An Apple Core, a Toilet: Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood by Tom Purcell Page A
Book: An Apple Core, a Toilet: Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood by Tom Purcell
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Authors: Tom Purcell
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finally returned around 9 p.m., we found that Jingles had somehow opened the door that led from the garage into the basement family room and had proceeded to run through every room in the house.
Bedspreads were undone and pillows were knocked off couches and chairs. She had, apparently, searched every room with the hope of finding someone to comfort her. But with no one in the house, the poor creature surely cried and shrieked and fell to pieces as she raced from room to room in utter terror.
She went wild with happiness when we finally arrived home, and my mother didn’t complain, though there surely was dog hair throughout the house. My mother let her sleep inside with us that night.
But there were neither fireworks nor thunderstorms the day she disappeared.
None of us knew where she was and as darkness settled over the house, we were in a panic.
My father drove around for hours that night — well after midnight. It was the first time he was unable to find her.
Had she been hit by a car? My father called the police and animal rescue, but there had been no reports of any accidents or of people finding stray dogs matching ours.
No of us were able to sleep much that night. I remember lying in my bed, overcome by helplessness and agony, listening to my sisters sobbing in their bedrooms.
Truth be told, I did my own share of sobbing that night. In fact, it took me hours to cry myself to sleep.
***
I prayed I’d wake to find her back, but she wasn’t. I prayed that God would reunite her with us.
I rode my bike several miles from home, calling her name — I asked people if they had seen a mutt Collie — but I could not find her.
When my father got home from work, we drove around for several hours more, trying to find her — without luck.
By the third day of her absence, a tremendous funk settled over us — we feared we would never see her again. I continued looking for her — and my dad continued driving around at night calling for her — but Jingles was gone.
Before she left, our summer nights had been full of laughter, squabbling, the screen door opening and slamming shut. But now our home was filled with grim silence.
It never occurred to my sisters and I — we did not understand such things yet — how incredibly blessed we had been.
We had two parents who loved us, a clean home, a safe neighborhood, excellent schools. All of us were healthy — we had sound futures. In a world in which millions of children go to bed hungry at night, we had won life’s lottery.
Aside from our grandmother dying a few years before, we’d never experienced loss. We took for granted that our perfect world would always be so — that our mother and father would always be there, that Jingles would always be under those shrubs.
By that third day of her absence, our sense of loss and emptiness was becoming our new “normal.” We missed her desperately — we feared she was in pain or hurt — but we had done everything we could do to find her.
You can only cry so much before you lack the energy to cry any more, and we finally reached such a point.
It was a point of exhaustion — a point of desperation. We’d experienced many things in our family, but desperation had not been among them.
I lay down in our quiet, sullen house on that third night of her absence and tried to sleep. I could not.
I heard the faucet dripping in the kitchen, a couple squabbling a few blocks away, Johnny Carson’s monologue playing on someone’s television over the next hill…
I was numb to it all until I heard a familiar sound.
***
It was distant and muffled, but I heard it:
“Arrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!”
Was it wishful thinking? Were my ears were playing a joke on me?
I heard it again.
“Arrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!”
And then again.
I
Bedspreads were undone and pillows were knocked off couches and chairs. She had, apparently, searched every room with the hope of finding someone to comfort her. But with no one in the house, the poor creature surely cried and shrieked and fell to pieces as she raced from room to room in utter terror.
She went wild with happiness when we finally arrived home, and my mother didn’t complain, though there surely was dog hair throughout the house. My mother let her sleep inside with us that night.
But there were neither fireworks nor thunderstorms the day she disappeared.
None of us knew where she was and as darkness settled over the house, we were in a panic.
My father drove around for hours that night — well after midnight. It was the first time he was unable to find her.
Had she been hit by a car? My father called the police and animal rescue, but there had been no reports of any accidents or of people finding stray dogs matching ours.
No of us were able to sleep much that night. I remember lying in my bed, overcome by helplessness and agony, listening to my sisters sobbing in their bedrooms.
Truth be told, I did my own share of sobbing that night. In fact, it took me hours to cry myself to sleep.
***
I prayed I’d wake to find her back, but she wasn’t. I prayed that God would reunite her with us.
I rode my bike several miles from home, calling her name — I asked people if they had seen a mutt Collie — but I could not find her.
When my father got home from work, we drove around for several hours more, trying to find her — without luck.
By the third day of her absence, a tremendous funk settled over us — we feared we would never see her again. I continued looking for her — and my dad continued driving around at night calling for her — but Jingles was gone.
Before she left, our summer nights had been full of laughter, squabbling, the screen door opening and slamming shut. But now our home was filled with grim silence.
It never occurred to my sisters and I — we did not understand such things yet — how incredibly blessed we had been.
We had two parents who loved us, a clean home, a safe neighborhood, excellent schools. All of us were healthy — we had sound futures. In a world in which millions of children go to bed hungry at night, we had won life’s lottery.
Aside from our grandmother dying a few years before, we’d never experienced loss. We took for granted that our perfect world would always be so — that our mother and father would always be there, that Jingles would always be under those shrubs.
By that third day of her absence, our sense of loss and emptiness was becoming our new “normal.” We missed her desperately — we feared she was in pain or hurt — but we had done everything we could do to find her.
You can only cry so much before you lack the energy to cry any more, and we finally reached such a point.
It was a point of exhaustion — a point of desperation. We’d experienced many things in our family, but desperation had not been among them.
I lay down in our quiet, sullen house on that third night of her absence and tried to sleep. I could not.
I heard the faucet dripping in the kitchen, a couple squabbling a few blocks away, Johnny Carson’s monologue playing on someone’s television over the next hill…
I was numb to it all until I heard a familiar sound.
***
It was distant and muffled, but I heard it:
“Arrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!”
Was it wishful thinking? Were my ears were playing a joke on me?
I heard it again.
“Arrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!”
And then again.
I
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