Real Life Stories from the ASPCA, Volume I
Welcome, friends. Back in the day the kids always enjoyed hearing me spin a tale or two about Real Life Stories from the ASPCA. So here I present it to you, on LiveJournal.com for all eternity or until the internet implodes. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I love telling it.
And now, Volume I.
The date: mid 1990's. It was a cold winters morn in Chelmsford, Massachusetts. A cold the area had not felt in quite some time. The kind of cold that would make Ethan Frome roll over in bed and hit the snooze button just one more time so that he wouldn't have to face the frigidness of Starkfield. Foreigner 'Cold as Ice' cold.
Our story brings us to Hall Road. There, the Sexauer family lived happily. Two hard working parents, a son in high school, a middle school daughter, a calico cat, and the subject of this Real Life Story from the ASPCA (Volume I), a black labrador retriever by the name of Toby.
Toby was known as a 'spritely fella'. Toby was a simple lab; you might say a cockeyed optimist, who got himself mixed up in the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue. But Toby's passion was the outside world. The outdoors constantly called to him and constantly yearned for the taste of sweet, sweet freedom outside the Sexauer's burgundy front door. But much to his chagrin his attempts to escape to the outside were most often thwarted - to his benefit, of course. Any victory of penetrating the outer walls of the home were often found celebrated by devouring disposed goods from the neighborhood, resulting in a sickness that would debilitate even the heartiest of frat boys after Rush week where kegs of Natty Light were on sale.
The morning of our story was not unlike any other winters morning. People hustling and bustling about, to and fro, in the house, out the house, warming up the car, finishing breakfast, gathering items for school, work, rehearsal, practice, what have you. But in all the confusion....the front door was left wide open. No one had noticed. No one, but Toby.
There it was: the outside. The great outdoors. The Great White North. Sweet, sweet freedom. "Go!" the voice inside his head rang out. "Go, and partake in the riches of the neighborhood. A smorgasbord of tin cans, moldy bread, week-old leftovers, dirty diapers, and sticky surprises!" And with the swift cunningness of his feline counterpart combined with the obstacle savvy of Emmit Smith he made his move. Bolting out the door, past the porch, and into the freshly fallen snow.
"SAINTS BE PRAISED, I MADE IT!" said the look on his face. At this point comes the game of 'Call the Dog Inside, Dog Retreats Further Into the Neighborhood'. But there were no humans around to lure him back. For, you see, as he made the leap from the confines of the insides, he did not hear the door slam behind him. With his mind clouded with the thoughts of the outside and his golden opportunity, he failed to notice one of his humans standing by the door who reacted to his departure. The door was slammed in order to, once again, thwart his attempt at escape.
But didn't Toby make it outside?
99% of him did.
On the warm side of the slammed door, stunned humans stared at the floor. Three inches of their lovable labrador companion's tail was lying lifeless on the floor. Outside, Toby waits and waits for the game to begin. Calmly, the door opens, and the calling begins, very gently, so it is not to startle him or cause him to run off.
"Toby, come on inside....that's a good boy, Toby."
The calling only made him as giddy as a school boy. And what happens when dogs become giddy? That's right, they wag their tails. As our recently lobbed friend began to wag his tail, blood from the accident started spouting everywhere, turning the serene white landscape into what looked like an crime scene that would make Quentin Tarrantino proud.
After a while, the blood came to a stop, as it was so cold that winter morn. The humans had gotten a hold of Toby after calling the veterinary hospital. They lifted him into the back of the warming station wagon.
"A RIDE! I LOVE RIDES!", his body language cried out from inside the back of the station wagon. Cue the tail wagging, add the warming element of the interior of the car, and now we're painting the windows from the inside with fresh puppy blood. Toby's homage to the "Marvin" scene from Pulp Fiction for you visual learners.
Toby's tail never regenerated. Dogs don't do that. Dogs aren't starfish. Toby lived the rest of his rich, full life with a shorter tail. Three inches shorter. To the untrained eye he looked just fine, like any other labrador retriever. But to Toby, his humans, and now you, it was a tail (and a tale) not soon forgotten.
This has been a Real Life Story from the ASPCA. Stay tuned for Volume II, "The Flying Cat".
And now, Volume I.
The date: mid 1990's. It was a cold winters morn in Chelmsford, Massachusetts. A cold the area had not felt in quite some time. The kind of cold that would make Ethan Frome roll over in bed and hit the snooze button just one more time so that he wouldn't have to face the frigidness of Starkfield. Foreigner 'Cold as Ice' cold.
Our story brings us to Hall Road. There, the Sexauer family lived happily. Two hard working parents, a son in high school, a middle school daughter, a calico cat, and the subject of this Real Life Story from the ASPCA (Volume I), a black labrador retriever by the name of Toby.
Toby was known as a 'spritely fella'. Toby was a simple lab; you might say a cockeyed optimist, who got himself mixed up in the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue. But Toby's passion was the outside world. The outdoors constantly called to him and constantly yearned for the taste of sweet, sweet freedom outside the Sexauer's burgundy front door. But much to his chagrin his attempts to escape to the outside were most often thwarted - to his benefit, of course. Any victory of penetrating the outer walls of the home were often found celebrated by devouring disposed goods from the neighborhood, resulting in a sickness that would debilitate even the heartiest of frat boys after Rush week where kegs of Natty Light were on sale.
The morning of our story was not unlike any other winters morning. People hustling and bustling about, to and fro, in the house, out the house, warming up the car, finishing breakfast, gathering items for school, work, rehearsal, practice, what have you. But in all the confusion....the front door was left wide open. No one had noticed. No one, but Toby.
There it was: the outside. The great outdoors. The Great White North. Sweet, sweet freedom. "Go!" the voice inside his head rang out. "Go, and partake in the riches of the neighborhood. A smorgasbord of tin cans, moldy bread, week-old leftovers, dirty diapers, and sticky surprises!" And with the swift cunningness of his feline counterpart combined with the obstacle savvy of Emmit Smith he made his move. Bolting out the door, past the porch, and into the freshly fallen snow.
"SAINTS BE PRAISED, I MADE IT!" said the look on his face. At this point comes the game of 'Call the Dog Inside, Dog Retreats Further Into the Neighborhood'. But there were no humans around to lure him back. For, you see, as he made the leap from the confines of the insides, he did not hear the door slam behind him. With his mind clouded with the thoughts of the outside and his golden opportunity, he failed to notice one of his humans standing by the door who reacted to his departure. The door was slammed in order to, once again, thwart his attempt at escape.
But didn't Toby make it outside?
99% of him did.
On the warm side of the slammed door, stunned humans stared at the floor. Three inches of their lovable labrador companion's tail was lying lifeless on the floor. Outside, Toby waits and waits for the game to begin. Calmly, the door opens, and the calling begins, very gently, so it is not to startle him or cause him to run off.
"Toby, come on inside....that's a good boy, Toby."
The calling only made him as giddy as a school boy. And what happens when dogs become giddy? That's right, they wag their tails. As our recently lobbed friend began to wag his tail, blood from the accident started spouting everywhere, turning the serene white landscape into what looked like an crime scene that would make Quentin Tarrantino proud.
After a while, the blood came to a stop, as it was so cold that winter morn. The humans had gotten a hold of Toby after calling the veterinary hospital. They lifted him into the back of the warming station wagon.
"A RIDE! I LOVE RIDES!", his body language cried out from inside the back of the station wagon. Cue the tail wagging, add the warming element of the interior of the car, and now we're painting the windows from the inside with fresh puppy blood. Toby's homage to the "Marvin" scene from Pulp Fiction for you visual learners.
Toby's tail never regenerated. Dogs don't do that. Dogs aren't starfish. Toby lived the rest of his rich, full life with a shorter tail. Three inches shorter. To the untrained eye he looked just fine, like any other labrador retriever. But to Toby, his humans, and now you, it was a tail (and a tale) not soon forgotten.
This has been a Real Life Story from the ASPCA. Stay tuned for Volume II, "The Flying Cat".