An Apple Core, a Toilet: Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood by Tom Purcell Page B

jumped out of bed and raced downstairs and out the front door. I was soon standing in the street, trying to hear what I’d thought I’d heard.
     
    There it was again.
     
    “Arrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!”
     
    I saw, way up at the top of our road, something trotting under a distant street lamp. 
     
    I heard the sound again.
     
    “Arrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!”
     
    It was Jingles. Her coyote barking grew louder as we began sprinting toward each other.
     
    I met her in front of the Kerns' house and she jumped up to greet me. I was crying as I held her in my arms, the two of us rolling around under the street lamp.
     
    She was covered with mud and burrs. She stank like she had never stunk before.
     
    I didn’t care. 
     
    The commotion caused neighbors to come outside — the Kerns, who’d brought Jingles’ sister home, were as happy as we were that Jingles had returned.
     
    Soon, the rest of my family was awake and outside. We stood in our front yard, hugging Jingles, getting her stink and mud and burrs all over us.
     
    My father laughed aloud as he chastised her.
     
    “You gave us one hell of a scare, you dingbat,” he said.
     
    She jumped on him and knocked him to the ground. He rolled onto the grass, holding her and laughing — relieved, as we all were, that she was home.
     
    We still don’t know why or how or where she’d run off for three days. Did someone take her? Did she escape?
     
    Or perhaps her disappearance had to do with some primitive need to run off and roam free.
     
    I forgave her then. I forgive her now.
     
    ***
     
    And I miss her desperately as I write these words.
 
    When I suffered my first broken heart, I sat on the front steps, and she was right there with me, comforting me as I petted her belly.
     
    She was always there when things weren’t going well, and her presence was always comforting.
     
    When I’d come home from college, not having seen her for months, she’d rush out of the shrubs paws-first and tackle me, shrieking with joy as we rolled around in the grass.
     
    Even after I’d left home in my early 20s — even as the years began to wear her down — she’d jump out of the shrubs to greet me every time I came home.
     
    One summer night, when I was 24, she did not rush out to greet me.
     
    She'd been in pain for months, arthritis developing in her hind legs. She’d been getting forgetful. She’d wander a few blocks away and be unable to find her way home.
     
    My father would find her and bring her back. 
     
    She didn’t always respond when her name was called. She was nearly hit by a car a few times as she wandered into the street.
     
    She was having trouble getting up, the pain evident as she fought to stand.
     
    We all knew it was time to bring her peace, but among us all, only my mother had the strength to do it.
     
    My mother had made peace with Jingles years before — as my sisters and I got older and left the house, it was easier for my mother to keep clean.
     
    My mother told us that Jingles was very peaceful on her last day. Jingles had always hated to ride in the car — that usually meant a trip to the vet — but she put up no fight that day. She enjoyed the wind blowing through her fur as she hung her head out the passenger-side window.
     
    As Jingles lay on a table at the vet’s office, my mother stood by her side. The vet gave my mother some time to be alone with Jingles.
     
    She petted Jingles and talked to her. She thanked Jingles for enriching our family and our home —- thanked Jingles for giving her children so many wonderful experiences and memories.
     
    Jingles lay there calmly, her tail wagging, in her own way fully comprehending what my mother was communicating to her.
     
    “It’s going to be all right, girl,” my mother said, petting her gently, as the vet returned to the room with a needle. “It’s going to be all right.”
     
    Slowly,