Sleeping with Lady and Six-Toed Cats
Mrs. Tice commented on my first-grade report card: “Gets along well with others but seldom plays with them because he always has to have things “his way; is very good with numbers but has no confidence in doing other things.” I recently saw a post of a professional athlete sleeping with his dog. Apparently, it is trendy to post comments and pictures like this. Always ahead of the curve but ignorant or not confident enough to see it, I missed a great opportunity in my younger years.
Like most teachers, Mrs. Tice was a good observer, and her observations define me to this day. I get along with others but don’t play with many as friends and I remain good with numbers but have little confidence in doing other things. It’s a fact. Ask any teacher to identify students with problems and most will be as accurate or better than the silly rating scales used in most schools.
For the first nine years of my life, I was a spoiled only child. If I wanted something like a bike or a Daisy Air Rifle or, what every kid wants, a dog, I asked for it. If it was not produced immediately, I “pitched a fit,” “raised holey hell,” or other ways made life miserable for my parents until I got it. The family of one of my two best friends was rich. They owned the Cadillac dealership in our town and lived in “the mansion” at the end of our street. This made my need for all I wanted always more urgent with Barkley never missing or waiting for anything. For most of my early life, I lived with the sin of knowing I coveted every good that my neighbor and friend had; and, I woke up angry every day with what I didn’t have.
One time, I can’t remember why but I’m sure because I didn’t get something, I packed fresh socks and ironed and folded underwear in my cowboy neckerchief and left home. When they found me at the candy store where my grandfather always took me, I was promising to come back later to pay for the tootsie roll that I needed for the rest of the trip. When I was almost 10, my brother was born, and I thought my life got tougher. Sharing, thinking about others, and caring were not much of what I did then and “bustin’ chops” and demanding more and more made an obnoxious and difficult child and brother of me.
We got Lady when I was 9. I loved that dog. Pets in those days stayed outdoors so we built a small doghouse for her in our backyard. In winter, we stuffed it with hay from Barclay’s horse barn to keep her warm. She seemed to like it out there and every morning I would give her some food and have some play time and at the end of the day I tucked her in and said good night. One time, I can’t remember why but I’m sure because I wasn’t’ getting enough attention, I packed fresh socks and ironed and folded underwear in my cowboy neckerchief and left home again. Sure that my parents hated me and feeling unloved from it, I squeezed in and snuggled up in the doghouse with the one I loved and the only one I was sure loved me. When enough time passed to realize that nobody was coming to find me and I went back to watch some TV, my mother greeted me with “Oh, you’re home?” “Of course, I’m home. You can see me, can’t you?” What a jerk I was.
When my brother was 9, he wanted a pet. For the first time I could remember, my parents refused. I think having to explain my life with Lady was enough pet stuff for them. Undaunted, I convinced him to put some dog food by our cellar door to invite a pet. And so began our life with “those six-toed cats.”
