I was not an overly brilliant child.
I suppose that's a little unfair; I was pretty intelligent, but I was especially naive. This was often taken advantage of by my older brother (though whether this was intentional or not I'll never know), which was entirely unnecessary.
I confused myself enough on my own, thank you very much. As a child, I would often get many things mixed up in my brain, and to this day, many of them are still problematic for me. For instance, I've always gotten similar sounding whatevers confused with each other. Some common mix-ups:
Van Halen =/= Van Morrison =/= Jim Morrison
INXS =/= Styx =/= R.E.M. =/= AC/DC
Bill Cosby =/= Bing Crosby (Also, Mr. Crosby isn't black)
B.B. King =/= Larry King (I always knew who B.B. King was, but as with Mr. Crosby up there, I always thought Larry was black. Until I saw a picture. Then I never forgot.)
The Who =/= The Guess Who
Sting =/= Slash
Tanzania =/= Tasmania
Mesa =/= The Wedge (This only makes sense if you know Iowa City. If you don't, don't worry about it.)
Def Leppard =/= Led Zeppelin
(I'm proud to say I've never had a problem with the whole Austria/Australia thing, though. A small triumph)
I was baffled by the simplest of home mechanisms, like the foot-operated trash can, door locks, or screen doors that go
whoooooshhhhhhhwhooshclckt when they close all slowly, and that you can prop open when you have to move big things like couches or Christmas trees in and out of the house. I just couldn't figure them out. Complicated things, like computers and televisions and garage doors and plumbing were no problem for me. I wasn't even fazed by the sewing machine. A little afraid of touching it maybe, but I wasn't concerned with how it worked at all. These things were
electric, and that meant I already knew how they worked. They ran on electricity. Or gravity, or something, in the case of plumbing. Whatever. Other, smart, adult-like people worried about how those dangerous things worked, so I didn't have to.
However, the simple, non-electric things were objects of mystery. I once spent an afternoon sitting on my bedroom floor, staring at my trashcan, occasionally pushing on the pedal to have it flip open for me on command, staring in amazement as it slowly closed again. I tried to imagine what went on in there to make it act this way. My head filled with one insane imagining after another, each more
Rube Goldberg-esque than the last. For most of these simple pulley/lever/inverted plane or whatever machines I found, I either decided there were little elf-like creatures inside running the machine, with one at the bottom seeing the pedal being pushed, and that one telling the ones at the top "
Code Blue! Push! Puuusshhh!" And then they would push or pull, and the thing would instantly open, and somehow they'd be both invisible and incorporeal, so that's why it looks like it opens on its own, or that it's all magic.
Because that whole thing somehow wasn't inherently magical.
All of this brings us to dalmatians...somehow. I dunno. I don't like transitions much.
As a child, there were two great cinematic loves in my life. Those were
The Lion King and
101 Dalmatians. Whenever I watched the latter, I was amazed at these little black and white spotted puppies, and delighted in their adventures. They were adorable, spunky, smart, and British. They were super-puppies and I loved them.
This might be why I thought they weren't real.
I thought they were made up for the movie, because no
real dog is actually that cool. I knew this firsthand, as my early childhood pet was a Yorkie named Rusty. I was no older than four at any given time around Rusty, so naturally I adored him, but he was no dalmatian.
No, dalmatians were magical.
I believed this fully and wholeheartedly until I was four and moved to St. Louis. That's when I found out they actually exist. I found this out because my aunt knew a lady who was a breeder and some other stuff happened and the next thing I knew I was at some lady's house that was filled with these little spotted furballs and it was the best day ever. Then it got better.
We adopted one.
Her name was Maggie Mae Eliza O'Shea and she was the best dog ever. Seriously.
Best
She potty-trained very quickly, and after that only had one or two accidents in the house, brought on by long, breakless days and the additions of new and exciting people into our house along with the normal people who I think she thought were never coming back, as she probably did every time we left, based on her overly excited reactions to our homecomings. She felt guilt immediately each time these slips of the bladder occurred.
She put up beautifully with two seven and nine year old kids chasing her around, which was a good thing, as my brother and I never let her rest. We taught her to jump through hoops, go around chairs, tested her loyalty and concern for us when at my grandparents' farm by falling over and seeing how fast she ran to check on us (she ran over right when she noticed us on the ground every time.), and we even played hide and seek with her, by hiding somewhere in the house, calling her name, and then sitting completely still and silent until she found us.
This was pretty dumb, seeing as she was a dog, and therefore had a dog's sense of smell, but we did it anyway. I even devised ways to throw her off my scent. I'd go one way, towards my bedroom, then hop over the invisible path I'd taken and try to land as far from it as I could. I figured she'd follow the unbroken trail to my me-scented room, become confused, and then I'd win, but I was never right.
Incorrect
I did this probably 43 times throughout my childhood during hide and seek alone. Sometimes I'd do it so I could hide and no one could follow me so I could be alone for a while. Sometimes I just wanted to be a super spy ninja for the sake of being a super spy ninja. It happens. Sometimes it still happens.
I'm in college, so that's not sad yet...I think.
The defining moment of Maggie Greatness was on a camping trip the summer after second grade. It was supposed to be a reward for me and Brother's awesome report cards, but it did not feel that way. I get a lot of the details mixed up with another horrible camping trip, but I know what happened the one nearly-traumatizing night we spent there. Honestly, how it wasn't traumatizing for the two of us (or the four of us) is either a testament to our unwavering resolve, our parents' great nurturing and care, or aliens. My brother continued with Boy Scouts almost to Eagle Scout level, and I continued to be jealous of this fact. And love animals. Still do, actually. I even still love camping somehow, when this whole experience should have me acting otherwise. Just how did this happen?
I like to think it was because of Maggie.
That night, we had the miraculous luck to be in the one place in the Midwest not actively experiencing the Apocalypse. At least, that's how I pictured it when I heard there were "Tornadoes all around us." I thought there was a circle of tornadoes circling our little tent like vultures, taunting us with their evilness all night. I also probably thought they were vampires of some kind, because I knew once the sun came up, we would be okay.
Also, just because we weren't actively being ripped apart by hellish tornadoes does not mean the weather was all bright and daisies or anything. No, there was rain. Right outside our tent was an instant mud puddle that went up to Mom's knees. It probably would have eaten me, so thank God for my steel bladder and cowardice that somehow aren't contradictory. My brother and I had both forgotten sleeping bags, so we had to sleep under gradually dampening blankets due to a leak, and I was in very warm-weather jammies, so that didn't mix well with the whole nighttime-rain thing.
Now, to get the next part, you need to understand our setup a little bit. Our tent was one of those super awesome tents that were two tents with a tunnel in between connecting them that had zipper doors at each entrance. The parents and Maggie took one tent, and my brother and I took the other, with a nifty little separator thing between us that made us feel like we had our own rooms. My room was closest to the Parent Tunnel.
Sometime during the night, Maggie started freaking out, wanting to get through the Parent Tunnel. Once given access, she ran straight up to me (who was still awake and shivering at this point). She sniffed me some, made sure I was still warm and not dead, then moved above my head to the separator. Not able to actually cross it, she just stuck her head into my brother's side, made sure he was okay too, then she laid down right over my head and went to sleep with her head still on boy's side. Sometime after this I managed to fall asleep.
Here is a map of the above:
Sorry about this.
That was hastily drawn on Paintbrush, but you know what? I really couldn't do much better with paper and pencil and a year at art school. So that's what you get. Sorry.
The next morning was wet and uncomfortable, but we were all alive and mostly healthy and, somehow, completely ready to do it again.
Which we did.
This was also a horrible experience, and we went home early. Since then, the four of us have not gone camping together without my uncle ever. It just doesn't work.
And yet, I still enjoy it. If you asked me to go camping with you this weekend and I actually knew you, I'd really want to. I shouldn't want to, but I would. I kinda do now just writing about this one.
Maybe dalmatians really are magical.
