What's up with younger siblings? Always in the way, always getting hurt, and always ruining the fun. Yes, I have a younger sister, and her younger name is Suzannah. It took me until about age 12 to learn how to spell her name, between the 1 z"", 2 "n's", and the silent "h". I love her to death. But growing up, there may have been a time or two when I wouldn't have said that. And I still have to think "one z, 2 n's" every time I write out her name. Spellcheck can't even get it right.
Suzannah was a typical younger sister. She was like a volunteer police officer for mom and dad. She was their personal tape recorder/video camera. If I ever did anything wrong, Suzannah was there to tattle her tail off. If she wasn't sure if what I had done was wrong, she would cover her basis and tattle anyway. My dad remembers lil 'susan coming to them when she was small, and saying "I just thought you should know that they are doing xxx in there." Yes, she would tattle on Elizabeth, but only if it got me in trouble as well (Her apparent disdain for me was stronger than her adoration of her older sister). But everyone that has a younger sibling knows what this is like. She was a narc, a rat, and fond of the citizen's arrest. Actually, once she got older and wiser, she learned that she could just lie to mom and dad about something I had done. They'd come in lighting me up with the belt and I'd be clueless as to what was happening, only later to find out that Suzannah just wanted me to get into trouble because she was so jealous of how cool I was. As big of a turd as she was (and still is...), she was cuter and sweeter than me, making her more believable than me. (As a note for me, I eventually learned that since she was going to lie to get me into trouble anyway, I'd just be quick to pelt her with rubber bands or my fists so at least I didn't get into trouble for nothing...)
But alas, this story is not about Suzannah's uncanny gift with propaganda and the free child's press. This story is about Suzannah just simply ruining a good day.
Par for a summer afternoon, all of the neighborhood kids were in our back yard playing ball. Mom always made us include Suzann"waaa" in games that were way over her head, so she was playing too. She was the youngest one out there, the most clueless, and the worst. In fact, she was probably on my team just to piss me off, but I can't remember for sure. It's not like it mattered, because she just refused to let us finish the game.
I was probably playing shortstop, or wherever the best player played, because I was the best neighborhood all-american ball player we had. Well, at least I wasn't the worst. In nobody's eyes was Suzannah the best, so we stuck her at catcher where she just had to run down the ball and throw it back to the pitcher. Pretty easy position where the only time she touched the ball was when it wasn't in play. You can't screw it up.
At least, any other kid couldn't screw it up. Suzannah, or course, screwed it up. A part of playing catcher that always goes unsaid, because it shouldn't have to be said, is to stay well behind the batter...
My neighbor Jennifer was up to bat. I don't know if she could hit the ball, but my land she swung for the fence every time. On one particular pitch, Jennifer had it in her mind to knock the ball through a neighbor's window 3 blocks away. She came close to knocking out that window. Unfortunately, with Suzannah's head in place of the ball.
Jennifer swung. It was one of those swings where all you see is a slight blur where the path of the bat arcs through the air as it pummels through its path. She missed the ball. And the bat continued on its arc. Of course, Suzannah's face was on the tail end of the arc. At the point in space that equalled Vmax (maximum velocity). Really, Jennifer couldn't had executed it any better. With a split-second thud as the bat opened flesh followed by an echoing crack in which the metal bat kissed my sister's frontal bone, the bat disappeared into suzannah's head. She dropped like a sack of potatoes. And all the fun we were having abruptly came to an end.
Winner, by TKO in the 3rd inning, Jennifer Johnson!
Suzannah was bleeding like Winston's cat-snack, and her puddle of blood got bigger, and bigger, and bigger. All the neighborhood adults were hanging out on the back patio and thought "oh please don't let it be my kid.." as they raced to the sound of skull-crunch. They all came running, and my mom didn't seem surprised at all to find that it was Suzannah that had been bat-whacked in the face. Suzannah had a knack for ruining things.
She wasn't that old, but she bled like a stuck pig. Jennifer had Barry Bondsed her forehead, and I'm pretty sure her feet were out of blood by the time it was all said and done. Mom picked her up and ran her inside, getting blood all over herself and the already soaked Suzannah.
The neighbors teamed up to scrub the blood off of our back patio. I've never tracked a shot deer, but if it looks like the mess that Suzannah made, I don't think it'd be very hard. Meanwhile, mom and dad decided to take Suzannah to the emergency before all of her O-pos was donated to the ground.
In all the excitement, I was pretty ticked that I had to stop my game because Suzannah didn't know to avoid a freaking baseball bat. I had told her "hit the ball with the bat and catch the ball with your glove", and somehow she decided that this meant "catch the bat with your face". Which she did very well. Seriously, Suzannah?
Although my game was ruined, there is a diamond in every rough. While dad and mom were at the hospital getting Suzannah sewn shut, Jennifer's parents took me to Barnette's, a local ice cream and burger place, for dinner. Which was awesome. We never got to go out to eat growing up, so any opportunity to consume beef smothered in ketchup, mustard, and enclosed by bun was an event to remember. And I still do.
While Suzannah was enduring the pain of needles and sutures, I got to eat a burger and ice cream. Karma, baby.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Soar, Skid, and Scream
What is the deal with firstborns? They are bossy, they are know-it-alls, and they have a perpetual "anything you can do I can do better" attitude. Sometimes, they really do know it all, and really can do everything better. But not always. Oh, no, no, no, mama, not always.
I have two sisters, Elizabeth, the old one, and Suzannah, the runt. This story is about Elizabeth Faye McCord, and they day we all thought she had breathed her last.
When I was in the 7th grade, I was a BMXer. I considered myself quite the two-wheeled wizard, as I could bunnyhop over a curb, and ride my bike down a full set of steep stairs behind our local hospital. In Siloam Springs, Arkansas, that is what the BMXers did. I had a blue Free Agent Maverick, and atop that puppy I was more Maverick than Tom Cruise could ever dream. I had pegs, front and back, to complete my ride, and although I never used them for anything but giving "pumps", I know I could have pulled a sweet 50/50 grind if only I'd had a good rail to thrash. I was what you call a "poseur".
Poseur or not, I was a much more skilled BMXer than Elizabeth. She thought otherwise. Of course she did, she could do anything better.
So, when I had made a ramp out of scrapwood, Elizabeth decided that ramping was easy. I had it down: go as fast as I could, then bunnyhop off the lip to get the most air and distance. I could glide like floss for a good 3,000 plus mms through the air, and land it every time.
So when Elizabeth told me that she could do it, I figured she could. She's my older sister, and was naturally gifted at doing everything better than me. I even let her ride Mav, my blue beauty.
Elizabeth rides a few laps around the block to get accustomed to my cycle, and I coach her up on standing up on the cranks and mashing 'em out to get to full speed. She didn't exactly reach mach 3, like her younger brother, but she got close enough to ramp. So when she was ready, I told her "pedal as fast as you can up to the ramp, then coast the last few feet. When you hit the ramp, pull up on the handlebars, and fly this mug like ET." She followed every step to a t... except one.
She was cruising. Even I was surprised at how fast she could pump those girl legs on the pedals. She was cruising well over the speed limit. Her red hair flailing in the wind like Xena on a stallion, she coasted the last few feet like Dave Mirra ready to take the X-games gold (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Mirra for reference). She hit the ramp and started escalating up the incline at a higher than safe speed.
And then she froze. Oh, like an arachnophobe watching spiderman did she freeze. I made eye contact, but there was nothing there. She was glazed over in utter confusion and oncoming terror. She took a guess at the last moment; she had a 50-50 shot of being correct. Pull up on the handlebars, or push down. Up, Down. The demon on her left shoulder launched an angry bird over to the angel on her right and blew it away, then that evil little demon calmly told her to push down on the handlebars. She did. Quiet effectively.
Front tire nosediving into the pavement, it stopped on forceful contact. However, the rear of the bicycle continued on its arc, launching my helpless sister into the air, where she most definitely flew like a G6 (again, reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvgJEznqtms). My entire family, a few neighbors, the mailman, and a boy in her freshman class down the street, watched as she soared textbook spread eagle through the air. Her hair flailed, as before, but less like Xena and more like the poor chick that just pissed Xena off. She struck the pavement with a thud, followed by a resisting skid accompanied by tearing sounds. The tearing of flesh as it clung to the pavement as her body slid on. Her body came to a rest, and she laid there. Not a sound, not a movement.
And then her afferent sensory fibers came screaming from her brain to reach her raw tissue, as she came screaming to her senses. Quite literally.
"MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!! AAAAHHHH AAAAHHHHH MOOOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!! MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY".
And there, in the middle of the street pronely plastered to the pavement was my 15 year old highschooler sister, screaming for her mommy to hold her in her time of death. She thought she was dying, and she had me convinced. I've killed many a bird, squirrell, and rabbit in my day, but I'd never heard any of those poor creatures scream so horribly in their deaths. So I just assumed that she was dying in a worse way.
And she continued to lay there, not moving her body, but screaming, over and over, "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!!!". She had reverted back to three years of age. My parents rushed over to her, and managed to peel her off the asphalt like a stubborn strip of IV tape. Swatches of Elizabeth's epidermis accessorized South College street, followed by the blood that freely flowed after the dam of flesh holding it back was removed. She was a bloody mess, with no skin left on either of her under forearms, knees, or chin. And still she screamed for her mommy. As my dad has since said, she "laid there in a pile screaming like a banshee."
For that day, with Elizabeth being a three year old, I was the eldest child. And in her pathetic state, I'm pretty sure I could have done anything better than her. Except for crash. She is the master.
Oh, and the bike was okay. Which is good. People heal, bikes not so much.
I have two sisters, Elizabeth, the old one, and Suzannah, the runt. This story is about Elizabeth Faye McCord, and they day we all thought she had breathed her last.
When I was in the 7th grade, I was a BMXer. I considered myself quite the two-wheeled wizard, as I could bunnyhop over a curb, and ride my bike down a full set of steep stairs behind our local hospital. In Siloam Springs, Arkansas, that is what the BMXers did. I had a blue Free Agent Maverick, and atop that puppy I was more Maverick than Tom Cruise could ever dream. I had pegs, front and back, to complete my ride, and although I never used them for anything but giving "pumps", I know I could have pulled a sweet 50/50 grind if only I'd had a good rail to thrash. I was what you call a "poseur".
Poseur or not, I was a much more skilled BMXer than Elizabeth. She thought otherwise. Of course she did, she could do anything better.
So, when I had made a ramp out of scrapwood, Elizabeth decided that ramping was easy. I had it down: go as fast as I could, then bunnyhop off the lip to get the most air and distance. I could glide like floss for a good 3,000 plus mms through the air, and land it every time.
So when Elizabeth told me that she could do it, I figured she could. She's my older sister, and was naturally gifted at doing everything better than me. I even let her ride Mav, my blue beauty.
Elizabeth rides a few laps around the block to get accustomed to my cycle, and I coach her up on standing up on the cranks and mashing 'em out to get to full speed. She didn't exactly reach mach 3, like her younger brother, but she got close enough to ramp. So when she was ready, I told her "pedal as fast as you can up to the ramp, then coast the last few feet. When you hit the ramp, pull up on the handlebars, and fly this mug like ET." She followed every step to a t... except one.
She was cruising. Even I was surprised at how fast she could pump those girl legs on the pedals. She was cruising well over the speed limit. Her red hair flailing in the wind like Xena on a stallion, she coasted the last few feet like Dave Mirra ready to take the X-games gold (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Mirra for reference). She hit the ramp and started escalating up the incline at a higher than safe speed.
And then she froze. Oh, like an arachnophobe watching spiderman did she freeze. I made eye contact, but there was nothing there. She was glazed over in utter confusion and oncoming terror. She took a guess at the last moment; she had a 50-50 shot of being correct. Pull up on the handlebars, or push down. Up, Down. The demon on her left shoulder launched an angry bird over to the angel on her right and blew it away, then that evil little demon calmly told her to push down on the handlebars. She did. Quiet effectively.
Front tire nosediving into the pavement, it stopped on forceful contact. However, the rear of the bicycle continued on its arc, launching my helpless sister into the air, where she most definitely flew like a G6 (again, reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvgJEznqtms). My entire family, a few neighbors, the mailman, and a boy in her freshman class down the street, watched as she soared textbook spread eagle through the air. Her hair flailed, as before, but less like Xena and more like the poor chick that just pissed Xena off. She struck the pavement with a thud, followed by a resisting skid accompanied by tearing sounds. The tearing of flesh as it clung to the pavement as her body slid on. Her body came to a rest, and she laid there. Not a sound, not a movement.
And then her afferent sensory fibers came screaming from her brain to reach her raw tissue, as she came screaming to her senses. Quite literally.
"MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!! AAAAHHHH AAAAHHHHH MOOOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!! MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY".
And there, in the middle of the street pronely plastered to the pavement was my 15 year old highschooler sister, screaming for her mommy to hold her in her time of death. She thought she was dying, and she had me convinced. I've killed many a bird, squirrell, and rabbit in my day, but I'd never heard any of those poor creatures scream so horribly in their deaths. So I just assumed that she was dying in a worse way.
And she continued to lay there, not moving her body, but screaming, over and over, "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!!!". She had reverted back to three years of age. My parents rushed over to her, and managed to peel her off the asphalt like a stubborn strip of IV tape. Swatches of Elizabeth's epidermis accessorized South College street, followed by the blood that freely flowed after the dam of flesh holding it back was removed. She was a bloody mess, with no skin left on either of her under forearms, knees, or chin. And still she screamed for her mommy. As my dad has since said, she "laid there in a pile screaming like a banshee."
For that day, with Elizabeth being a three year old, I was the eldest child. And in her pathetic state, I'm pretty sure I could have done anything better than her. Except for crash. She is the master.
Oh, and the bike was okay. Which is good. People heal, bikes not so much.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Here, kitty kitty kitty...
Went to the Sugar bowl this past week... I've never been to Naw'lins before, but it was a blast and a neat place to visit, although i'm gonna have to say its on my bottom 1 places in America to live.
The hogs loss was devastating, but I walked away from the game knowing that we have a great program and are only going to get better. I look forward to many more BCS games in the future. Go Hogs!
Luckily for all of you wonderful people, I got to spend about 11 hours in a car with my dad and sisters... which means we got to go over every stupid thing we've done/seen/experienced during our childhood. I took notes, and now have a long list of items to blog about for this year.
And now for week two, I'll revisit my old nemesis, Winston. Lets just say I wasn't the only one he took his aggressions out on... (beware, some of you may find this a bit gruesome...)
When my older sister Elizabeth turned 12, she decided to have a slumber party. Which means that our home was systematically invaded by about 15 adolescent girls. Which means that our home echoed with giggles, screams, and shrieks. Which means that Winston was pissed.
Winston, a grouchy old man, wanted none of it. He didn't like children, he didn't like noise, and he didn't like children that made noise, let alone bushel of them. So Winston spent the evening outside, grumbling to himself about the horrors of life with children.
Meanwhile, inside, all of Elizabeth's friends were in a circle in our living room telling horror stories. Each would take a turn, and each time they would all scream, then giggle, then repeat. Little did they know that their young eyes were about to witness a a horror far worse than any story they could conjure.
Outside, Winston began barking. And barking. And barking. Every once in a while he would growl, then continue barking. And barking. And barking.
Inside, the ghostly horror stories continued. Winston was simply a background noise in a soundtrack of scary stories and screams. That is, until one of Elizabeth's friends decided to see what old Winston was barking about. She peeked out the windows, and saw that Winston had cornered one of the neighbor's kittens in our fence. What does a little girl do when she sees a kitten in danger?
She screamed. Not knowing what she was screaming about, they all started screaming. She ran out the door. Not know what she was running out the door about, they all took off our the door, leaving our front yard full of screaming preteen girls, who by the time they were outside noticed the cornered kitten.
Apparently, Winston thought they wanted to steal his prize. I can tell you what he was thinking: "Daggum stupid sreaming preteens daggum want to steal my daggum cat! Well I ain't gonna let 'em! By george its my daggum cat, and I ain't gonna let 'em get my daggum cat dadgummit!"
So Winston beat them to the kitty. He bit. It hissed.
They screamed bloody horror as Winston locked jaws on the kitten and shook it back and forth like a ragdoll. They watched, frozen in fear, as Winston tore to shreds this poor baby animal that they just wanted to cuddle. The could do nothing as they all witnessed their first, and hopefully last, murder.
The night was somber after that. No more horror stories, because they had just witnessed horror itself. The girls were devastated.
I thought it was awesome. Call me an animal, a monster, a brute, but there is nothing cooler to a 10 year old boy than seeing a cat get eaten alive by your dog, especially when it happens in front of your sister and all of her stupid, annoying, screaming friends.
For that day, Winston was my hero.
The hogs loss was devastating, but I walked away from the game knowing that we have a great program and are only going to get better. I look forward to many more BCS games in the future. Go Hogs!
Luckily for all of you wonderful people, I got to spend about 11 hours in a car with my dad and sisters... which means we got to go over every stupid thing we've done/seen/experienced during our childhood. I took notes, and now have a long list of items to blog about for this year.
And now for week two, I'll revisit my old nemesis, Winston. Lets just say I wasn't the only one he took his aggressions out on... (beware, some of you may find this a bit gruesome...)
When my older sister Elizabeth turned 12, she decided to have a slumber party. Which means that our home was systematically invaded by about 15 adolescent girls. Which means that our home echoed with giggles, screams, and shrieks. Which means that Winston was pissed.
Winston, a grouchy old man, wanted none of it. He didn't like children, he didn't like noise, and he didn't like children that made noise, let alone bushel of them. So Winston spent the evening outside, grumbling to himself about the horrors of life with children.
Meanwhile, inside, all of Elizabeth's friends were in a circle in our living room telling horror stories. Each would take a turn, and each time they would all scream, then giggle, then repeat. Little did they know that their young eyes were about to witness a a horror far worse than any story they could conjure.
Outside, Winston began barking. And barking. And barking. Every once in a while he would growl, then continue barking. And barking. And barking.
Inside, the ghostly horror stories continued. Winston was simply a background noise in a soundtrack of scary stories and screams. That is, until one of Elizabeth's friends decided to see what old Winston was barking about. She peeked out the windows, and saw that Winston had cornered one of the neighbor's kittens in our fence. What does a little girl do when she sees a kitten in danger?
She screamed. Not knowing what she was screaming about, they all started screaming. She ran out the door. Not know what she was running out the door about, they all took off our the door, leaving our front yard full of screaming preteen girls, who by the time they were outside noticed the cornered kitten.
Apparently, Winston thought they wanted to steal his prize. I can tell you what he was thinking: "Daggum stupid sreaming preteens daggum want to steal my daggum cat! Well I ain't gonna let 'em! By george its my daggum cat, and I ain't gonna let 'em get my daggum cat dadgummit!"
So Winston beat them to the kitty. He bit. It hissed.
They screamed bloody horror as Winston locked jaws on the kitten and shook it back and forth like a ragdoll. They watched, frozen in fear, as Winston tore to shreds this poor baby animal that they just wanted to cuddle. The could do nothing as they all witnessed their first, and hopefully last, murder.
The night was somber after that. No more horror stories, because they had just witnessed horror itself. The girls were devastated.
I thought it was awesome. Call me an animal, a monster, a brute, but there is nothing cooler to a 10 year old boy than seeing a cat get eaten alive by your dog, especially when it happens in front of your sister and all of her stupid, annoying, screaming friends.
For that day, Winston was my hero.
Monday, January 3, 2011
New year, Old memories
It's year twenty one one, and I have taken it upon myself to become a blog monstrocity. The reason is quite simple: I can do this through minimal energy expenditure, and I don't want to bat a .000 this year with my resolutions.
My first resolution is to run a half marathon. That is 13.1 miles. A few years ago, when I was playing collegiate football and in the best shape of my life, I ONCE ran 5 miles. I'm pretty sure I suffered a mild miocadial infarction from that terrible expedition, and never attempted it again. Now, 6 years later, I weigh 45 more pounds and am in the worst shape of my life. My class chooses me to play Santa Claus at the yearly Christmas party (no, not just because I'm jolly), size xl shirts are getting increasingly snug, and my stellar 8pack is now down to a measly sixer (joke). And I brilliantly decide to shoot for a half marathon. Suhhhhhwing-and-a-miss.
So, this is my buffer. I do plan on completing a half marathon, but if my body breaks down between now and then because it can't handle the increased gravitational torment, I can still force my philanges to churn out a few words on a blog and get my yearly resolution average up to a respectable, and probably above average, .500.
Since I am getting older and I will soon lose all memory of my yesteryears, I am going to try and recount some of my most memorable memories from my childhood.
Starting with Winston.
Winston was the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met. I remember him as a grumpy old arthritic feller who could barely walk, but somehow had no problem vicously attacking any poor sucker that pissed him off. And it didn't take much to piss ole Winston off. I, unfortunately, was innately skilled at pissing that old badger off.
Winston was our family dog.
Winston was 1.5 feet tall X 4 foot long stick-of-dynamite-hell-raising Bassett freaking hound. Bassett hounds are crosses between beagles and walruses, and are the animal visage of Larry the Cable Guy. Seriously, if Larry could be turned into mammalian form, he would be a Basset hound (Google images them both and tell me I'm wrong.) Take that, and add a healthy dose of Hitler, and you have Winston.
I was terrified of this dog. The old badger would strategically lay his oblong body across the doorway to our kitch, and wait. He was like a living bear trap that I had to cross to get to the dinner table. I'd get close, he'd glare with those awerful brown eyes. I'd inch closer, and he'd utter a low, gutteral growl. Another inch, and his jowels would start flinching as I caught glimpses of his godforsaken canines. I'd complain to mom that he was about to bite me, and she would promise he wouldn't. Another inch, and that log shaped dog would lash out and remove chunks of my ankles. The stupid dog was 9 years old and could hardly walk, but somehow his fight response was always faster than my flight response. I'd get pissed and yell at him, and my mother would get me in trouble. SHE WOULD GET ME IN TROUBLE! Why? Because, she said, I was too rough with him when he was young and made him mean.
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Yes. That is exactly what she would say. Old dub and I had great times playing together when he was a pup, but apparently a little boy wrestling with his puppy is actually dog torture, and the logical, normal response is for the dog to daily try and kill the boy when he is older. Yes, daily. This would happen every day, and usually multiple times. Winston would sprawl across the stairs and dare me to go up to my room. He would trap me in a bathroom. Every time I got too close, he would draw blood. And he never once got into trouble. And it was always my fault.
But, contrary to my mother's beliefs, it was not my fault. In fact, I can vividly remember the day that Winston became a bitter, malicious old man.
I was probably around 8, and big W was just a few years old back then. He was still a happy puppy with loving eyes and a tender heart. However, he was a sneaky devil. Despite being as tall as a stump, one summer Winston learned that he could jump, rather, jump/climb, over our fence. The fence was easily three times as tall as Winst, but it was an old flimsy wire fense. Winson somehow figured out that he could vault himself about halfway up the fence, it would start to lean, then he could scramble over it the rest of the way. I saw it happen a few times, and it was hilarious. Go back to that google image of a Basset and try imagining one launching itself. You'd think it impossible. But Winston was a rare sort, so he kept us this act until the fates had had enough.
Before I explain the rest of this story, you must understand something about Winston's anatomy. A skilled tracker would describe his trail as having 8 parts: 4 paw prints, 2 smears where his ears touched the ground, and 2 large dents between his hind paws. Yes, his nards were a scientific marvel.
One day, I am playing in the back yard and I hear the most aweful scream I'd ever heard. After a few seconds of digesting the frequency of pure terror, I realized that it was Winston. Terrified, I ran to the front yard expecting to see a wolf eating him alive.
What I saw was worse. Much, much worse.
Winston's body was on the other side of the fence, with his front paws barely grazing the ground. His hind legs were dangling helplessly in the air as he bobbed up and down with the flimsy old fense. And on the opposite side of the fence, about a half foot from the top, was an image that is till seared into my mind to this day. Winston's enormous balls were caught in the fence. Lord have mercy, the poor mut was being hung from his nuttsack. hung. from. his. nutt. sack.
Finally, among W's ever higher pitched wails of agony, my dad came out and we managed to untangle the horror. Once released from his living nightmare, I could see in his eyes that Winston, my beloved puppy, was forever changed. He was no longer a boy, and he was scarred beyond becoming a man. What was left was a bitter shell of basset hound existance that could never recover from that most dreadful of days. And no, he never tried to jump the fence again.
I don't know if Winston blamed me all those years for that incident, or if the sight of me just brought up such harsh memories that all he could do was lash out in fury. But I do know that I have forgiven him for his hate, because I just can't hold anything against a man that has been held hanging from his manhood.
My first resolution is to run a half marathon. That is 13.1 miles. A few years ago, when I was playing collegiate football and in the best shape of my life, I ONCE ran 5 miles. I'm pretty sure I suffered a mild miocadial infarction from that terrible expedition, and never attempted it again. Now, 6 years later, I weigh 45 more pounds and am in the worst shape of my life. My class chooses me to play Santa Claus at the yearly Christmas party (no, not just because I'm jolly), size xl shirts are getting increasingly snug, and my stellar 8pack is now down to a measly sixer (joke). And I brilliantly decide to shoot for a half marathon. Suhhhhhwing-and-a-miss.
So, this is my buffer. I do plan on completing a half marathon, but if my body breaks down between now and then because it can't handle the increased gravitational torment, I can still force my philanges to churn out a few words on a blog and get my yearly resolution average up to a respectable, and probably above average, .500.
Since I am getting older and I will soon lose all memory of my yesteryears, I am going to try and recount some of my most memorable memories from my childhood.
Starting with Winston.
Winston was the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met. I remember him as a grumpy old arthritic feller who could barely walk, but somehow had no problem vicously attacking any poor sucker that pissed him off. And it didn't take much to piss ole Winston off. I, unfortunately, was innately skilled at pissing that old badger off.
Winston was our family dog.
Winston was 1.5 feet tall X 4 foot long stick-of-dynamite-hell-raising Bassett freaking hound. Bassett hounds are crosses between beagles and walruses, and are the animal visage of Larry the Cable Guy. Seriously, if Larry could be turned into mammalian form, he would be a Basset hound (Google images them both and tell me I'm wrong.) Take that, and add a healthy dose of Hitler, and you have Winston.
I was terrified of this dog. The old badger would strategically lay his oblong body across the doorway to our kitch, and wait. He was like a living bear trap that I had to cross to get to the dinner table. I'd get close, he'd glare with those awerful brown eyes. I'd inch closer, and he'd utter a low, gutteral growl. Another inch, and his jowels would start flinching as I caught glimpses of his godforsaken canines. I'd complain to mom that he was about to bite me, and she would promise he wouldn't. Another inch, and that log shaped dog would lash out and remove chunks of my ankles. The stupid dog was 9 years old and could hardly walk, but somehow his fight response was always faster than my flight response. I'd get pissed and yell at him, and my mother would get me in trouble. SHE WOULD GET ME IN TROUBLE! Why? Because, she said, I was too rough with him when he was young and made him mean.
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Yes. That is exactly what she would say. Old dub and I had great times playing together when he was a pup, but apparently a little boy wrestling with his puppy is actually dog torture, and the logical, normal response is for the dog to daily try and kill the boy when he is older. Yes, daily. This would happen every day, and usually multiple times. Winston would sprawl across the stairs and dare me to go up to my room. He would trap me in a bathroom. Every time I got too close, he would draw blood. And he never once got into trouble. And it was always my fault.
But, contrary to my mother's beliefs, it was not my fault. In fact, I can vividly remember the day that Winston became a bitter, malicious old man.
I was probably around 8, and big W was just a few years old back then. He was still a happy puppy with loving eyes and a tender heart. However, he was a sneaky devil. Despite being as tall as a stump, one summer Winston learned that he could jump, rather, jump/climb, over our fence. The fence was easily three times as tall as Winst, but it was an old flimsy wire fense. Winson somehow figured out that he could vault himself about halfway up the fence, it would start to lean, then he could scramble over it the rest of the way. I saw it happen a few times, and it was hilarious. Go back to that google image of a Basset and try imagining one launching itself. You'd think it impossible. But Winston was a rare sort, so he kept us this act until the fates had had enough.
Before I explain the rest of this story, you must understand something about Winston's anatomy. A skilled tracker would describe his trail as having 8 parts: 4 paw prints, 2 smears where his ears touched the ground, and 2 large dents between his hind paws. Yes, his nards were a scientific marvel.
One day, I am playing in the back yard and I hear the most aweful scream I'd ever heard. After a few seconds of digesting the frequency of pure terror, I realized that it was Winston. Terrified, I ran to the front yard expecting to see a wolf eating him alive.
What I saw was worse. Much, much worse.
Winston's body was on the other side of the fence, with his front paws barely grazing the ground. His hind legs were dangling helplessly in the air as he bobbed up and down with the flimsy old fense. And on the opposite side of the fence, about a half foot from the top, was an image that is till seared into my mind to this day. Winston's enormous balls were caught in the fence. Lord have mercy, the poor mut was being hung from his nuttsack. hung. from. his. nutt. sack.
Finally, among W's ever higher pitched wails of agony, my dad came out and we managed to untangle the horror. Once released from his living nightmare, I could see in his eyes that Winston, my beloved puppy, was forever changed. He was no longer a boy, and he was scarred beyond becoming a man. What was left was a bitter shell of basset hound existance that could never recover from that most dreadful of days. And no, he never tried to jump the fence again.
I don't know if Winston blamed me all those years for that incident, or if the sight of me just brought up such harsh memories that all he could do was lash out in fury. But I do know that I have forgiven him for his hate, because I just can't hold anything against a man that has been held hanging from his manhood.
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