Two Tales Fom The Past
Will de Kypia

.THE LESSON

.This happened a long time ago,
.back when cars did not have
.airbags or even seatbelts.

.A foggy morning and the boy is going
.a bit fast for a learner. Suddenly there's
.a semi ahead, stopped dead in the road.

.The boy hits the brakes, hard but too late.
.His old man's riding shotgun. No chance
.to brace so he hits the windshield. Hard.

.Squinting through blood, a loving father
.drags his dazed son to the passenger side
.with its now cracked and gory windshield.

.He stumbles out of the car, staggers around
.to the driver’s seat, and lays his broken pate
.on the wheel, barely hearing the horn’s blare.

.When the cops arrive they find a guy bleeding
.while the kid beside him just keeps repeating
.“Dad, tell me what I'm supposed to do now.”

*________*________*

PLAYING GAMES
IN THE BASEMENT

When we were tweensters my two
siblings and I really wanted a puppy.

We all constantly nagged our parents to
let us get one. They finally said OK and
we paid a visit to the local animal shelter.

Which had oodles of dogs. One
cute female caught our attention.

Mixed breed, nearly half-grown.
to us she seemed rather forlorn.

Curiosity aroused, Dad
queried the shelter staff.

“Abused,” the staff informed him.

“We found her living on the streets,
scared, and starving, and broken.

It will take time to heal her.
Time and lots of love too.
Please remember that.”

They also warned us she had
a tendency to be “snappish.”

So this dog was a mongrel, no
longer a puppy, and snappish.

Not our original choice.

But my family felt sorry for her
and we wanted to help her heal.

She'd be a pet and a project.

We decided to name her Lorna
after the title character of a novel
Mom read back in high school.

Small yet stocky, tan spots above
the eyes, she looked like she maybe
had a little bit of Rottweiler in her.

Lorna was trouble from the start.
Our girl had behavioral problems.

Somewhere she'd learned the nasty
trick of thrusting her muzzle toward
a friendly stranger’s outstretched
open hand as if about to sniff it.

Then she'd lunge at the hand,
trying to chow down on the
friendly stranger's fingers.

And she had lots of other bad habits.
The healing would take time and love.

We kids asked our parents what
might have turned Lorna mean.

They told us we'd never know and
she'd never forget whatever bad things
happened to her in her previous life.

All we could do was try to make
her new life better. Which we did.

Although our house had a big
fenced yard, we kept her inside
where she slept on a quilt in a
far corner of the basement.

Lorna whimpered when she
slept. Was she recalling those
demons of that previous life?

A ravenous eater, she gobbled
the food you brought before you
got halfway back up the stairs.

She did enjoy playing games.
Tug-of-war was her favorite.

Lorna's powerful jaws gripped
a tough strip of leather or a length
of thick rope one of us held out.

Her bite was incredibly strong.
We'd drag her along the floor, lift
her up, swing her around in the air.

The game continued till Lorna had
played enough and chose to quit.

She'd drop whatever was in her
mouth, stand tall on her hind legs,
totter across the basement floor.

Fall down, crawl a couple feet, roll
over to play dead a moment or two.

And end her performance with
a bow, lowering her chest to the
floor while she lifted her rump.

Then she'd trot to her corner,
curl up on her quilt, and the
games were officially over.

The first time this happened
no one could comprehend it.

"But...but what…?".—..
we said, spluttering.—..

"And…and who…?"—.
we added, wondering.—.

Who had taught her to perform?
Was her first owner a dog trainer?
Or perhaps an old vaudevillian?

The shelter staff told us they were
unaware of Lorna's special skills.

She'd been placed in a cage and
therefore could not display them.

The whole family soon came to adore
Lorna, especially us kids who were
so proud of her amazing talents.

We showed her off to our friends
like a sliding bookcase hiding the
entrance to a secret passageway.

After cautioning them——
never to crowd her. ——.

Though Lorna got along fine
with family members she was
still snappish with outsiders.

Our beloved canine companion
dwelt mostly contentedly in the
basement for nearly eight years.

No ordinary dog, a survivor.
She wore out several quilts.

The last time I saw Lorna was
when I was in college, back
at home on spring break.

She was on her quilt in her corner.

“Hey Lorna, how are we doing today?”
Eyes clouded by cataracts, she stared.
Raised a grayed muzzle, teeth bared.

Then she caught my familiar scent
and relaxed, letting me run my fingers
over her bony body. She was dying.

As I was getting ready to leave I said
“Guess what, Lorna? Me and my buddies
are going to hitchhike down to Florida.
You be a good girl while I'm gone.”

Her blind eyes watched__.._..
me as I slowly stood up.._.._..

By the time I returned she was dead.

Our parents left the quilt in Lorna's
corner. After they died we kids cut
it up and each of us took a piece.

On the day we sold the house we
made a last trip to the basement.

I gazed at the empty corner and
said “Bye-bye, Lorna. I hope you
are at rest now, wherever you are.”

We'd done what we could to heal her
wounds but Lorna always bore scars.


________