Blast From The Past

Whew, it's been a while since I started whacking the ol' keys! Feels great!

So this is a little tale based on some of Grimes' stupendous Blasts from the past. Now I have some good stories to tell. Some good laughs that I had as a kid. But yesterday I had an awesome story session with Andi and while the memories pained me to my core, I saw the look of joy spread across Andi's face and realized: sometimes there are bigger things at stake than your emotions. Pussy.

So here's a litte ditty inspired by Grimes....

The Story of Susie The Killer Poodle

When I was a kid, we had a black standard poodle like the one above. That's not a picture of Susie. I don't have a picture of her on my work computer. But, hey, they all look the same to me anyways. It's really just to give you a visual on the pup I'm talking about here.

Now Susie was pretty awesome, as far as dogs go. And I'd say that's pretty damn far. I remember very distinctly when she was still a puppy, rolling around in the back yard, tossing her all over the place like a little living Koosh ball. Good times my friends, good times. 

But Susie - as animals are wont to do - grew up. And suddenly that constant nibbling and biting and jumping-up-on(ing) wasn't so much cute as it was... Well, how to put this... Insanely fucking annoying. And at no point was it more annoying than when there was another animal around. Man did Susie ever bully the shit out of other dogs. Didn't matter if they were ten times bigger, she fucking went off, the crazy bitch. Just barking and biting and having a time. 

Now, for other dogs that was all well and good, but for my sister's pet hamster, it was pretty terrifying. I mean, it's one thing for a person of great dane to be bugged by this yappy piece of garbage dog. But for a hamster this was a fucking nightmare!

Luckily my father, ever the diplomat, had a solution. He brought the entire family together: Mom and I, my brother Bob, my young sister Hilary and Susie the dog. And he explained that sometimes people (and animals) were afraid of what they didn't know. That was why it was important to break down those barriers of ignorance - so all living things could exist in harmony. And with that he produced my sister's hamster from its cage and held it out. He calmly explained, "it's just like dogs in the park. They just need to sniff and get to know each other." He held out the hamster to meet Susie. Susie cocked her head to the side, staring long and hard at the hamster. And then with one swift movement bit it's head off.

"AHHHHHHH!!!!" All of us yelled in unison. Except for my father.

"Don't worry, it's alright."

"It's not alright! It's heads not attached!!"

"No, no, I- Oh, fuck a duck..."

And that was the end of the peace talks between Susie and the Hamster. We never got a new hamster. That wasn't exactly an afternoon any of us wanted to duplicate. But we never forgot that hamster. Whatever it's name was... Hamster... something...

---------------

A few years later my mother's birthday came around.

My mother is allergic to cats. I should preface this second part of the story with that. When we stayed with my grandparents, she would sit outside and wheeze away because of her allergies. I guess they hadn't invented puffers back then, or something like that. But either way - it wasn't fun for her. Susie, being a poodle, was hypoallergenic. That mean that she didn't shed. Which was good news, because it meant my mother didn't wheeze. Everyone won!

One day, while out at a farm buying a side of beef for dinner, my mom came across the most beautiful barn kitten she'd ever seen. A soft brown and white tabby. Big eyes, and an affectionate curiosity. Even through swollen eyes and wind pipe my mom seemed to bask in this kitten's presence. My father, after buying 13 Lbs. of beef, took the farmer aside and offered to buy the kitten for my mother.

My cottage sits atop a hill that overlooks hay fields to the North and East, an apple orchard to the South and a river, about 50 feet wide that cuts through steep red clay banks, to the West. There is a big wooden deck that lines the front and looks out over the fields to the Wentworth Valley, beyond which is PEI. In the summer, we would sit out on the front porch in the morning and eat toast and jam. My parents would drink coffee from red and white china cups and we would talk about what to do with another lazy day. 

On my mother's birthday we all sat outside and talked about dinner. A giant roast beef. Sides of potatoes, spinach pan-fried in butter, brussle sprouts, green beans from the garden and a strawberry shortcake for dessert. Biscuit style, not foamy cake. It was going to be a great day. And my father had an idea how it was going to be even better. He locked Susie in the bathroom, and when he was sure she wasn't going anywhere, he came downstairs, went to the car and fished the beautiful baby kitten out of the back seat where he'd made it a bed for the night before. He brought the cat up to the yard and presented it to my mother to celebrate her birthday and their love.

No one knows how the door was forced open. Whether my father hadn't checked the locks twice, or Susie had somehow figured them out, we'll never know. It doesn't really matter. All that really mattered was the look of shock in everyones eyes as we heard the thunder of paws tumbling down the stairs and the slam as the screen burst off it's hinges. The kitten, sensing trouble in the air took off and made a mad dash across the lawn towards the trees, and presumably safety. But its young hind quarters were simply not fast enough to carry it across the lawn in time. With five mighty bounds Susie had caught up to it, and in the middle of the lawn, in front of the whole family she sunk her teeth deep into the birthday kitten.

What happened next doesn't really bear repeating. It will be of no surprise to anyone that the image of a dog eating a kitten is not one that you want to remember too often. But let me assure all readers: it was as grizzly as anything you are imagining right now.

We never bought another pet. A few years later Susie died of a twisted stomach - typical for poodles and my parents bought another one who they affectionately named Toby. Toby plays well with others. Is kind and gentle and rests his snout on your lap quietly while you watch TV on the couch. He is a great dog - if somewhat ill-behaved in the park - and I love him very much. And yet whenever people ask me about home, as they run through the family, inquiring to how they are doing, they will inevitably ask, "And how is Susie, the killer poodle?"