The Hippity-Hop And The Hill Of Regret

The Nuclear Family took on more children around Christmas when we adopted 2 beagle puppies from a local Humane Society.  We already had a lab, so putting 2 more dogs in the backyard was, without question, going to increase our volume of “meadow muffins”.  I knew this going in, yet adopted anyway.  I feel now that I don’t grocery shop to feed the family, I shop to have enough grocery bags to clean up all of the “road apples”. 

Cleaning up the yard isn’t happening as often as it should (my fault), and so occasionally the kids step on an apple or squish a muffin.  Clean up the shoes, and we’re good to go, no problem.  But last week, Nukegirl stepped in a pile that wasn’t quite aged yet, and went down.  It could have been much worse.  A tissue for her eyes, a twig for the bottom of the shoe and some Shout for her shirt sleeve and everything was back to normal.  Except for me.  Her little slip had triggered a flashback in me that shakes me to my core to this day. 

I was 6 years old when I experienced “trauma” for the first time.  My family traveled in the summers because of my Fathers job, so each summer we would be in a rental home.  Since we only rented for 3 months, the houses needed to be furnished and often times the houses would come with a little more than we were expecting.  In the summer of my 6th year the house was a duplex, and the “extra” was the owners dog; Hobo.  He was a grumpy, long-haired mutt of the first order.  His breed was a mix of Sheepdog, Airedale and Wolverine.  He didn’t like me one bit, which was fine, because I didn’t particularly care for him either.  We kept our distance, and everything was fine.  Until that one day.  I can’t say for sure if Hobo planned it or not, but the end result was that I went down.  Down hard.

This had to be late July or early August, as my birthday is at the end of July.   I had gotten exactly what I wanted for my birthday: a “Hippity-Hop”.  Some of you may remember them, some of you may not, but just imagine a core training ball with a handle.  Here, I’ll show you a picture.  Anyway, on the day in question, I was in the yard enjoying my new toy.  I was hippity-ing and hoppity-ing to my hearts content.  The yard had a hill that cut right through the middle of it.  I’m sure it was just a little swale, but back then, to me, it was Everest.  I was at the top of the hill, and having “mastered” the Hippity Hop, I was ready for this new challenge; I would conquer the hill. 

Unbeknownst to me, Hobo had made his morning deposit at the crest of the hill.  I was too caught up in my joy to see it.  You already know what’s coming next, but I’m going to have to type it out anyway, aren’t I?  You guessed it.  On hop number two I hit “Hobo’s Revenge”.  It sent me backwards, directly into the heart of meadow muffin hell.  I had to roll over to try and get up, which only succeeded in evening out the coating.  The first attempt to stand resulted in a slip and fall, as did the second and third.  I finally crawled out of the danger zone like a soldier on the beach at Normandy.   I got to my feet, and ran, screaming all the way to the house. 

When I got to the house, I opened up the screen door to the porch while screaming “MOM! MOM! MOM!” My mother opened the back door and almost fainted.  Then she started making sounds I’d never heard before.  All I remember hearing is “DON’T COME IN THE HOUSE!  GET OUTSIDE!”  As I went back outside I could hear my Mother yelling for my sister.  Big sisters get all the fun jobs: dishes, take out the trash and de-poopify little brothers.  The end result was my loving sister standing on the driveway with a spray nozzle hosing off her little brother.  God Bless Her.  I caught a glimpse of Hobo out in the yard.  He had his tongue out, panting with delight and wagging his tail.  I got him back later that summer.  Lets just say it involved a flirtatious poodle and some dogs from Jersey.