"This is what we get for being charitable."
If there's one thing my stepfather loves to do, it's remind everybody that being a good person is a bad idea.
That's why the Christmas of 1999 was an especially joyous time for him, whereas for the rest of us, it was filled with terror.
Our next door neighbors had decided to go to Miami for Christmas, and they had asked us to watch their dog.
Admittedly, we hadn't seen much of them or the dog until they showed up at our front door wearing Hawaiian shirts with a taxi idling on the street.
I guess they figured if they made it look like a last-minute emergency, we'd have no choice but to say "Yes."
"No way are we watching that monster," my stepfather called out from his spot in the living room.
My mother just laughed as if my stepfather was being humorous, and told them to bring the little guy right over.
They didn't bother correcting her for using the word "little," and soon, we would know why.
Truth be told, the only thing we knew about our neighbor's dog was that we could hear him howling from behind their fence at all hours of the day and night. For all we knew, the neighbors were keeping a wild wolf tied to their front porch.
Still, it was Christmas time. A time for loving thy neighbor.
Nowhere, however, does it mention loving thy neighbor's dog.
A few minutes later, Connie, the wife of the two, showed up holding a leash with what looked like a small horse attached to it. Apparently the dog was a St. Bernard/Demon Spawn mix.
"Thank you so much," said Connie, her husband was already loading luggage into the trunk of the taxi, "If he's any trouble just say 'No, no, no!'"
I remember thinking that I would rather sass a bank robber than say 'No' to that dog.
"What's its name," I asked, watching as it starting to bite off pieces of our front walkway.
Connie laughed before she answered--"Satan."
No really--Satan.
Apparently they'd gotten the dog from the animal shelter after it had been rescued from a junkyard. The owner was a nasty guy who named the dog Satan to scare off kids and presumably anybody else who valued their own life. Our neighbors thought about changing Satan's name, but he never seemed to answer to anything else.
Connie managed to throw this information out at us from the open backseat window of the taxi as it was pulling away.
We waved to our neighbors, and I swore I could see the same look on their faces that the original owners in the haunted house movies have right when they sell the place to some poor sucker.
Mom and I looked down at Satan. He looked up at us.
Then he pooped right on top of our lawn gnome.
That's how we knew it was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
. . . . .
Over the next few days, Satan took over our lives.
We felt that leaving him outside all the time was cruel, and so we let him stay down in the basement. He repaid us for our kindness by eating every piece of furniture and article of clothing he could get his hands on.
I'm sure he would have eaten us too, if we hadn't managed a system for letting him out so that we didn't have to go anywhere near him.
We would open the front door, tie a string around the doorknob on the door that led to the basement, run up the stairs, yank on the string, then run into the nearest bedroom and shut the door before Satan could get to us.
After peeing on the kitchen floor, he would go outside in our yard for an hour or so, and we could relax.
"I say we put him down," suggested my stepfather.
"We can't put him down," my mother said, "He's not our dog."
She said this before he ate her favorite pair of heels and the matching purse.
"What are we going to do about Christmas," I asked, "Everybody's coming over here. We can't just hide Satan in the basement."
"This is what you get for being--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," my mother cut my stepfather off from saying his new favorite line, "I'll make it my New Year's Resolution to be an awful person. Until then, what are we going to do?"
Outside, we could hear Satan eating our Nativity scene.
(I guess we should have seen that one coming.)
. . . . .
As the guests arrived on Christmas, they were all greeted with the same introduction:
"Merry Christmas! Good to see you! Don't go in the basement--Satan's down there."
Most of our relatives had gotten the summary over the phone as my Mom prepared the holiday meal.
"Yup...It'll be fine, Uncle Bill, we're just...a padlock...No, we just...Trust me, he'll eat it...Yes...All of it...Trust me..."
The only one who hadn't gotten the message was my Great Aunt Claudia.
She was extremely hard of hearing, and when Mom said--"Don't go in the basement--Satan's down there." She thought she said--"Santa's down there."
Aunt Claudia thought we were having Santa make a surprise visit for the kids. Since playing Santa had always been Great Uncle Jerry's job, she figured he was hiding in the basement.
(Sidenote: Great Uncle Jerry had been dead for six years at this point. Great Aunt Claudia's hearing loss wasn't her only setback.)
She decided she wanted to say hello to Great Uncle Jerry, so she crept down to the basement while Mom and I were still greeting everybody and opened the door.
You know how people describe the sound of a tornado coming? Like a freight train bearing down on you?
That was the sound we heard when Satan was released from the basement.
It was total chaos.
He ran around the house barking as relatives ran into different rooms slamming doors behind them.
All familiar ties were severed in the interest of survival.
Wives shoved husbands out of closets that were too small for two people. Daughters locked mothers out of bedrooms. My grandmother used my cousin Tom as a human shield.
My mother and I were the only ones brave enough to try and coral Satan back into the basement, but the best we could do was to sequester him behind the Christmas tree by throwing ham underneath it.
Fortunately, he was content to stay there eating the ham and the portable CD player my mom bought me.
Unfortunately, he wouldn't let anybody else get near the pile of presents without growling.
We all ended up eating our food in the basement, which seemed like karma punishing us for trying to trap Satan.
Great Aunt Claudia kept apologizing--"But you know Satan DOES sound like Santa. They even have all the same letters! Where's your Uncle Jerry hiding?"
Satan remained underneath our Christmas tree until his owners came to pick him up two days after Christmas.
"Wow," said Connie, newly tanned and looking refreshed, "He seems to have taken a liking to you. Maybe we should let you have visitation rights! Haha!"
My mother and I looked at each other--our pale, sleepless, traumatized faces telling the tale of our horrific Christmas--and then we looked back at Connie.
"No thanks," we said, simultaneously.
Then we closed the door.
(Okay, maybe we slammed it.)
From upstairs we heard my stepfather yell--
"You know what? I think I'm going to miss that little guy."
--And to all, a good night.
If there's one thing my stepfather loves to do, it's remind everybody that being a good person is a bad idea.
That's why the Christmas of 1999 was an especially joyous time for him, whereas for the rest of us, it was filled with terror.
Our next door neighbors had decided to go to Miami for Christmas, and they had asked us to watch their dog.
Admittedly, we hadn't seen much of them or the dog until they showed up at our front door wearing Hawaiian shirts with a taxi idling on the street.
I guess they figured if they made it look like a last-minute emergency, we'd have no choice but to say "Yes."
"No way are we watching that monster," my stepfather called out from his spot in the living room.
My mother just laughed as if my stepfather was being humorous, and told them to bring the little guy right over.
They didn't bother correcting her for using the word "little," and soon, we would know why.
Truth be told, the only thing we knew about our neighbor's dog was that we could hear him howling from behind their fence at all hours of the day and night. For all we knew, the neighbors were keeping a wild wolf tied to their front porch.
Still, it was Christmas time. A time for loving thy neighbor.
Nowhere, however, does it mention loving thy neighbor's dog.
A few minutes later, Connie, the wife of the two, showed up holding a leash with what looked like a small horse attached to it. Apparently the dog was a St. Bernard/Demon Spawn mix.
"Thank you so much," said Connie, her husband was already loading luggage into the trunk of the taxi, "If he's any trouble just say 'No, no, no!'"
I remember thinking that I would rather sass a bank robber than say 'No' to that dog.
"What's its name," I asked, watching as it starting to bite off pieces of our front walkway.
Connie laughed before she answered--"Satan."
No really--Satan.
Apparently they'd gotten the dog from the animal shelter after it had been rescued from a junkyard. The owner was a nasty guy who named the dog Satan to scare off kids and presumably anybody else who valued their own life. Our neighbors thought about changing Satan's name, but he never seemed to answer to anything else.
Connie managed to throw this information out at us from the open backseat window of the taxi as it was pulling away.
We waved to our neighbors, and I swore I could see the same look on their faces that the original owners in the haunted house movies have right when they sell the place to some poor sucker.
Mom and I looked down at Satan. He looked up at us.
Then he pooped right on top of our lawn gnome.
That's how we knew it was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
. . . . .
Over the next few days, Satan took over our lives.
We felt that leaving him outside all the time was cruel, and so we let him stay down in the basement. He repaid us for our kindness by eating every piece of furniture and article of clothing he could get his hands on.
I'm sure he would have eaten us too, if we hadn't managed a system for letting him out so that we didn't have to go anywhere near him.
We would open the front door, tie a string around the doorknob on the door that led to the basement, run up the stairs, yank on the string, then run into the nearest bedroom and shut the door before Satan could get to us.
After peeing on the kitchen floor, he would go outside in our yard for an hour or so, and we could relax.
"I say we put him down," suggested my stepfather.
"We can't put him down," my mother said, "He's not our dog."
She said this before he ate her favorite pair of heels and the matching purse.
"What are we going to do about Christmas," I asked, "Everybody's coming over here. We can't just hide Satan in the basement."
"This is what you get for being--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," my mother cut my stepfather off from saying his new favorite line, "I'll make it my New Year's Resolution to be an awful person. Until then, what are we going to do?"
Outside, we could hear Satan eating our Nativity scene.
(I guess we should have seen that one coming.)
. . . . .
As the guests arrived on Christmas, they were all greeted with the same introduction:
"Merry Christmas! Good to see you! Don't go in the basement--Satan's down there."
Most of our relatives had gotten the summary over the phone as my Mom prepared the holiday meal.
"Yup...It'll be fine, Uncle Bill, we're just...a padlock...No, we just...Trust me, he'll eat it...Yes...All of it...Trust me..."
The only one who hadn't gotten the message was my Great Aunt Claudia.
She was extremely hard of hearing, and when Mom said--"Don't go in the basement--Satan's down there." She thought she said--"Santa's down there."
Aunt Claudia thought we were having Santa make a surprise visit for the kids. Since playing Santa had always been Great Uncle Jerry's job, she figured he was hiding in the basement.
(Sidenote: Great Uncle Jerry had been dead for six years at this point. Great Aunt Claudia's hearing loss wasn't her only setback.)
She decided she wanted to say hello to Great Uncle Jerry, so she crept down to the basement while Mom and I were still greeting everybody and opened the door.
You know how people describe the sound of a tornado coming? Like a freight train bearing down on you?
That was the sound we heard when Satan was released from the basement.
It was total chaos.
He ran around the house barking as relatives ran into different rooms slamming doors behind them.
All familiar ties were severed in the interest of survival.
Wives shoved husbands out of closets that were too small for two people. Daughters locked mothers out of bedrooms. My grandmother used my cousin Tom as a human shield.
My mother and I were the only ones brave enough to try and coral Satan back into the basement, but the best we could do was to sequester him behind the Christmas tree by throwing ham underneath it.
Fortunately, he was content to stay there eating the ham and the portable CD player my mom bought me.
Unfortunately, he wouldn't let anybody else get near the pile of presents without growling.
We all ended up eating our food in the basement, which seemed like karma punishing us for trying to trap Satan.
Great Aunt Claudia kept apologizing--"But you know Satan DOES sound like Santa. They even have all the same letters! Where's your Uncle Jerry hiding?"
Satan remained underneath our Christmas tree until his owners came to pick him up two days after Christmas.
"Wow," said Connie, newly tanned and looking refreshed, "He seems to have taken a liking to you. Maybe we should let you have visitation rights! Haha!"
My mother and I looked at each other--our pale, sleepless, traumatized faces telling the tale of our horrific Christmas--and then we looked back at Connie.
"No thanks," we said, simultaneously.
Then we closed the door.
(Okay, maybe we slammed it.)
From upstairs we heard my stepfather yell--
"You know what? I think I'm going to miss that little guy."
--And to all, a good night.
Comments
Post a Comment