Samuel Clemens once admitted "I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know how a story ought to be told."
With regard to Mr. Clemens' ability, I'd beg to differ, for I think him the finest purveyor of stories to have ever lived. But with regard to my own disjointed ramblings, I'm in complete agreement.
Knowing how it should be done isn't necessarily indicative of my ability to do it, be it storytelling, cooking or a host of other activities I'll leave nameless.
Sometimes, I recognize an event is worthy of retelling from the moment it happens. Other times, I have to sit with an experience a while before mustering the words to relive it.
Like this one.
It was the morning of my mother's funeral. Before walking out the door of my aunt's and uncle's farmhouse, I threw my arms around my sweet Baxter, held him tightly and whispered that we'd be back shortly.
Dogs are interesting creatures.
He was with Mom when she passed and he seemed to echo our sadness in the days following. I left him sitting solemnly in the kitchen as I went to sit solemnly in the chapel.
After the funeral, procession and burial, the last thing I wanted to do was have a meal. But it's customary in the South to meet afterward at the church or the family's home where well-meaning women chase you with a plate of food until you finally appease them.
I stayed at the church for a short while, then slipped out to walk down the gravel road back to the house. Friends and family weren't far behind me.
When we arrived, Bax greeted me with his customary over-exuberance as though I'd been gone three months.
Bearing gifts of his beloved earless toy bunny and wet licks, he climbed the stairs with me toward my room.
At the top of the stairs, I noticed a small brown stain on my aunt's immaculate carpet. Brown stains on the carpet typically mean one thing when a dog owns you. But it wasn't like Bax to have an accident in the house.
I turned the corner to find brown stains dotting the floor of my room, along with shiny slivers of tin foil and tiny slips of paper reading "Hershey's."
"Baxter!" I hollered. He was in a full-bodied tail wag and snorted gleefully, still clutching a mouthful of earless bunny.
I'd been given a care package containing Hershey's chocolate and, despite wrapping it in several bags and stuffing it deeply into my suitcase, Bax had managed to unearth the loot and be "kissed" about 16 times.
Oh Lord, I prayed, please don't have me bury my mother and my dog on the same day.
I called our vet. I knew hydrogen peroxide would induce vomiting, but I couldn't recall the amount to give. The vet explained that it may have already traveled through his system, but since it was milk chocolate and given the quantity, he should be alright. Still, give him some peroxide and know that he's about have a pretty wild ride.
That would be an understatement.
Now, you may know that hydrogen peroxide foams and causes vomiting. And that chocolate has caffeine and sugar, both of which cause hyperactivity. And a load of peroxide and chocolate can each cause diarrhea.
Bax soared across the hillside as though I'd slung him from a slingshot. He ran and foamed and ran some more. Neither vomiting nor cow patties could stop him until --
He hit the electric fence.
Baxter screamed.
I screamed.
And we ran toward each other, which meant he hit the electric fence again.
But this time, the wire wrapped around his paw, jolting him continuously, whereupon the full contents of his bowels shot from his hindquarters like a short-ranged missile.
The wire miraculously broke, releasing one shaking, limping, soggy, smelly dog into my arms. We sat together in the pasture, rocking back and forth, me still in my black dress and heels, both of us covered in ... everything.
I looked toward the house. Wide eyes and gaping mouths of onlookers peered from the back porch.
From a funeral to a poisoning, electrocution and complete system voiding in the middle of a cow pasture, one never knows where a day may lead. It's a string of absurdities tied together in a wandering, somewhat purposeless way.
Mark Twain calls that an American artform. Bax and I call it, among other things, life.
LISA KELLEY IS A WRITER, MASTER GARDENER, ANIMAL LOVER AND ALL-AROUND GOOD OL' SOUTHERN GAL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO PRACTICE LAW AND MEDIATE CASES IN DOWNTOWN BENTONVILLE.
Commentary on 09/04/2014