Dance Class & Doggie Math

I am an only child; however, I grew up with two furry dog sisters named Pebbles and Gretchen. My Mom fancied herself as a Safe Haven for Stray Dogs, the newest of which was an older beagle that we found stranded on the side of the road. Dad always feared letting us leave together because he knew we would most likely return with a dog, and he was the one that had to pay for the dog food. My Mom and Dad told me that I could name the beagle whatever I wanted. 

I looked at the dog, looked at my parents and said, "Let's call her 'Whitey.'"

Dad said, "But she is not just white."

I didn't care, that made the most sense to me. Whitey had obviously been abused before we found her. Anytime you would approach her she would cower down and start trembling. My parents tried to show me how to approach Whitey slowly so I wouldn’t scare her.

I was seven, and I loved to play school. I was of course the fun teacher that allowed her students to call her Tina. Tina also taught dance class and would often come to school with her dance clothes and sweatbands on.

It was time for me to play school, and the dogs were going to be the students (reminder: I’m an only child, it was either them or the Barbies and it was a nice day out). I tried to line them all up and have them sit in a row so I could teach them math. Pebbles and Gretchen were so lazy, they just sat wherever I put them. And Whitey was too terrified to move. 

I found a large tree branch that was going to be my "teaching stick.” When I started waving it around, Whitey ran and hid under the slide. I forgot what I was supposed to do and not do around her, and this was clearly something I was not supposed to do. I approached and assured her I wasn’t going to hit her.

She finally calmed down, but I wanted to prove that I loved her. So I picked up the stick again and started rubbing her with it so she knew I wouldn’t hit her. This just made things worse. I sat down in the yard and started crying. Mom and Dad came outside and asked me what was wrong. 

Through muffled sobs I explained, “I was trying to show Whitey that I wasn’t going to hit her with the stick.”

Dad asked, “What did you do?”

“I rubbed her with the stick,” I said and began sobbing uncontrollably.

He tried to explain to me that Whitey didn't understand words and that the best thing to do was to not teach Whitey math, but to let her play on her own. 

I had an idea! I would teach her how to ride the slide instead. I won't go into too many details on how this went, but needless to say Whitey didn't like our backyard, or me, at all.

After a few weeks, Whitey finally warmed up to me and started to let me play with her. Every day when I got off the bus, Whitey would be very excited to meet me at the gate. One afternoon I got off the bus and began walking down the driveway. I looked around and didn't see her, so I decided to go inside. I walked past our flower bed and noticed a giant white sheet laid out in the middle of it and wondered what new flowers my Dad must have planted? 

"Where is Whitey?" I asked when I got inside.

My parents were sort of ignoring me, so I went back outside and started yelling for Whitey. Finally after 10 minutes of torment, my Mom and Dad came to me and told me to come inside.

"Boo, we have something we need to tell you."

I did not want any details, but I then realized that the aforementioned sheet was her burial garment. All I could think about was me giving her lessons out in the yard and waving the stick around, then trying to push her down the slide, and I concluded that it was me that gave her a heart attack. I couldn’t believe I had committed such a terrible crime at the young age of seven.

(Don’t worry, I had to exaggerate just a little. Whitey didn’t have a heart attack. She was 100 years old. She had a good run at the Green residence).