It is a universal truth that young men are alarmingly determined to carry out bad decisions. If they are lucky, they have a canine best friend to act as the fall guy. The first dog in my life (and truly first happily willing scapegoat) was a medium sized rust colored female vizsla named Rika (ree-kah). While I was recently dining with my parents in their home, our conversation turned to fond remembrances of Rika.
“You remember, Brian, how Rika was such a good dog?” my mom asked. “She was always wanting to be with me and gently play and…just a very good natured dog. She was my companion while I was single and waiting for your dad to come into my life.”
My mom’s semi-absent gaze conveyed she was enjoying a distant agreeable memory. “She would sleep at the foot of the bed and lick my feet.”
“Ewww,” I responded, trying to salvage the enjoyment of my last bites of dinner while blocking the imaginary vile concoction of dog’s breath and sweaty feet.
“No, It was great!” said my mom, “Felt like someone was washing my feet with a warm washcloth.”
“But it was the dog….” I began to recall this particular foul habit of Rika’s.
“Yeah,” interjected my dad, “but your mom enjoyed it. I just made sure Rika only licked her feet. She only licked my foot one time….”
Mom took over. “You’re dad’s feet are so ticklish that the lick forced his knees to his chest and knocked the wind out of him for a few minutes. His yelp and thrashing woke me up thinking he was wrestling an intruder. In my half-asleep haze, I saw Rika running so fast I imagined she was running only on her hind legs. I think it scared her half to death, but she came back a while later and nuzzled under the covers again like nothing happened.”
“Hmmm. How odd,” I responded in a nonchalant manner that betrayed the memory presently re-assembling from the long-term storage of my brain.
“BRIAN! It’s Wednesday!” One of my mom’s favorite weekly phrases. (I don’t remember a week she didn’t like to chant about Wednesdays.)
“Yes mom, I know!” I blithely continued to jab my thumbs in various combinations of contortions on the game controllers, in the hypnotic glow of the television.
“Well?”
“After this level, please!?”
“Fine, but you have to get the trash out to the curb before tomorrow morning’s pickup. That means emptying all the waste baskets in the house, too. Put a new liner in them when they’re empty!” (Looking back, I’m astounded that the juvenile me needed such specific, thorough, and emphasized instructions each week for a unfailingly recurring task.)
“Yeah, ok, no problem,” came my hypnotized reply.
Some time later I realized that my bedtime was approaching annoyingly fast. Then I processed my conversation with my mom.
Sigh. “Well, better do it now,” I surrendered.
Trash duty wasn’t a particularly difficult, time consuming, or disgusting job. I just enjoy a daily dose of procrastination. Wednesdays simply happened to conveniently offer a subject for my procrastination regimen.
When I visited the trash in my parents room, thoughts of video game strategy to which I let my mind wander were abruptly interrupted by a glint of light reflected from something in the trash. I looked closer, shaking the trash to expose more of the shiny object from underneath a tissue.
York. Peppermint. Pattie.
Then I saw a second wrapper and realized there was probably a stash hidden in the room. I took up solving the mystery of the location of the stash without a second thought. The most obvious place would be the…the…
I wasn’t sure. Sock drawer? No. Dressers are the most obvious place to hide something. Closet? I didn’t find a hanging candy stash. Under the bed? Dust an inch thick except for what looked like a snow-plowed road with drifts cut sharply perpendicular against the floor. The would-be miniature snow-cleared road led to an unassuming shoebox.
I carefully slid out the box along the same dust-cleared path and lifted the lid free. Jackpot. I had just acquired a chest full of shiny silver treasure. I slowly savored one of my chocolate encrusted prize until I recognized my parent’s voices were in the stairwell.
My mind raced through a half-dozen options for an unseen retreat. It was impossible to both clean up my treacherous evidence and escape. An either-or situation. I regarded the next thought that entered my ineffably short-sighted mind as sheer genius. The plan took shape as if on its own and I went along as a grateful inmate, invited on a jailbreak masterminded by the prisoner in an adjoining cell who needed an extra set of hands to boost him over the final wall to freedom. Predictably, such a plan would conclude with the mastermind pausing perched atop the wall taking a final unscrupulous look at the unwitting pawn then dropping to freedom on the far side.
I quickly replaced the lid on the box, shoved the box along the dust-plowed track under the bed, stuffed the wrappers in my pocket, flicked off the lights, and dove under the covers to the foot of my parents’ bed and pretended to be Rika. I’m sure I wasn’t a particularly convincing dog shape, but luckily for me my parents always slept with thick down comforters which easily obscured my contorted body.
My parents went through their bedtime routine without noticing that the “dog” under the covers was me! The plan was working. Then I saw that I had been self-led into a trap. How was I supposed to get from the bed to the door and safety beyond? My mind scrambled for another genius idea, but nothing came. I determined the best course would be to “wait it out.” I’d let my parents settle into bed and fall asleep, then I’d sneak out. Hopefully Rika wouldn’t come to bed before then.
When my parents crawled into bed, I realized the second major flaw to my original brilliant idea. The presence of day-worn feet incubating under a down comforter instantly created a noxious environment which only hardy bacteria and Rika could survive. I counted the seconds, then the half-seconds, then the tenths of seconds trying to hold out as long as I could. It felt like I had managed to endure hours, but I was unsure of how long it had actually been and more importantly, if my parents had fallen asleep. I needed relief. Soon.
In my acrid, self-imposed torture chamber, I remembered my mom saying Rika licked her feet in bed. I saw my escape. I could lick her foot then pretend to crawl out from under the bed covers in the cover of darkness, like the dog heeding the call of nature. (I sure was a creative thinker back then.) The nauseating fumes prevented me to think of two crucial preparations I should have made. First, I should have bitten my tongue until it lost most feeling before the attempt. Second, I should have tried to identify who’s foot I was about to lick. Instead, I found the foot closest to my head, stuck out my tongue as far as it could reach, and licked.
“EEEEEEeee-aaaaaahhhhhhh-iiiiiaaaa!” Cried my dad, cut short by the distressing sound of his knee thumping his chest, abruptly terminating its reflexive retreat from my tongue.
I immediately determined the decision to lick would consistently rank in the bottom five decisions I would ever make. Besides the partial hearing loss caused by the volume of my dad’s cry, my tongue vehemently scolded me over my bad decision. The taste was every bit as terrible as the precursory odors.
I thought I was done for. I knew I was done for. So like any boy who’s been caught, I ran as fast as I could. In my rapid flight, I could hear my dad’s emphatic (but halting for lack of breath) protests against Rika.
“WHAT…WAS THAT…DANG DOG DOING!…CAN’T SHE TELL YOU…FROM ME ANYMORE!”
“Whatever she did, she’ll never do it again, dear. You’ve frightened her out of the room!” Soothed my bewildered mom.
I was astoundingly unrevealed! I had escaped! I silently finished my procrastinated trash chore and retired to bed a lucky escapee.
“Brian,” my mom got my attention after school the next day, “you forgot to empty the trash in my room. That’s part of the chore. Please go do it now.”
“Ok,” I replied. No need for procrastination today. A reward of minty chocolate awaited, arrayed in shiny silver wrappings.
(Written July 2016)
Bribunk 