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Chapter Two: A Sad and Lonely Childhood

Here’s a secret, if you promise not to tell: My childhood wasn’t so bad. In fact I had a good life. But who wants to read about some dog who’s had a happy childhood? Nobody.

That’s why I called this chapter “A Sad and Lonely Childhood.” When you write about being happy, everybody falls asleep.

But back to my brother, Willie. There were nine of us pups but only eight plates at Mom’s table, so Willie and I had to share, and he ate like a pig. He grew up to be big and strong, and I grew up to be a runt with a stub tail.

We lived in a fenced yard in the town of Twitch­ell, Texas. That’s kind of a funny name, Twitch­ell. I was always the smallest dog in a crowd and scared of everything. You name it, I was scared of it: storms, loud noises, water, the dark. My brothers barked at cars. Not me. I hid in the bushes. Some of the dogs in the neighborhood chewed up newspapers, but I didn’t. I was always scared I’d choke on the rubber band.

Some of my friends barked at the mailman when he walked his route every day, and they said it was gobs of fun. I never tried it. He carried a big leather bag on his shoulder, and I was scared that if I barked at him, he’d stuff me in that bag and carry me off to someplace awful.

I didn’t know where he came from or where he went after he left the mail, and I didn’t want to find out. I always thought there was something a little fishy about those postal employees, so I stayed away from them.

I wasn’t proud of being a little chicken. Dogs should be brave and do courageous things. That’s what everybody says. I dreamed of being brave and fighting monsters, but the older I grew, the chickener I got.

You know, maybe my childhood wasn’t as happy as I thought, ’cause I spent a lot of time being scared and worrying about my tail. One day Mom and I had a talk.

She said, “Well, son, your brothers and sisters have all grown up and moved away.”

“Yeah, it gets lonesome sometimes.”

“Not lonesome. Peaceful.”

“I kind of miss ’em, but there’s more to eat now that they’re gone.”

“Which brings up a touchy subject.”

“I don’t miss Willie, the greedy pig.”

“Hello?” She waved a paw in front of my eyes. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Oh, hi Mom. Did you say something?”

“Yes. I had just brought up a touchy subject. You.”

“Gosh, I didn’t know I was a touchy subject.”

“Drover, there comes a time in a dog’s life when he needs to move along.”

“Yeah, but that’s after he grows up.”

“That’s the point. In people-years, you’re twenty-five years old. And you’re still hanging around the yard. It’s starting to embarrass me. Does it embarrass you?”

“Let me think. Nope.”

“Well, it should. I see dogs in the neighborhood whispering.”

“Yeah, I’ve wondered why they whisper all the time.”

“They’re gossiping about YOU. They’re wondering if you’re ever going to grow up. And you know what?” She looked into my eyes. “So am I.”

“Well, I’ve tried, Mom, and it just hasn’t worked. So I guess I’ll stick around for a while, if that’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. Your brothers and sisters have their own homes now, and jobs. And you . . . what are you going to do, be a bum?”

“Would you mind?”

“You’d be a bum? You’d actually do that to your poor mother?”

“Well, I’ve thought about it.”

“You will not be a bum!” All at once a look of deep concern came into her face. She leaned toward me and whispered, “Drover, what’s wrong with you? You can tell me, I’m your mother.”

All my life I’d tried to hide the shame, but now she was asking for the truth. “It’s my tail, Mom.”

“What’s wrong with your tail? I like your tail.”

“I hate my tail. It’s just a stub.”

“Don’t call it a stub. You make it sound like a handicap.”

“It is a handicap.”

“Drover, it’s called a ‘docked tail’ and it’s like a haircut for dogs. It improves your appearance and gives you a tidy look.”

“It used to be twice as long and now it’s twice as short.”

“It looks twice as good.”

“I hate it twice as much.”

She rolled her eyes. “Never mind your tail. What else is wrong with you?”

“I’m a runt.”

“You’re not a runt. You’re small.”

“A dog knows, Mom. I’m a runt.”

“Okay, you’re a runt, so what?”

“I’m a runt with a sawed-off tail.”

“Honey, the world needs runts. For every runt, there’s a job looking for a runt.”

“Like what?

“You know the list: bird dog, guard dog, stock dog, leader dog, tracking dog, house dog, yard dog, porch dog. So, what’ll it be?”

“I have to decide right now?”

“I’ll give you two minutes, and being a bum isn’t an option. Choose something respectable.”

I thought about it, then revealed my secret dream. “Mom, ever since I was a little guy, I’ve wanted to be a handsome prince.”

Her mouth dropped open, and for a whole minute she couldn’t speak. “A handsome prince? That’s a job? Do you need training?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a Handsome Prince School somewhere.”

She turned away and shook her head. “Oi yoi yoi! But you’ll move out of the yard, right?”

“Well, you know, I was thinking . . .”

“You’ll move out of the yard. If they’re not hiring princes, try pointing birds, anything. And son, always remember . . .”

“Okay.”

“I haven’t said it yet.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Always remember, my son, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight that matters.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it a thousand times. It’s the size of the bog in the fog.”

She stared at me for a long moment. “For you, that’s close enough.”

“Thanks, Mom. You always know what to say.”

“Really? Ha ha ha!” For some reason she walked away, laughing like crazy. Me? I left home and went out into the world to find myself.

And that’s the story of my sad and lonely childhood. Like I said, it wasn’t all that sad and lonely, but I did spend some time worrying about my tail.