In response to my last family-food related post, one of my readers mentioned that I needed a dog to feed food that I disliked. In fact, there were only a couple of things that as a kid I would not eat. I could tolerate the infrequent piece of liver but could not abide the old Army version of creamed chip beef on toast that sometimes made its way to the table. This particular item in fact induced gagging. Under such circumstances, one might think a reasonable adult would decide in favor of giving a kid something else entirely.
Not so my mother, who assumed I think, that I was doing so simply to frustrate her. This led to the same showdown mentality that was written of previously. I was forced to try and consume what is aptly termed SOS or face further punishment, as if gagging over one's food was not already punishment enough. On this occasion, however, stepfather stepped in quickly. Although I went to bed without any further dinner, I was also spared from reprisal. The incident was never discussed and I was never served that item again. I doubt a dog would have been helpful.
There are only two dogs in my childhood. The first, a black standard poodle named Barron, beloved of stepfather, was not long in our house before being stolen, and though reported missing, was never found. The second, a miniature poodle puppy which I called Jacques. Part of a litter birthed by a neighbor's dog, Jacques too had a short and not too sweet life in our home.
When informed that I wanted a dog, the parents conspired and told me that if I could beg the seventy-five dollar price tag from my frugal grandparents, I could get one of the neighbor's puppies. Why we did not simply adopt a pound puppy, I have no idea. While the grandparents knew I had been put up to the task of extortion, they were none too happy with my parents but as my birthday was fast approaching, capitulated.
A few weeks later, the dog arrived, along with a stern warning that all duties associated with his care were mine and mine alone. The cat, which my mother adored, was not pleased with this arrangement, and frankly, beyond feeding and walking the dog, I had no idea what to do with a puppy. Just thirteen, I took him outside at every opportunity, let him sleep in my bed, talked to him and tried my best to keep him away from the parents. The only problem with this plan was the hours spent at school or away from the house.
Dislike of being alone led to barking and crying which bothered the neighbors. Developing teeth meant a penchant for chewing, which he did with puppy enthusiasm. Receiving no adult guidance on how to curb the destruction accompanying this behavior, I closed him in my room, hoping that being in familiar surroundings would calm him. He then chewed a library book and two school books which my parents unhappily replaced. After using my meager allowance to purchase a chew toy which he destroyed within a day, stepfather declared the dog a problem and the die was cast. Each infraction was noted with increasing irritation, which I now believe the dog felt and reacted to first by hiding and then trying every tactic to escape.
Such was the situation the day I arrived home from school to find him in stepfather's closet. Having left him in my room before setting off for school, the only explanation for his new location was that my room had been cleaned and Jacques had wandered out without being noticed. Equally unnoticed until I found him was the expensive Florsheim shoe he had chewed while ensconced in the closet.
Predictably, stepfather returned home from work and seeing his shoe, yelled both at me and the dog. He then tied the shoe which was roughly the length of Jacques, around the dog's neck and forced the dog to carry this around for an entire night and day, which eventually hurt the dog's neck and led to more destructive behavior. So pleased was stepfather with himself for devising this punishment that he presented me with snapshots of the dog dragging his shoe around. I have one in an album. An animal lover by nature, I found the entire episode horrible. This was confirmed when years later I was talking with a dog trainer and then a vet who said that charges of animal abuse could arise from this. By then, of course both stepfather and the dog were dead, neither from old age. One last daring escape outdoors and bad timing led to the dog being hit by a car driven by a woman my mother knew. She was distraught, and I was traumatized, both by the dog's misfortune and parental anger. I have never gotten another dog...
Until Next Time...
