A
fond memory of nine-eleven
by
Robert LaFrance
This column is appearing (if it were
only that easy) on September 11th, that fateful date on which we in
North America finally realized what terrorism was and is.
For me the date holds a different
significance, and that is this: on this date in 1956 my dog Rover appeared on
the scene. He was to remain a faithful friend for eight years. He wasn’t my
first dog; Spot was the first. She came from a junkyard just north of Bath. Dad
and I were coming back from Florenceville and he thought he’d stop and see an
old friend who promptly persuaded Dad to take home the dog Spot. He didn’t
mention that she was about to have pups and neither Dad nor I had the wit to
realize it.
Soon Spot had her litter of five
pups out in the barn. Soon afterward I knew that both my parents were planning
something I wasn’t going to like. Was it connected to the dogs or something
else? Would I be shipped off to Minto to play in an all-girl cabaret band, and
then forced to come home just as puberty struck? Would I have to pile those
five cords of wood down by the garage? Would I have to eat spinach?
It was none of those. I kept
watching and listening, and just as soon as I went upstairs to bed one night, I
could hear them whispering: “…before he gets up tomorrow morning…” Were they
going to kill me and deposit my quickly bleaching bones in the manure pile, or
under the garden soil?
I thought about trying to stay up
all night, but that would have been just the opposite of what I should be
doing. The idea was to get up early and fool them. Before they killed me, I
would slip out and hide in the tamarack bog, then head for the Maine border. I
had relatives in Woodland, near New Sweden. Aunt Ella wouldn’t let them murder
me or send me into slavery to Rhodesia.
Somehow I woke up shortly before
7:00 am and quickly grabbed the bag of clothes I had packed the night before –
along with some of Mum’s molasses cookies – and headed for my hiding place. It
was just coming daylight.
Before long, the kitchen light came
on and I could see them both moving around. I expected Dad to grab his axe and
head upstairs where I was supposed to be sleeping, but instead he grabbed a
burlap bag and they both headed for the barn. Instantly I knew what they were
going to do – drown Spot’s puppies. A few minutes later, they came out of the
barn, Dad carrying the burlap bag which was moving and making thin and pitiful
whining sounds. They put the bag in a tubful of rainwater after taking a rock
from a pile behind the shed and putting it in the bag. Then he tied off the bag
and put it the water. They waited around half a minute or so, then went inside.
As soon as the door closed, I dashed
over to the barrel, grabbed the bag, and turned it upside down on the nearby
grass. The little bodies came tumbling out, along with the rock. There wasn’t a
twitch among all of them. The evil executioners had done their duty well. But
hark! There was a twitch. One brown puppy moved his foot, then another foot,
and then his tail. He was wagging his tail!
I put the rock and the other puppies
back in the sack and into the water, then grabbed Rover – I had already named
him – and took him back to Spot. They had tied her to the pigpen, but I let her
go and she was very happy to see Rover. She didn’t ask about Rover’s siblings.
A short time later I sneaked in the
house and then pretended to be coming downstairs where Mum would soon be
cooking pancakes, although how her conscience would allow that after her recent
crimes I did not know. I went outside and stayed there a few minutes, then came
inside and announced that somehow Spot had gotten herself tied up and
apparently the puppies had all been eaten by the pigs. My guilty parents looked
at each other in relief at the fact that I wasn’t more upset. That should have
tipped them off. Since it was my job to feed the dogs and look after the pigs
(“soigné les cochons”, Grampy said), I knew they wouldn’t discover Rover for a
while.
The pancakes were good.
Bottom line: About a month later, Spot was killed by
a car, and I produced Rover, saying someone had dropped him off along the road.
A few tears and a bit of whining and I had myself a dog. The moral of this
story is: I ain’t no slouch when it comes to being devious, underhanded, and
crafty. Telemarketers, keep that in mind. This is a true story, except the part
about my parents being evil. If they had had to feed six dogs, I would have
been dining on dandelion roots. Even then some people were pill poppers; we
were just paupers.
-end-
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