“It was a dog…”

Decades ago, in a galaxy far, far away I lived as a child in the cold, cold North Country along the bluffs of the northern Mississippi River (my family lived there too).  Summers were perfect: clear blue skys, crisp air, and feelings of utter peacefulness.  One day, after playing hard in the alley dirt with Tonka army jeeps with my friends, I walked the (then) long walk up Kingwood St. home, carrying a load of army jeeps up the driveway, to the backyard where I planned to ceremoniously dump them “in the way.”  Rounding the corner of the house to the backyard, I looked up to the west into the neighbor’s yard; for these were the good old days when a child could traverse fenceless miles through backyards unimpeded.  There, standing next to the clothesline pole was a large (I was maybe six or seven years old, so scale matters here) black bear (Ursus americanus, for my scientist friends)!

Now, I was a brave, calm child; courageous, humble, and charitable, heroic even…  So as you might expect, I dropped my jeeps, screamed bloody murder, and turned tail sprinting as fast as my short legs would take me away from the bear.  Wisdom eluded me as I ran past the safety of the door to our house, drawing the starved, raving, bloodthirsty carnivore away from my cowering mother who was “in the kitchen.”  I covered the distance back to my friend’s house in record time.  The rest is a blur; berzerking courage does that to a man (or a boy).  The next memory I have is of my mother tracking me down, asking “what is wrong with you?” or some such inquiry, followed by “why didn’t you stop at the door and come into the house?”  Small reward for my brave actions, but the true dishonor was yet to come.  For I have an older sister, sinister in ways unimaginable; crafty, stealthy, and full of hubris.

One can anticipate how shocked I was during the next “public” (consisting of my sister, myself, and my mother) appearance that I made when my sister, with piercing eyes, looked me up and down and turned to my mother calmly stating “it was a dog.”  Noble in the face of treachery, I took it on the chin, turned the other cheek, took the high road, embraced my sister lovingly, and forgave her almost immediately.  Hiding my hurt feelings behind an engaging smile, I simply walked away.

She tells a different story to this day, but she is a federal government employee, and she cannot be trusted.  I decided that for her fortieth birthday, the truth had to be told.  Alas, let bygones be bygones, the truth is such a powerful force it cannot be denied.  I must write this here, because my father confides in me that should I die before she does, my tombstone will read “it was a dog.”