Vestige s01e04
I was eight when we moved back to our house on South Pineway in Mobile, Alabama.
My third-grade teacher was Miss Thornton.
She was the first teacher who recognized my talent as an entertainer and assigned me a seat at the front of the class.
This was during the back-and-forth between Mobile and New Orleans time in my life, so my memories are hazy at best. I remember my special seat in the class. I remember that Mutley was waiting for us in Mobile (I’m not sure how she got there, but she was there). I remember the humidity. The weather down there is swamp-like.
It was good to be reunited with Mutley. She was always a good dog, but at some point that year, I wanted a dog of my own.
My new puppy was a brown lab mix with curly hair. I named her Molly.
She was tiny and sweet.
I remember holding her a few times, but one morning before school, my mother told me that Molly was too sick for me to hold her. She told me not to worry.
After making Miss Thornton’s day more difficult than it needed to be, I rushed home. My mother waited for me on the carport.
“Molly died,” she said.
“How?” I wanted to know. I needed to know.
“She had Puppy Leukemia,” my mother said, putting her hand on my shoulder.
“Ah, yes. Leukemia,” I nodded. I knew what that was.
“She didn’t make it.” My mother opened up for a hug.
“I need a minute,” I said.
“Yes, of course,” my mother backed off and went inside.
I’m sure I cried. And if you asked my mother about this, she would probably say that I was bawling like an eight-year-old. But I recollect accepting Molly’s death quite matter-of-factly.
Puppies with Puppy Leukemia die—what are you gonna do?
Life went on.
“Can we get another puppy?” I asked my mother ten minutes later.
“We’ll see,” she said.
“How about a Boston Terrier?”
“We’ll see,” she repeated.
This story is roughly 88% true
Vestige s01e05
When I was in the second grade, we lived in New Orleans. It was always hot and sticky there, pretty much year-round, so when playing outside, stops home to hydrate were absolutely necessary. I ran into the kitchen, passing my brother on the stairs. I almost didn’t notice, but then I turned back to see him holding a black-and-white cuddly critter of some kind in his arms.
“What the heck is that?” I asked, pointing firmly.
“It’s our new dog, stupid,” Job said, squeezing the life out of it.
It was a Boston Terrier, a funny-looking little dog, but I had to admit it was pretty damn cute. It snorted and struggled to break free as Job smothered it with his love.
“I want to pet it,” I demanded.
“No! He’s getting acclimated!” my brother screamed.
A brawl ensued, and by the time the dust settled, the dog was cowering behind our mother, who was standing over us.
“If you can’t get along, I will return the dog,” my mother said.
“No!!!” Both me and my brother hugged each other and then snatched up our new canine brother and brought him to the living room to love him together. We thought we might never fight again.
“This is not our dog,” my mother said matter-of-factly. “It’s Miss Debbie’s dog.”
“No!!!” How could that be? We loved this dog so much already. Apparently, Mom was watching her friend’s dog while she moved.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Cookie,” my mother said.
“I’m going to call him Julian,” my brother chirped.
“His name is Cookie!”
While there was no way we could keep this animal, Job and I looked at it as an opportunity to prove ourselves capable and ready for a dog of our own.
“One just like this!” Job said with the hopefulness of an orphan about to be adopted.
“We’ll see,” was all my mother said, but we knew that the person we had to convince was Dad.
Later that evening, my father came home from the port and immediately had questions.
“What is that thing?”
After my mother explained that it was a temporary guest, defined the word “temporary” for him, and assured him that Miss Debbie wasn’t trying to offload an animal on us, Dad’s questioning ended.
“Let me take a look at this little rat dog,” my dad said, scooping him up and sitting on the couch.
“He’s not a rat!” Job said.
“He’s a Boston Terrier,” I said.
“A what?” My dad made eye contact with Cookie, and its little bulldog face contorted, snorted, and squirmed.
“A Boston Terrier,” I repeated.
“Well, he sure is an ugly dog,” my dad said, handing him to my brother. “Take care of him. Feed him, walk him, clean up his crap.”
“Our pleasure!” I said.
“What’s his name?” my father asked.
“Cookie,” I said.
“I want to name him Julian,” Job said.
“Julian?” my father laughed. “That dog isn’t a Julian or a Cookie.”
The dog snorted, and all of us laughed.
“He looks like Yoda.”
The dog snorted again as my dad grabbed his face and spoke directly to it.
“Ugly, you are. Yoda you should be.”
Yoda didn’t last long. That night he kept all of us up, whining from the utility room. Job and I begged Mom to let him sleep with us, but she refused. Eventually, Cookie stopped whining and whimpering, but the damage had been done. My father had made it clear that Cookie should be gone when he got home from the port that day.
The next morning, Cookie was on the back patio, leashed to a pole so he couldn’t jump up on the sliding glass door. And that’s where he stayed until Miss Debbie came to pick him up. By that time, he had run around the pole so many times he had almost strangled himself. My mom had to cut the leash to free him. Miss Debbie was not happy.
After Molly died, I had a little bit of leverage with my parents. I had just dramatically lost a pet—a puppy, no less. I needed another one, or I just might be unhappy forever. It was time for us to explore the Boston Terrier possibility.
My father loved Terriers. He often talked about an Airedale Terrier he owned for less than a year before I was born.
“Oscar, what a great dog,” my father would say, staring into nothing.
“Why did you give him away?”
“He was an idiot,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
I found the Terrier section in one of my favorite books: The Ultimate Book of Dog Breeds from A to Z. There were a lot of terriers.
“What about this one?” I said, pointing to the familiar, funny little dog.
Ever since Cookie was unceremoniously returned, he had come up in family discussions of remembrance. Even my father would refer to “Yoda” with a hint of nostalgia.
“That was one goofy-looking dog.”
I think he still had a soft spot for small, loud terriers—something very much proven true much later in life.
So, somehow, I convinced them. My father brought home another Boston Terrier. He entered the room with the little bundle of hyperactivity in his arm.
“First there was Yoda; now, say hello to Toyota.”
And the crowd went wild.
Toyota was as cute as Yoda, but even more rambunctious. We learned that the first day. The family spent an hour with him in the living room, taking turns loving him. He accepted this love with great enthusiasm—jumping, licking, panting, and snorting. Which was all awesome until Toyota started choking.
At first, we only slowed down.
“You’re alright, boy,” my dad said, calmly petting him.
But as the choking got more and more violent, the scene turned more dire.
“Give him space, give him space!” my dad yelled.
He was only moments from giving Toyota mouth-to-mouth as the family grew silent. Fortunately, the coughing subsided, and the crisis was averted.
Toyota didn’t calm down. After a night of constant whining and hollering, and a morning with no sign of slowing down in sight, my father decided to relegate him to the carport, tethered to one of the iron beams that held it up.
In ten minutes, Toyota ran around the beam so fast he tied himself to it.
This happened so often that morning and afternoon, my dad didn’t know what to do. At one point, Toyota tangled himself up so tightly to the pole that he almost choked himself to death.
For the second time in 24 hours, my father was prepping for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation with a canine. It was clear we couldn’t handle Toyota—or Boston Terriers. Toyota was returned that evening.
Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have to wait long before I got another dog.