An Apple Core, a Toilet: Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood by Tom Purcell
Book: An Apple Core, a Toilet: Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood by Tom Purcell
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Purcell
Ads: Link
next door, had successfully trained Ginger to stay in his yard.
My father’s deal with us was that we had to train Jingles to do the same.
The process was simple enough. Mr. Bennett instructed us to walk Jingles around the perimeter of the yard every day. When she stayed within the established lines, we gave her a treat; when she strayed, we said "bad dog."
To be effective, we would have to do this every day for weeks. We did our best, but, being kids — and with my father always working every hour he could to generate the dough needed to keep our home running — we didn’t do as good a job as Mr. Bennett did with Ginger.
Jingles grasped the concept well, but she had a need to fly the coop every now and then.
One day I was watching her from the kitchen window as she sauntered behind a thick pine tree. I lost sight of her for a spell, then, suddenly, I saw her running like hell for the corner of the yard and escaping through a gap between forsythia bushes.
By the time I ran out and shouted her name, she was well more than 100 yards away, up into the Jacksons’ backyard. She came scurrying back down the hill, her tail between her legs.
She always knew when she did wrong, but that never stopped her.
Inevitably, though, she was successful running off. This was never a cause for worry, as she always made it home for supper.
Jingles never missed her daily can of Ken-L Ration, though occasionally she ran off after supper.
If she wasn’t home by dusk, my father, grumbling, would get into our Plymouth Fury station wagon and drive around the neighborhood, calling her name.
I remember lying in bed such nights, my window open, his deep voice echoing over the hills.
“Here, Jingles,” he’d say. “Here, girl. Here, Jingles.”
He’d always find her eventually. She’d be wandering in faraway neighborhoods, sometimes being fed real burgers — none of your burned-to-a-crisp varieties — right off backyard grills.
One of her favorite spots was the new 7/11, just four blocks away. She’d beg treats from people as they exited the store, snaring her fair share of hot dog scraps and Ho Ho’s.
When my father found her, she’d always freeze in her tracks, panicked, her tail between her legs.
“You get home right now, girl!” he’d say, and she’d break into a sprint and head straight for home.
She’d often be waiting for him when he pulled into the driveway a few minutes later.
Always relieved that he’d found her and gotten her home, he couldn’t stay mad at her for long.
He’d soon be petting her with tremendous affection, his dog-lover’s heart gushing, as she shook her body and wagged her tail wildly, relieved to be back in his good graces.
But one day, she did not return and my father was unable to find her.
***
Jingles hated fireworks.
Though they were illegal in Pittsburgh, and still are, some of the older kids in our neighborhood always got hold of some.
One year, someone set off an M-80 — equivalent to a quarter-stick of dynamite — in the sewer only 100 feet from our house. The explosion made a spectacular noise.
Jingles lit out for the hills and probably didn’t stop running, despite my repeated calls to her, for a mile or more. Her nerves were still on edge when she returned a few hours later.
She hated thunder even worse.
One summer night, as my father worked overtime, my mother loaded us all into the station wagon to visit another family. It had been raining, but no one expected the thunderstorm that was to come.
We left Jingles in her bed in the garage, and all was well.
Hurricane-like winds unexpectedly passed through the area that night — they toppled trees in a nearby community but did no damage to ours — and we were unable to return home until they passed. The storm lasted only 50 minutes or so and, afterward, the sky was clear and calm.
When we
My father’s deal with us was that we had to train Jingles to do the same.
The process was simple enough. Mr. Bennett instructed us to walk Jingles around the perimeter of the yard every day. When she stayed within the established lines, we gave her a treat; when she strayed, we said "bad dog."
To be effective, we would have to do this every day for weeks. We did our best, but, being kids — and with my father always working every hour he could to generate the dough needed to keep our home running — we didn’t do as good a job as Mr. Bennett did with Ginger.
Jingles grasped the concept well, but she had a need to fly the coop every now and then.
One day I was watching her from the kitchen window as she sauntered behind a thick pine tree. I lost sight of her for a spell, then, suddenly, I saw her running like hell for the corner of the yard and escaping through a gap between forsythia bushes.
By the time I ran out and shouted her name, she was well more than 100 yards away, up into the Jacksons’ backyard. She came scurrying back down the hill, her tail between her legs.
She always knew when she did wrong, but that never stopped her.
Inevitably, though, she was successful running off. This was never a cause for worry, as she always made it home for supper.
Jingles never missed her daily can of Ken-L Ration, though occasionally she ran off after supper.
If she wasn’t home by dusk, my father, grumbling, would get into our Plymouth Fury station wagon and drive around the neighborhood, calling her name.
I remember lying in bed such nights, my window open, his deep voice echoing over the hills.
“Here, Jingles,” he’d say. “Here, girl. Here, Jingles.”
He’d always find her eventually. She’d be wandering in faraway neighborhoods, sometimes being fed real burgers — none of your burned-to-a-crisp varieties — right off backyard grills.
One of her favorite spots was the new 7/11, just four blocks away. She’d beg treats from people as they exited the store, snaring her fair share of hot dog scraps and Ho Ho’s.
When my father found her, she’d always freeze in her tracks, panicked, her tail between her legs.
“You get home right now, girl!” he’d say, and she’d break into a sprint and head straight for home.
She’d often be waiting for him when he pulled into the driveway a few minutes later.
Always relieved that he’d found her and gotten her home, he couldn’t stay mad at her for long.
He’d soon be petting her with tremendous affection, his dog-lover’s heart gushing, as she shook her body and wagged her tail wildly, relieved to be back in his good graces.
But one day, she did not return and my father was unable to find her.
***
Jingles hated fireworks.
Though they were illegal in Pittsburgh, and still are, some of the older kids in our neighborhood always got hold of some.
One year, someone set off an M-80 — equivalent to a quarter-stick of dynamite — in the sewer only 100 feet from our house. The explosion made a spectacular noise.
Jingles lit out for the hills and probably didn’t stop running, despite my repeated calls to her, for a mile or more. Her nerves were still on edge when she returned a few hours later.
She hated thunder even worse.
One summer night, as my father worked overtime, my mother loaded us all into the station wagon to visit another family. It had been raining, but no one expected the thunderstorm that was to come.
We left Jingles in her bed in the garage, and all was well.
Hurricane-like winds unexpectedly passed through the area that night — they toppled trees in a nearby community but did no damage to ours — and we were unable to return home until they passed. The storm lasted only 50 minutes or so and, afterward, the sky was clear and calm.
When we
Similar Books
