It's Christmas Eve. I'm twelve. My mother has prepared her three sons for a special holiday photo to be taken at my aunt's house later that night. She's cut our hair, made us bathe, and gone to great trouble to find us matching turtlenecks. We look great. We are itchy.
While she and Dad run to town for a last minute gift, she tells us to go outside and stay on the front porch so we "won't get into any crap". She knows us well.
It's not cold. But it is boring. This explains why my youngest brother begins to dance with our dog.
The simple steps consist of Tim holding Bernard up by his paws and shuffling back and forth. Tim is my youngest brother. He is a trouble maker. Bernard is our German Shepherd. He is good natured. Up to a point.
Bernard nips Tim near his ear and excuses himself from the dance floor. The bite, although not vicious, causes blood to gush like a fountain. I'm a little freaked. Tim is a lot freaked. And Brad, my middle brother who rattles easy, is the most freaked.
When my parents return they do not see their three sons sitting on the porch, well dressed and well coiffed. They instead see one lying in the front yard covered in blood, one using his turtleneck to stop the bleeding, and one rocking back and forth crying hysterically.
My dad wants, and rightly so, to be filled in. "Just what the hell happened"!? he shouts. Tim blubbers that Bernard bit him which my mom reacts to instantly. "Shoot the dog!" she screams.
This might seem premature, but to her defense it does look like a mauling -- there's loads of blood. Even Brad is splattered.
Bernard, with his dog sense tingling, is jumping and barking, very agitated. Tim starts to sob, overcome with guilt. I begin to cry too, yelling in protest. And Brad, who's barely keeping it together as it is, now goes over the edge -- he loves Bernard. It's what you call a scene.
"Shoot the dog"! my mother commands again over all the wailing, barking and bleeding. Luckily my dad's cooler head prevails. He demands to hear all the facts and his verdict, the one which finally appeases my mom and spares our family pet that fateful Christmas Eve, was quite simple: "Everyone knows you don't dance with a dog.'"
Somewhere there's a photo from my Aunt's house taken later that night. Three boys stand between their parents near a big Christmas tree. At first glance it seems pretty standard. But if you look close, you'll see stitches peeking from bandages on the small boy's face. Beside him the skinny one's eyes are red and puffy from crying. And the oldest, to the far right, appears tired as he forces a half smile. None of them are wearing turtlenecks.
