Railroad
Routinely Derailed
I turned this little event in my life into a full-fledged humor piece which I wrote as part of a series involving a man character who was a redneck whose moniker was Brass Hat.
But the truth that fed the fiction is funny by itself, and I thought you'd get a chuckle out of it.
In 1988, when my family and I moved to Maryland and settled in a house on the outskirts of a town called "Abell," we met a big, scary-looking Doberman whom we eventually named "Duke." He was a very sweet dog, if a little dingy. We assumed that he belonged to a local family, but he was left outside all the time, and he was always quite skinny and hungry. We would occasionally feed him a little of what we could spare.
One very cold winter night, I went outside to the firewood pile to refill our woodstove (the only source of heat in that house), and there, shaking like a leaf in the near-zero temperatures, stood Duke.
Mrs. RR had long ago decreed that Duke was never to enter our house. But that night, Duke and I looked at each other, and silently agreed to break the rules. I carried the firewood in, and let Duke in. Mrs. RR said something like, "Okay, but he's YOUR PROBLEM."
I searched for something to feed the fellow, and found a bowl of leftover beef stew in the refrigerator. I put that on the floor next to a bowl of water, Duke finished the quart of beef stew in approximately 500 milliseconds, slurped up all the water, and curled up on the floor in the living room near the woodstove.
All was right with the world. Congratulating myself, I turned the damper down on the stove so it would smolder all night and joined Mrs. RR in bed.
At about 4 the next morning, my bladder got me up, and after taking care of that issue, I went in to the living room to turn up the stove so I could warm the house for the rest of the family.
I stepped, in the dark room, in a large, slippery puddle. In the middle of my Persian rug.
Last time I checked, Persian rugs are not normal places for puddles.
So anyway, my foot hit the puddle, and some of it splashed clear up to my underwear.
Then my foot slipped out from under me.
I sat down rather abruptly in the puddle.
The puddle, of course, turned out to be a Doberman-sized lake of diarrhea.
Remembering Mrs. RR's admonition about Duke being my responsibility, I rapidly taught myself how to clean up a 2-foot diameter puddle of poop without waking Mrs. RR, who was sleeping in the next room.
Duke, looking suitably sad, stood huddled in a corner, watching my every move, waiting for the rebuke which never came.
Nevertheless, there was a wet spot, so before long, there was a conversation with Mrs. RR in which it quickly became clear that I must build a shelter for Duke the Doberman.
I have no idea what happened to Duke when we moved away; I hope that, in heaven, if he remembers his life, he'll remember with a smile that cold winter's night.
But the truth that fed the fiction is funny by itself, and I thought you'd get a chuckle out of it.
In 1988, when my family and I moved to Maryland and settled in a house on the outskirts of a town called "Abell," we met a big, scary-looking Doberman whom we eventually named "Duke." He was a very sweet dog, if a little dingy. We assumed that he belonged to a local family, but he was left outside all the time, and he was always quite skinny and hungry. We would occasionally feed him a little of what we could spare.
One very cold winter night, I went outside to the firewood pile to refill our woodstove (the only source of heat in that house), and there, shaking like a leaf in the near-zero temperatures, stood Duke.
Mrs. RR had long ago decreed that Duke was never to enter our house. But that night, Duke and I looked at each other, and silently agreed to break the rules. I carried the firewood in, and let Duke in. Mrs. RR said something like, "Okay, but he's YOUR PROBLEM."
I searched for something to feed the fellow, and found a bowl of leftover beef stew in the refrigerator. I put that on the floor next to a bowl of water, Duke finished the quart of beef stew in approximately 500 milliseconds, slurped up all the water, and curled up on the floor in the living room near the woodstove.
All was right with the world. Congratulating myself, I turned the damper down on the stove so it would smolder all night and joined Mrs. RR in bed.
At about 4 the next morning, my bladder got me up, and after taking care of that issue, I went in to the living room to turn up the stove so I could warm the house for the rest of the family.
I stepped, in the dark room, in a large, slippery puddle. In the middle of my Persian rug.
Last time I checked, Persian rugs are not normal places for puddles.
So anyway, my foot hit the puddle, and some of it splashed clear up to my underwear.
Then my foot slipped out from under me.
I sat down rather abruptly in the puddle.
The puddle, of course, turned out to be a Doberman-sized lake of diarrhea.
Remembering Mrs. RR's admonition about Duke being my responsibility, I rapidly taught myself how to clean up a 2-foot diameter puddle of poop without waking Mrs. RR, who was sleeping in the next room.
Duke, looking suitably sad, stood huddled in a corner, watching my every move, waiting for the rebuke which never came.
Nevertheless, there was a wet spot, so before long, there was a conversation with Mrs. RR in which it quickly became clear that I must build a shelter for Duke the Doberman.
I have no idea what happened to Duke when we moved away; I hope that, in heaven, if he remembers his life, he'll remember with a smile that cold winter's night.
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