A Tragic Detour for Fresh Puppies

My new friend Vivian's house was a no-go zone during the week. Her parents both worked and there was no adult supervision after school. Her family lived very differently from my “Wonder Bread” household — they had really dark oil paintings on the walls, listened to classical music instead of Perry Como and ate big chunks of stinky cheese. They broke bread with their fists, used the same cloth napkin for a week and held their knife and fork in separate hands — instead of switching like my Auntie Dot had taught me to do. My Mother found them suspect, while I found them exotic.

Despite the rule about not going inside Vivian’s house, we walked home from school together every day. On our daily walks, Vivian lavished me with stories of her life in Europe, which included having lived in three countries and a trip to the USSR — which she hadn’t known at the time was such an enemy.  She was the only girl I knew that got real mail. Pen pals from her previous lives would send letters in tissue-paper envelopes with beautiful postmarks. The only mail I ever got was a birthday card from a relative. Vivian was clearly the spice in my Good Housekeeping-ruled life.

On a Monday afternoon, Vivian excitedly told me that their dog a wrinkled Shar-Pei had just given birth to puppies. “I can’t wait to show you,” she said. “When they were first born, they were wet and came out in sacks, just like little presents. Now they are dry and look like bratwursts with fur.” “Do you play with them?” I asked. “Not yet,” answered Vivian, “my mother says that holding them now could make them sick. We get to hold them in a couple of weeks though when their eyes open up.”

I had never seen newborn puppies before and the thought of waiting until the weekend when her parents were home, was unbearable to me.  What if I rushed into her house took a peek and rushed back out? The whole operation would take less than a minute and my Mother would never be the wiser. Vivian agreed.

When we got to Vivian’s house, she went inside first, yelling out to me when the coast was clear. I rushed inside. The mother dog had gone outside for a break and as I peeked over the edge of the whelping box, I could see the puppies, in all their glory. They looked exactly as Vivian had described — that is if you could imagine sausages that wiggled, had sealed button eyes and squeaked quite desperately. As I backed away, preparing for my retreat, teeth sunk into my bottom, shook me hard and tossed me away from the whelping box. I skidded to a stop, four feet away as Vivian’s dog rejoined her pups. I wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened, and I was embarrassed that I was bleeding on Vivian’s kitchen floor. I tied my sweater around my waist and ran home to get a closer look.

It was bad. A big flap of skin flopped open and you could see right into my muscle. There was no way I could keep this a secret. I began to cry. I cried because my fanny hurt. I cried because I would have to admit I had disobeyed and been to Vivian’s house and gone inside. I cried because I knew I was in big, big, trouble.

I did get into big trouble, but only after my Mother expertly handled my wound, the emergency room visit and the ruling out for my risk of rabies.

As I grew up and left the daily supervision of adults, I noticed a little twinge of remembrance on my backside, every time I was tempted to lie. In the end, I had a great parable to share with my children about telling the truth and though I will never admit it, I think it was well worth the pain to see my first litter of puppies — while they were still fresh. ~Laurie