Every so often one of Leta's children--or even her husband—would do or say something that, as she put it, threw her for a loop. On this cold winter afternoon, it was her daughter Vivian’s turn. While an early winter storm waged outside, the two of them were baking together in the kitchen. Everything seemed warm and cozy, a gentle pleasantness filled the room.
Leta couldn’t remember what they had been chatting about prior, but then she asked a fateful question: “What would you like for your birthday?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, Mom,” Vivian answered while she was measuring the flour. “And what I really want is a dog—a puppy.”
A puppy? Leta screeched in her head. You want a dog?
They had never had a dog, because Leta had never allowed one. In fact, she was terrified of them. When she was a little girl, her mother would ship her off to her uncle’s farm for a few weeks each summer to get some exercise, sunshine and country air. Her mother believed that such things were necessary for children to grow well. Besides, city living was oppressively hot and humid during the height of the summer, and she didn’t want any cranky children about. That, and her brother and sister-in-law could use the extra labor. So off Leta and her sisters went.
In her memory, these were happy times for the most part. Sure, they worked on the farm, but they also did a lot of playing and exploring. Leta liked to watch her older male cousins with the animals and engaged in other chores. Plus, her uncle had two hired men, who worked and lived on the farm. When the days became very warm, she begged to deliver to the workers the afternoon lemonade that they made. By this time, most of them had removed their shirts, and their bodies glistened with perspiration. She liked how they paid special attention to her—their little drink girl, they called her.
After performing her hot summer chore one afternoon, she was skipping back to the farmhouse from a far field lost in her own happy girlish thoughts, her hair falling out of its ribbons, when from nowhere three of her uncle’s dogs charged at her.
She shrieked in surprise and terror, as two large Irish wolfhounds pushed her to the ground and the third tore at her dress.
The terrified eight-year-old screamed with all her might as the dogs continued to tear at her clothes and rough her up on the dirt road. In truth, Leta didn’t remember anything else. She shut her eyes, tried to protect herself with her little arms and screamed as loud as she could, as if her life depended on it.
This happened for such a long time that she didn’t think anyone would come to her rescue, but someone did. One of the farm hands had heard her screams and raced to her. He pulled the dogs off and shooed them away, calming her with sweet words and lifting her to her feet. She clung to him with such terror that he carried her home, and she would never forget how he smelled of hard work and strength.
But from that moment on, she developed a distinct dislike, if not hatred, of dogs and refused to have anything to do with them. As she was a rather calm and self-possessed adult, very few knew of this incident and the resultant feelings.
However, she had to address her daughter’s request, quickly and decisively before the wish became a yearning. Yearnings, she knew, were much harder to quell.
“A dog?” Leta repeated questioningly. “I thought you wanted to learn how to knit.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
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