Pixie, Me, and the Plaid Recliner

1973

                                                    Pixie, Me, and the Plaid Recliner

     I can still hear my father, "take your dog outside when you get up in the morning. If you don’t, she will poop in the house." Unfortunately, at five years old, the only thing I heard was the noise projecting from his mouth. My dog, Pixie, was supposed to sprout hands, stand upright, and open the door all by herself. This was not only impossible but inconceivable for a dachshund. At 7:00 am in the morning; my ears, eyes, and nose were only interested in the bacon and eggs my mother was cooking in the kitchen. Needless to say, my father’s instructions went in one ear and out the other. And, Pixie’s food went in one end and out the other, just not where intended.

     My first run in with Pixie’s calling card proved to be quite painful on the derrière. I have two words, "new couch." A recliner and sofa made of quality plaid corduroy. The color was even more enticing. Yellow, black, and orange; hmmm, "that’s attractive." Or, should I say that it was attractive for 1973, so people thought. It was a Saturday morning which meant, Scooby Doo, Hanna Bar Bara, and the Three Stooges. Considering the circumstances, I was right up there with Larry, Curly, and Mo.

     As I sat comfortably in my father’s recliner with a bowl of Sugar Puffs watching Scooby Doo, my Scooby (Pixie) was lying next to me. Squeezed between my leg and the arm of the chair, Pixie’s nose was inches away from my bowl, yearning for one tiny morsel. Suddenly, an odor entered my nostrils, my eyes flicked open as wide as silver dollars, and my stomach began to turn. The smell was neither sweet nor fragrant; thus, I feared the worst. With a leap from my side, Pixie majestically held her head and tail high, as though proud of her accomplishment. Unfortunately, the foul odor remained and the sweat on my brow began to build. As I peeked down from the corner of my eyes, I was horrified by the monument that Pixie left to commemorate her parting. "Oh God," my mom is going to beat me and my dad is going to kill me”.

     “What am I going to do?" "How do I keep Mom and Dad from finding out?” I placed my bowl of sugar puffs on the coffee table and scurried off to the bathroom. I quickly mummified my hand with toilet paper and returned to the scene of the crime. Carefully, I slid the odiferous monument off the recliner and onto the carpet. As for the remnants, I gently rubbed them out with the toilet paper and proceeded to pick the monument up off the floor and deposit it in the trash. As for the lovely plaid recliner; the yellow, black, and orange colors camouflaged the monumental trail that was left behind, so I thought.

     A couple hours had passed since I removed the evidence from the crime scene, and I heard the sound of my parents’ bedroom door open. I was quick to start casual conversation in hopes of avoiding Pixies mark on society. “Good morning Mommy, did you sleep well?” “Yes I did booper." My mother was always in a good mood if she called me boop or booper, so I joyously thought I was in the clear, but this was not the case. “Whew, what is that smell?” I quietly sat in my bean bag and acted as though I didn’t hear a word she said. As I sat patiently, I could hear my mother opening and closing cabinets in search of the God awful smell that was emanating from the kitchen. “Robert David, why is there poop in the garbage?” “I don’t know." Of course, this is a familiar phrase to parents who are not naïve to a child’s deceptive ways; thus, raising a red flag. “Robert, the poop didn’t get in the trash by itself." “Did your dog have an accident?” “Yes Mom, just a small one, so I cleaned it up." “Where did she poop?” Now my mind went into a spin and my breathing began to increase. Why did she have to ask, why does she need to know, and what do I say. I knew if she found out that my dog pooped on my dad’s new recliner I wouldn’t see daylight for a week. The truth was the furthest from my mind and I don’t think Pixie was in any position to accept the blame. “On the floor Mom, right next to dad’s recliner, and it’s a good thing Pixie didn’t poop on his chair or she would be in big trouble." This particular statement still puzzles me to this day. If you’re going to lie, why dig the hole any deeper than you have to? It doesn’t make sense. It must be some kind of Jedi mind trick in order to draw the obvious away from our parents’ attention, yeah right. As my mother walked over to the spot next to my father’s chair, I quickly sat down in his chair covering the spot where Pixie pooped and pointed at the floor. “Right there Mom, Right there." “You must have done a good job because I don’t see anything, way to go boop!” Yes, I was safe. I jumped up from the chair and ran off to my room. “Robert! Why are your pants wet?” Oh no!

     Pale as a ghost, I turned around and froze. I didn’t know what to say. “Robert, how did your pants get wet?” Like a record repeating itself, “I…, I…, don’t know." At that moment I realized my mother could read my mind because she looked straight down at my dad’s recliner and back at me. “Pixie pooped in your dad’s chair, didn’t she?” I was horrified; I knew what was going to happen. I lied, I didn’t let my dog outside, and I let my dog poop on my father’s new chair. My life was going to end, and I thought owners were supposed to outlive their animals. It just didn’t seem fair.

     My mother told me to go to my room and she disappeared to the back bedroom. I knew what she was doing and the anticipation of hearing my father’s footsteps coming down the hallway caused me to break into a cold sweat. I could only converse with my dog. She was my companion and faithful friend. I would stare into her eyes and tell her what I did and what was probably going to happen. I know she didn’t understand what I was saying but with a turn of her head and a flick of her ears, she sure made me feel like she did. This was very comforting to a five year old boy who was about to receive his father’s wrath. Like my mother, my father not only called me by a specific name but with a specific tone, which was an indication of his attitude and feelings towards me. I still can hear his voice to this day, “Bob." He would draw out the name Bob and raise his tone a couple of octaves. When this happened, I knew I was in trouble.

     “Bob, what have I told you about letting your dog outside when you get up?” Panic, shear panic! I knew what to say but my mouth wouldn’t say it. All I could do is repeat two of the most famous lines of all, “I don’t know” and “because.” Unfortunately, my answers weren’t a good enough excuse. For the first time, I received a spanking from both my mother and father; thus, I assumed my punishment was over. I was wrong; this wasn’t the highlight of the punishment, which was still to come. “Bob, go to bed!” As I lay in my bed talking to Pixie, my back faced the door to my room. I heard the door open and footsteps behind me. “Bob, maybe this will help you to remember to let your dog outside.” As I turned over in the direction of my father’s voice, I stared into the presence of Pixie’s monument. My father placed Pixie’s poop next to my head; approximately two to three inches from my face. I could see the texture glistening before me and its smell penetrating my nostrils. This had to be the worst punishment of all. It was a nightmare and I was going to awaken at any moment. What parent makes their poor little child sleep next to a turd. Well, my father was that parent. Let’s just say Vietnam had an effect on him, “PTSD.” His eccentric behavior may have not been the most appropriate method of discipline; but to this day, I don’t recall sleeping with Pixie’s monument ever again.