Covering for your puppy

This is a painting of my childhood pet, Trixie, done by one of Mom's patients. Mom was a gerontology nurse for many years. It was painted from a photograph. Trixie is sitting in front of the Franklin stove in our living room, which Mom and Dad added when I was in 5th grade or thereabouts.

When I was a boy, we had a frisky Dachsy Beagle named Trixie. (As I recall, Mom said one of her grandmas used the same name for her puppy; I was becoming aware that names were often repeated in families and I liked the idea.)

I had wanted a pet more than anything in the world, and Mom knew someone whose dog had just had a litter. She took me to pick one out. I actually was attracted to one with long curly hair, but the owner had said she was becoming fond of that one, so I didn't take it. But there was another who walked right up to me and nuzzled against my leg. I took her home and named her Trixie.

I used to hide the tattered remains of things Trixie cut her teeth on (for example, I tossed a gnawed winter glove behind the big freezer in the basement so Mom didn't find it - sorry mom); the goal was just to prevent Trixie from being scolded; she couldn't help being a puppy. Mom and Dad were never physically angry, but no kid likes to see another kid yelled at.

I do the same for my children now.

Strange world, isn't it.

Or perhaps not so strange. Maybe I'm just a softie: puppies, children, the weak and unwary, the marginalized and trivialized, the invisible masses that turn into human petroleum after a few generations, into statues and speeches and parades.

[2014-05-31]

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