I can settle different parts of my life based on the four legged friends in my life. Their age, moving at the speed of 7 years at a pop means that there are many passing through my years.
My favorite childhood memory was dogs that never listen. I believe this taught me early in childhood that it was considered in good taste to not listen to my mother. Because, no one, not even the dog listened to her. We would periodically look her way wondering, "Why is she screaming like a maniac?"
Sometimes my brother would listen, but that's because all of us, including the dog, thought he was a brown noser. He also enjoyed telling on us all the time.
We learned the not listening trick from the first dogs that I can remember. Taffy #1 and Taffy #2. Taffy #1 hated my grandmother, so much that she'd take a shit every morning right outside my grandmother's bedroom door when she came to visit. We'd swear up and down that we took her for a LONG walk but, she saved what she had in her shit savings account making a withdraw right before my grandmother woke.
Taffy #2 was brought into the house when Taffy #1 passed from old age. Not to confuse us children about which dog is which, they both looked exactly the same (pekingese) and answered to the name "Taffy." Taffy #2 didn't have as much of a beef with my grandmother, or with us kids. She hid with us in the closet so we could cut her, and our, hair. She did everything we asked of her, and not a single thing my mother asked her to do. Simple things, like please go to the bathroom outside, or if someone peed in the toilet and didn't flush it, please do not drink it. Poor Taffy #2 didn't listen to anyone when they we were yelling, "GET OUT OF THE WAY," and ended up in the back yard after an unfortunate encounter with the back wheel of our station wagon. All I remember was my father saying, "We have reservations at Disney World in two days, the dog's dead."
This brought Red into our life. A very large Golden Retriever who came into our house due to tragic circumstances of his own. After giving birth, his mother was shot by a neighbor because his father kept getting into the hen house (but that's another story for later.) This dog had such a gregarious personality, and he was such a cute puppy that he got away with not listening. We took him to obedience school, which he flunked. Tried a private instructor when he dragged me down the street on my belly chasing after a squirrel. Red also caused neighbor troubles like his father, his being that he'd take a big shit in the neighbor's yard, him yelling that he knew it was OUR dog because of all the neon Crayola Crayons making the shit psychedelic.
The dog would go and find rabbits, decapitate them and bring them home as a prize for us, usually throwing the bloody head or leg on my father's bare foot because he was constantly trying to earn the love of the one person that never noticed him. He noticed when something cold and slimy hit his foot. He got put into the dog house in the garage when he decided that he could eat my brother's rabbit (Thumper) as fair game and leave the head in my brother's bed.
My mother would complain that the dog never listened to her, that something would happen to him, but when push came to shove, he showed her he did really hear something in obedience class. We were all in the station wagon on the way home from school, coming around an off ramp close to home when the dog decided he didn't feel like staying in the car with fighting kids, jumping out of the back window, going for a run! My mother pulls over to the side of the highway, we're out running, except my baby sister who is wailing in the car, trying to corral the dog who's thinking, "Wow, I should have done this sooner if I knew it was such a fun game of keep away."
My mother pulls out the "Mom Voice," that voice that gains the most naughtiest of kids attention, not making them be good, but gaining their attention. It comes deep from her belly, sounding like the spawn of Satan.
"Red. SIT!"
Granted the dog flunked obedience school, ate through most of the house (2 rabbits, 4 door jams, 3 pairs of shoes, 2 hairbrushes) oh, and of course 6.5 boxes of Crayola crayons. We all figured a car was going to dispose of Red and Daddy would bring home a Red #2. (What? That's where kid's minds go.)
Like drunks, kids and dogs, God watches over them, much to our amazement, the dog's butt slowly lowers to the ground with a look of, "Am I really in trouble?" He doesn't move until my mother gets the leash on him saying, "Good boy," which he promptly jumps on her, knocking her over.
She brings him back to the car, "Maybe something did stick with him after three sets of obedience classes." He jumps in the back with us kids, spreading mud all over us. We didn't care, we didn't need a Red#2.
Obedience classes? Are you kidding? Later than evening my grandmother comes to visit wearing a coat and rabbit skin hat. Red, in slow motion, on the hunt, comes through the den, into the laundry room toward her. In his mind, he is that wolf getting ready for the kill.
"Red. SIT!" My mother tries the Mom voice again.
He tackles my grandmother to the ground, attacks the hat right off of her head, shakes it (fur flying everywhere) disappearing out the back door into the night with his kill. My grandmother (not the smallest of women) struggles back up, "I'm glad he didn't get my fox stole."
Later when he comes back after effectively killing the rabbit hat, we notice a box of Crayola crayons has gone missing.
Some things never change.
