Memories surrounding our childhood pets evoke some of our
best stories.
Indulge me, please, while I tell you about my dog.
Well, then, why don’t you tell me
about your dog? Or cat? or bird? or horse? or whatever non-human friend meant
the world to you.
Was he a puppy when your family got
him? Did you help select the kitten you wanted? Did he sit at your feet during
dinner time knowing that he would be the beneficiary of the Brussels sprouts or
broccoli on your plate? Did you sneak her into your bed at night even though she
wasn’t allowed on the furniture? Was your grandmother or a neighbor afraid of
him or allergic to her? Did you have more than one pet at a time? Did you own a
Great Dane when you lived in a studio apartment? Was your cat a good mouser?
Was your bird permitted out of her cage to socialize?
Did you always want a pet but your
parents said “no?” What was their reason, or didn’t they give one?
Tell about it, even if it’s about the
pet that popped into your imagination after you saw your first Lassie movie.
Maybe a friend had the pet you wished for. They’re all memories that tell about
you, your family and the times.
JG Entry
His
name was Toodles. I have no idea why my mother named him that. He certainly had
poodle blood in him, but nobody had any idea what other breeds might have been
part of his heritage. He was the puppy of a neighbor’s dog and my grandparents
were happy to give him a home.
By
the time I was aware of Toodles, he was an elderly rascal who ruled my
grandmother’s household. He had no use for a leash – he went out when he felt
like it and he came back when he was ready. He ate mostly “people food” –
almost anything would do. And he loved my mother beyond anyone else. After she
married my father and moved from my grandmother’s house, she visited him
several times a week. My grandparents said they were thrilled at the frequency
of their daughter’s visits with them, but they knew who she was really there to
see.
My
grandparents’ home in Brooklyn, New York, was a Cape Cod style house with a
large dormer overlooking the front of the house in the upstairs bedroom. The
dormer’s casement windows were left opened when the weather permitted. Toodles
visited his favorite place when those windows any time he knew he could get
out. He would jump onto the bench seat under the windows then make his way through
the window to sit on the overhanging roof. To me, and to the family, it was
commonplace. But when strangers passed the house, they pointed and laughed and
even stopped to take a picture of the dog on the roof. Sometimes people rang
the doorbell to inform my grandparents that their dog was perched precariously
on the roof. Others, assuming it was a statue up there, were shocked to see
Toodles stand up or move to scratch himself.
He
was not groomed, never learned how to “sit” on command, and he was as happy as
any dog could be. One day, when he was seventeen years old, he went on one of
his independent strolls and never came home. I don’t think the family ever
recovered from it, but they had to think that he died of old age in one of his
secret haunts near their house. The fact that I am relating his story shows
that our memory of Toodles lives on. When my grandchildren read this, Toodles
will be part of a new generation.
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