1950S SMALL TOWN LIFE/THE RUNT

I don't think my erudite grandfather drank, though I can't imagine what else could have prompted him to mention the new litter of boxer puppies that were born to his next door neighbors' beloved pet Gretta. Susan, Jan, and I immediately jumped up and down, alternately grabbing Mother's hands and turning in circles, begging her to let us go see them.

"We just want to see them," Jan whined.

"Mother, can we just go over and pet them for a minute?" Susan asked reasonably. I saw Mother's look change as she gazed at Susan, whose voice always seemed able to pierce the din of childrens' voices and reach the ears of the adults.

"I really want a dog," I piped up, though I hadn't given it a thought prior to seconds ago.

At that remark, I saw Mother grimace, hesitate, and for a minute I thought I had ruined our chances of getting our hands on the puppies.

"Oh, okay," she relented. "Dad, can you go over with us?" she said while moving toward the door, followed by her own three puppies, happily skipping, scuffling, and yipping all the way to the neighbors' house.

Mrs. Minter opened the door and smiled at the multiple knocks from three small pairs of fists. "Oh, I guess you've come to the see the puppies." She smiled down at us benignly. "How do you do, Mr. Newlin?" she said more formally than neighbors should, it seemed to me.

"The girls would like to see them. Do you mind if they hold them a little?" he asked.

"Oh no, not at all," she said leading us to a huge basket filled with boxer puppies crawling in all directions and spilling out over every edge. They were pawing at each other, squealing, tumbling from the basket, running about the room, furry brown balls of energy with varied white markings on their faces. Their mother lay on the floor against the wall, impassively watching their frenetic activity, her jowls making her look permanently out of sorts.

We melted to the floor, laughing, enchanted by their sharp little yips, and tried to corral them. Susan sat with two on her lap; Jan got one and petted it tenderly. While still trying to catch one to caress, I noted a furtive movement in the corner under a wooden chair.

A tiny brown puppy with no white markings of any kind on its face tried unsuccessfully to hide. It was half the size of the others and had large, sad brown eyes and a black button nose. I imagined that it flashed me a "help" message from its soulful eyes. Crawling under the chair, I gently pulled the tiny dog from its ill chosen hiding place.

It nestled close and didn't struggle or try to get away. In fact, within a few minutes, Susan remarked that it looked "proud".

Mrs. Minter was engrossed in a conversation with Mother. "Yes, we have them all sold. You know they're from a good bloodline, so it's not hard to sell them. Our Gretta is quite a specimen, don't you think?"

"She's sure BIG," Mother said, uncharacteristically succinct, glancing briefly in the dog's direction.

Gretta stared back angrily.

Mother was observing us with the puppies, and likely planning our exit.

"Well, thank you Mrs. Minter. The girls enjoyed seeing the little things, I'm sure. Didn't you girls?" We obediently and simultaneously nodded our heads yes, and Susan and Jan gently put their little charges down on the floor, watching them scamper off to play with their six siblings. I couldn't force myself to let go of the little brown furball I held in my lap yet.

"Let's go, girls," Mother said with finality, looking directly at me.
I stood reluctantly, my new brown friend still cuddled in my arms.

"Felisa, put the little thing down. We have to go. Anyway, all these have been sold; they have homes."

"Except that one," Mrs. Minter said unexpectedly, pointing toward me.

Mother looked like she wanted to bolt. "Why not that one?" she asked, appearing fairly disinterested in the answer.

"Oh, well that one is a runt. No one would pay anything for that one. Didn't you see how she stayed in the corner? Even the other puppies push her around. They know she's weak. I don't know what we'll do with her. I'm just not sure. Can the girls....?"

Mother interrupted her in midsentence, but by then we had heard what she started to say and I tightened my hold on the puppy nestled in the crook of my arm, hiding, as though we had practiced for this moment and the pathetic look she'd project toward my mother when it was time.

"Please-------please, please,please,please,please," we all said over and over, small obnoxious parrots chanting the same word until someone wants to stop the sound by strangulation. Mother shot a glance at me.

I tried to look pitiful and mentally signaled my new best friend for the "pathetic look" which she delivered like a pro. Our mother's face softened, more in resignation than happiness, and she told Mrs. Minter we'd take the puppy and could we pay her. Mrs. Minter laughed at that.

"I should pay you" she said amiably. I noticed Mother didn't return her good humor. My granddad, who had been unnaturally quiet the whole visit, turned toward me, reached out, and patted the little mutt, then gently patted my shoulder.

"You all will be good to her," he said quietly, smiling down as all of us huddled around the dog, hands soothing her.

All six hands were vying for the little pup, but I held on tight, marching proudly back to my grandparents sprawling white two story home.

"Dad," mother whispered behind us. "Did you know she had a puppy to give away?"

"Libby, I swear I didn't," but I detected laughter in my grandfather's voice.

We spent the remainder of the spring afternoon on the large wooden L-shaped front porch playing with Julie. We had christened her within an hour or so, after some brief skirmishes about the name, several ending in our hitting each other in the back. Purple iris and wisteria vines silently observed us, hoping, I'm sure, to have their quiet sanctuary back once we left that Sunday evening.

Julie didn't seem to care what we called her as she ran willy nilly about the porch, her unclipped ears, clipped tail and large feet giving her a goofy appearance. While we were involved in a heated argument about her name, it nearly became a moot point when she ran to the screen door that opened into the parlor and came face to face with Granddad's rotweiller, Boots, who barked at her loudly and then tried mightily to come through the screen, succeeding in tearing it about eight inches at the side before Granddad pulled him away by his thick leather collar and shut the wooden door.

On the trip home, all three of us rode in the back of the pickup, playing under a patchwork quilt with our little treasure. The quilt, made in 1926 by Mrs. Mollie Frazier, or at least that's what was embroidered in the corner of it that I was holding down, flapped wildly in the wind as our dad drove the turquoise vehicle down the two-lane highway from Ennis toward Corsicana.

Each of us held a corner, leaving the fourth corner to flap at will. We took turns holding Julie, grabbing for the corner when we could, trying to secure it so our tent would be cozy and safe for her.

As we arrived at the northern edge of Corsicana, I reached to grab the popping quilt corner, but was distracted by large letters spread across a building we were passing. I was just learning to read, so I sounded them out, "A DAM HAT FACTORY," I pronounced, absorbing what it spelled.

"What, what?!" Susan said from under the quilt. "What are you saying?" she asked with a hint of incredulity.

I repeated what I had read. " A dam hat factory."

Silence except for the flapping of the quilt. A corner folded over toward the center and Susan's head appeared. She looked east over her left shoulder and started laughing. "Adam," she said. "Adam Hat Factory."

"Oh," I said quietly, ducking my head under my corner of the quilt.

Julie belonged to all of us, but I really wanted her to be mine. In a few days, something would happen that would cement our bond and make me feel like she belonged only to me.




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