time. One brutal, icy day shortly after Christmas, the older boys decided they just weren’t getting up at four-thirty that day. There wouldn’t be any farming in that weather. It wasn’t fit for man nor beast. They cows could just wait. By golly, they were going to stay in bed, for once.
Grandpa had been working on some plow lines before the fire the night before. He called up the stairs to the boys a couple of times, before warning them he’d be up to get them if they didn’t get down in a minute. Feeling confident he couldn’t get them all at once, they lay abed.
Unbeknownst to the old man, just as Grandpa made his way upstairs, plow lines in hand, a deputy from town was about to knock on the front door to deliver a summons to jury duty for Grandpa. Grandpa commenced whaling on the boys with the plow lines, deaf to the pounding on the front door. The boys, most over six feet tall, tumbled down the stairs and burst out the front door, trampling the deputy on their way. Terrified, he joined the boys in flight, being flogged right along with them.
Nutsrok 