Backstage, between shows, actors lounged in various stages of relaxation. Amid the usual clamor of the Green Room, there was a buzz about a Blue Dog that someone’s sister had brought in — apparently for sale!
Intrigued, I had to see for myself. “Is that him?” I inquired, unable to see anything beyond a large half-opened suitcase with a peculiar bobble-wave moving underneath its gray canvas shell; a wave, seemingly lost at sea.
“Bloop!” echoed in my mind as a black-faced dog peeked out from the side. “This is no blue dog,” I thought, “it’s as black as night.” “Oh… well, blueish,” I remarked as the pup revealed his “mane” part of the costume, framing his face in a mini-electric-blue lion’s mane, but for dogs.
“You wanna see ‘em?” asked ‘someone’s sister’. “Them?” I pondered, “Are there more Blue Dogs in there?” As ‘Sis’ opened the rest of the suitcase, the black-faced, blue-hued, mane-framed little dog turned out to be truly and entirely blue — electric blue, in fact. Our eyes met, and he came running towards me. “He’s for sale, ya know,” ‘Sis’ shouted over the green room’s clamor, “They’re all for sale!”
Dog’s love me.
I’ve always had a thing for dogs and dogs for me. We had dogs all through my childhood. There was never a time we were without a dog growing up, except the time after Nikky, our black and white chihuahua-dachshund mix, got hit by that car at Grandma’s house.
We loved going to Grandma’s house. Hers was, even back then, considered ‘an old house’. A small white-painted plank house, likely built in the late 19th or early 20th century. Her adjacent garage, leaning slightly northward, never failed to amaze me with its one-pieced door that somehow still opened.
Except for my oldest brother, we were all elementary school aged during these times.
We’d visit grandma’s place every other weekend, if I remember. And upon arriving, mom and dad always insisted it polite to say ‘hello’ first, before any work or play was had.
Most of the time grandma would be in the front room with her legs propped up, body set back in her Lazy-Boy recliner. The television blaring because she didn’t like wearing her hearing aids. Her false teeth were in a half-full clear glass of water, somewhere nearby, if not lost — she lost her teeth on more than one occasion — because she didn’t like to wear those either.
Sometimes grandma would be asleep in her chair with her head drooped to one side or another, snoring and with something in her hands. Things like crochet needles and yarn or the T.V. Guide or a book, either about cooking or about what the latest Mormon leaders-of-the-day were saying of the times.
‘Hearing-aids out’, always offered up a great opportunity to rouse up a good scare because we never had to ‘sneak’ up on her. The derived results were always the same and highly predictable. A touch on the shoulder or a brush against the foot support of her chair was enough to jar the desired response we were looking for.
“DON’T YOU DO THAT!”, she would say through her toothless mouth; her sights somehow clear through the blur of her reading glasses. Her pointing index finger that followed the perpetrator like a target through a rifle scope was proof of this. Whether ‘perpetrator’ or ‘supporting role’ during these capers, we always ended up laughing our guts out! GUARANTEED!
Not sure mom and dad ever knew we did this.
During the summers, work around grandma’s place consisted of dad and us four boys outside, my mom and two sisters inside. Dad would mow. Rich (the oldest brother) would edge. Mark, Li’l Louie and I would rotate around weeding, cultivating and raking. Mom, Nann and Beverly were in the house handling the ‘female-chores’ such as cleaning and laundry, while bit-by-bit, grandma would be putting together dinner for later.
After the work was finished, time to play; BIG TIME !
There were plenty of choices when it came to deciding what to play at grandma’s house. The choices were between climbing the old catalpa tree (that had fruit capsules that looked like giant vanilla beans all over it) in the front yard, or the giant green apple tree in the back.
Hide-and-go-seek was always fun because there were great places to hide. We didn’t discriminate between the outside or the inside of the house; either. Although nine-times-out-of-ten, by the second or third round, mom would kick the inside-hiders out! She proclaimed it all “too much” and “the adults need calm”!
No one ever argued with mom; dad always made sure of that.
Across the street are railroad tracks. The idea was to see how far we could get before a train would come, or it got dark, or we heard the yell for “dinner” and we would have to turn around; head back. Whatever came first. If the train was coming it meant time to empty our pockets with any loose change (preferably pennies) and place them in a line on the rail to be flattened by the time the train passed.
One time we decided to bring our dog Nikky to grandma’s. She was excellent about staying in the yard with us. I kick myself to this day for not making sure she was safe in the house before taking off to the tracks.
After chores, we all ran across the road, not seeing the car that was coming down the street after us, nor Nikky, in time, who was running to catch up with us.
The old lady behind the wheel didn’t see Nikky either, until too late. Nikky had disappeared under the front end of the car by the time the old lady slammed on her brakes. I kept thinking that she would come out from under the car and run to my safe arms as always when she was startled or afraid. There was no movement. The old lady’s car had become a formidable barrier before any of us could do anything about it.
Mom, who was in the yard and desperately called out for Nikky to come back, had seen the whole thing. Running to the car we begged the old lady to back it up, so we could reach her.
There she was, lying on the road, instead of being scolded and led back to the safety of the house. Seeing her this way was devastating.
Mom ran to us with a towel to wrap her in comfort. The old lady suggested an immediate flight to the vet and offered to take us, as was the least she could do.
We took off, in the carriage that had struck Nikky moments ago. Was a short ride. It didn’t take us long to realize it too late. Nikky’s eyes had rolled into the back of her head and she stopped breathing. Nikky passed away in my arms.
Dad, having possessed a keen eye behind the scenes, had already started digging a hole enough bigger than her body. The chosen spot was between the leaning garage and grandma’s flower garden filled with fragrant purple and white iris, oddly enough in full bloom. Apparently, the weeding and cultivating we boys had done surreptitiously paid off. Nikky would be buried in ground we toiled. Now with love; R.I.P. Nikky.
Was a sad affair for everyone but I believe it hit I and my mom hardest.
Mom vowed ‘that would be the last dog we would ever have’, that is until — I bought Charlie — Christmas of my freshman year in high school.
“They are all for sale?”, that was the thought that brought me back to the Blue Dog.
Before I knew it, other vibrantly-electric colored dogs came out of the suitcase; a red one and a yellow one. Followed by five puppies; three orange ones and two green ones. All for sale!
I am not sure whose sister brought all the colorful dogs to be sold out of the gray canvas suitcase to the green room between the matinée and evening shows, but I am sure she will find loving homes for each one of them.
I would buy the blue one, but I am a ‘theatrical gypsy’ and dogs, although colorful, need their owners full attention. More than what I can give at this present time.