Hi, Diary.
My chums and I go to cub scout meetings once a month at Johnny Ristow's house on Thirteenth Street. On meeting day, we wear blue cub scout shirts with yellow and blue scarves around our necks, tied in front with a double knot. Red patches with the number 12 on it are sewed to our sleeves since we're Cub Scout Pack 12. After school is let out, we walk, run, and skip. With Lee Anunson around, we always laugh because he knows plenty of cuss words and uses them. "You're a bunch of dip shits," he yells. We usually meet in Ristow's basement, but because Johnny's dog, Tipppy, had puppies only days ago, we met upstairs because as Mr. Ristow, our pack leader, explained, "Their eyes aren't opened, and Tippy gets nervous when strangers are around."
"We're not strangers," objected Billy Schroeder.
"To Tippy you are," returned our scout leader.
A day before the next pack meeting, Johnny said, "The puppies' eyes are open, and Tippy's not nervous anymore."
After our meeting, we knelt around the large box that held Tippy and her pups. One pup kept licking my face. It tickled. "This guy really likes me," I said. "Boy, do I wish I could take him home."
"If you want him, you can have him," said our pack leader, "but first you must get your parents' permission."
"For sure, I'll talk to them," I said.
"We already have a dog," said Roger Aton.
"We don't. Our dog, Bones, was killed. The Fahls poisoned him," I said.
"My parents won't let me have one," moaned Jimmy Lokken.
"Why not?" asked Roger.
"Because."
"Because why?"
"Because they don't want our yard filled with dog shit."
"I don't want one," said Lee. "Dad has a dog."
"Queenie would be jealous," said Billy.
One thing," our pack leader told especially me, "your parents must telephone me to tell me if it's all right."
It took me a full month of promising everything under the sun if I could have a pup. I was on my best behavior. Finally, Mother said, "Your father says you can have a dog but you must take responsibility for it, including training, feeding, cleaning up after it, and so on. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Then, I'll telephone Mister Ristow."
I told fellow scouts about the good news. At the meeting, I earned my Wolf badge. I was no longer a Bobcat. Mr. Ristow pinned the badge on my shirt. "Woof woof," went Lee. He then whispered in my ear, "You dip shit."
Lee, Roger, Billy, Dennis Wildner, and Jimmy shook my hand the cub scout way, with the left hand. After the meeting, I knelt at Tippy's box and asked the puppy who liked to lick me, "What's your name?"
Kneeling next to me, Roger said, "How 'bout Corky?"
"Why?"
"Cuz he looks like a Corky."
"I guess he does, doesn't he? Hi, Corky," I said to the mostly white pup with patches of brown and black on back, ears and face, his tail a white stump. I held Corky against my chest and kept kissing and talking to him as I carried him to Peters and Martin's. Whenever I said, "Corky," he looked at me as if he was asking me something, his forehead filled with lines as his ears tried to meet each other but couldn't. I wanted Bob Martin to see him. Busy wrapping meat in white butcher paper, Bob smiled like he always does. "How ya' doin' Carrot Top?"
I held Corky before me. "What do you think of Corky, my dog?"
"Rat terrier, huh?"
"His mother is."
"Looks like his father coulda' been one, too. Do you have a box for him to sleep in? You need a nice, strong box for a pup." Bob handed the lady a white package. She smiled. Wiping his hands on his bloodied but white apron, Bob said, "We'll see what we can do. Follow me."
Mr. Peters, who doesn't like kids, yelled, "Tell him to find his own box, Bob."
Bob continued to walk to the store's back room. "Don't worry, Carrot Top, I'll find a good, strong box."
There's nobody as helpful and kind to kids as Bob Martin. Of that, I am certain. He showed me a box that held meat in it. "This is strong. Put an old towel or blanket on the bottom. He'll miss his Mom, for sure. You don't want him to keep you up all night, do you? You got an extra Big Ben at home?"
"You mean an alarm clock?"
"Yup."
"I think we have an extra somewhere."
"Wind it up and put it in the box. It'll sound like his mother's heart. He'll be content with that."
Bob is smart. Corky was smart, too. It didn't take him long to get house broken. If there was poop on the kitchen floor in the morning, I picked him up and put him outside. Then, I cleaned up after him and threw everything in a garbage can outdoors. If Mother got up before me, she pushed his nose in his poop, spanked him real hard, and screamed, "Bad dog." As he yipped, Mother opened the back door and tossed him outside like a football.
About a week later, Corky climbed out of his box and over the chair that lay on its side in the kitchen doorway. It was meant to keep him in the kitchen so he couldn't poop on the carpet in the dining room or parlor. He sat outside my bedroom door and whined. "Take that damn dog out, will you?" Dad yelled from his and Mother's bedroom. You can be certain I did, Pronto, as Gabby Hayes would tell Roy Rogers. A while later, I left my door slightly open. Corky nudged it the rest of the way, jumped on my bed, and licked my face until I woke up, giggling. Corky, you wanna' go out?" He yipped. He understood me.
When he was almost a year old, he started chasing cars. I yelled at him to stop. When cars outran him, only then would he return. I was in our backyard when I heard loud squeals followed by a horribly screeching noise. Suddenly, I saw Mr. Haertl, a big shot at Wood County Bank, push through the single line of bushes that separates Baker Street properties from Wisconsin Street homes. "Hey, that's your dog. I'm sure it's your dog. He was run over in front of Polansky's."
Without thinking, I pushed my way under the bushes into Polansky's backyard and ran. Traffic was stopped on Baker Street. A man on the sidewalk asked me, "Is that your dog?" He pointed to Corky, screeching, lying on his side on Baker Street.
"Yes, he's mine."
"I couldn't help it. He came out of nowhere."
"He likes to chase wheels." I saw no blood. Maybe, Corky was just scared, I thought. He'll stop chasing cars from now on. However, his eyes didn't seem to able to see. They looked crazy, wild. He kept screeching. I knelt and pet him. "See what happens when you chase wheels." Everything stopped.
''I think he's dead," said the man.
"But his eyes are still open."
"That happens, sometimes. I'm really sorry."
"It's not your fault, Mister."
He continued to talk but I couldn't hear a word because as I lifted Corky from the pavement, I was crying so hard.
I buried him behind our garage. I never want another dog. Ever. Of that, I am certain.
My chums and I go to cub scout meetings once a month at Johnny Ristow's house on Thirteenth Street. On meeting day, we wear blue cub scout shirts with yellow and blue scarves around our necks, tied in front with a double knot. Red patches with the number 12 on it are sewed to our sleeves since we're Cub Scout Pack 12. After school is let out, we walk, run, and skip. With Lee Anunson around, we always laugh because he knows plenty of cuss words and uses them. "You're a bunch of dip shits," he yells. We usually meet in Ristow's basement, but because Johnny's dog, Tipppy, had puppies only days ago, we met upstairs because as Mr. Ristow, our pack leader, explained, "Their eyes aren't opened, and Tippy gets nervous when strangers are around."
"We're not strangers," objected Billy Schroeder.
"To Tippy you are," returned our scout leader.
A day before the next pack meeting, Johnny said, "The puppies' eyes are open, and Tippy's not nervous anymore."
After our meeting, we knelt around the large box that held Tippy and her pups. One pup kept licking my face. It tickled. "This guy really likes me," I said. "Boy, do I wish I could take him home."
"If you want him, you can have him," said our pack leader, "but first you must get your parents' permission."
"For sure, I'll talk to them," I said.
"We already have a dog," said Roger Aton.
"We don't. Our dog, Bones, was killed. The Fahls poisoned him," I said.
"My parents won't let me have one," moaned Jimmy Lokken.
"Why not?" asked Roger.
"Because."
"Because why?"
"Because they don't want our yard filled with dog shit."
"I don't want one," said Lee. "Dad has a dog."
"Queenie would be jealous," said Billy.
One thing," our pack leader told especially me, "your parents must telephone me to tell me if it's all right."
It took me a full month of promising everything under the sun if I could have a pup. I was on my best behavior. Finally, Mother said, "Your father says you can have a dog but you must take responsibility for it, including training, feeding, cleaning up after it, and so on. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Then, I'll telephone Mister Ristow."
I told fellow scouts about the good news. At the meeting, I earned my Wolf badge. I was no longer a Bobcat. Mr. Ristow pinned the badge on my shirt. "Woof woof," went Lee. He then whispered in my ear, "You dip shit."
Lee, Roger, Billy, Dennis Wildner, and Jimmy shook my hand the cub scout way, with the left hand. After the meeting, I knelt at Tippy's box and asked the puppy who liked to lick me, "What's your name?"
Kneeling next to me, Roger said, "How 'bout Corky?"
"Why?"
"Cuz he looks like a Corky."
"I guess he does, doesn't he? Hi, Corky," I said to the mostly white pup with patches of brown and black on back, ears and face, his tail a white stump. I held Corky against my chest and kept kissing and talking to him as I carried him to Peters and Martin's. Whenever I said, "Corky," he looked at me as if he was asking me something, his forehead filled with lines as his ears tried to meet each other but couldn't. I wanted Bob Martin to see him. Busy wrapping meat in white butcher paper, Bob smiled like he always does. "How ya' doin' Carrot Top?"
I held Corky before me. "What do you think of Corky, my dog?"
"Rat terrier, huh?"
"His mother is."
"Looks like his father coulda' been one, too. Do you have a box for him to sleep in? You need a nice, strong box for a pup." Bob handed the lady a white package. She smiled. Wiping his hands on his bloodied but white apron, Bob said, "We'll see what we can do. Follow me."
Mr. Peters, who doesn't like kids, yelled, "Tell him to find his own box, Bob."
Bob continued to walk to the store's back room. "Don't worry, Carrot Top, I'll find a good, strong box."
There's nobody as helpful and kind to kids as Bob Martin. Of that, I am certain. He showed me a box that held meat in it. "This is strong. Put an old towel or blanket on the bottom. He'll miss his Mom, for sure. You don't want him to keep you up all night, do you? You got an extra Big Ben at home?"
"You mean an alarm clock?"
"Yup."
"I think we have an extra somewhere."
"Wind it up and put it in the box. It'll sound like his mother's heart. He'll be content with that."
Bob is smart. Corky was smart, too. It didn't take him long to get house broken. If there was poop on the kitchen floor in the morning, I picked him up and put him outside. Then, I cleaned up after him and threw everything in a garbage can outdoors. If Mother got up before me, she pushed his nose in his poop, spanked him real hard, and screamed, "Bad dog." As he yipped, Mother opened the back door and tossed him outside like a football.
About a week later, Corky climbed out of his box and over the chair that lay on its side in the kitchen doorway. It was meant to keep him in the kitchen so he couldn't poop on the carpet in the dining room or parlor. He sat outside my bedroom door and whined. "Take that damn dog out, will you?" Dad yelled from his and Mother's bedroom. You can be certain I did, Pronto, as Gabby Hayes would tell Roy Rogers. A while later, I left my door slightly open. Corky nudged it the rest of the way, jumped on my bed, and licked my face until I woke up, giggling. Corky, you wanna' go out?" He yipped. He understood me.
When he was almost a year old, he started chasing cars. I yelled at him to stop. When cars outran him, only then would he return. I was in our backyard when I heard loud squeals followed by a horribly screeching noise. Suddenly, I saw Mr. Haertl, a big shot at Wood County Bank, push through the single line of bushes that separates Baker Street properties from Wisconsin Street homes. "Hey, that's your dog. I'm sure it's your dog. He was run over in front of Polansky's."
Without thinking, I pushed my way under the bushes into Polansky's backyard and ran. Traffic was stopped on Baker Street. A man on the sidewalk asked me, "Is that your dog?" He pointed to Corky, screeching, lying on his side on Baker Street.
"Yes, he's mine."
"I couldn't help it. He came out of nowhere."
"He likes to chase wheels." I saw no blood. Maybe, Corky was just scared, I thought. He'll stop chasing cars from now on. However, his eyes didn't seem to able to see. They looked crazy, wild. He kept screeching. I knelt and pet him. "See what happens when you chase wheels." Everything stopped.
''I think he's dead," said the man.
"But his eyes are still open."
"That happens, sometimes. I'm really sorry."
"It's not your fault, Mister."
He continued to talk but I couldn't hear a word because as I lifted Corky from the pavement, I was crying so hard.
I buried him behind our garage. I never want another dog. Ever. Of that, I am certain.
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