You will not be as astounded when reading this story as I was while experiencing it (as a seven year old) because you are older, smarter and wiser. At the age of seven, the world is new and many things seem impossible (which is why I only ever do magic tricks for anyone under the age of six).
This is the story of an elaborate magic trick. If my brother, Rod, were telling the story, he might begin with the poop. As the sole audience member, I feel it wise to begin with the dog.
I was seven when we drove across town to meet our new dog and bring her home from the dog breeders. She was a small gray poodle and, for some reason, the breeders thought she would be perfect for our family. We had no choice in the matter. I remember that specifically. I remember them saying, “She is the perfect breed for your family.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I instinctively hated the name: Susie Cutie Silver Bell. The breeders recommended we keep her name because she would respond to that. Why couldn’t we call her something else? Anything else? The breeders were old and they smelled funny. Their house smelled like pee and old food. They had dozens of animals everywhere in cages. They were the kind of old people that liked a name like Susie Cutie Silver Bell.
On the way home, I argued with my parents, “Please, can we rename her—she’ll get used to the new name.”
“No honey,” my Mom explained, “Remember what the breeder’s said?”
Right off the bat, things were doomed.
I was so excited to get a dog, but Susie Cutie Silver Bell (or as I will refer to her from this point forward, SCSB) was spoiled and nasty, she did not like to cuddle, she was not interested in humans (or dogs), and, to my seven-year-old mind, she seeemed haughty and too good for us. I wanted to like her, but she and I could never get along. She spent most of her days preening and pruning around the house, like she owned the place.
In hindsight, right now, at this very moment, I wonder, was it about her name? Was I prejudiced to never love her because could I, as a seven-year-old, never bring myself to bond with a dog named Susie Cutie Silver Bell? Or was it her? Was she a little bitch?
Around the time of the Prestige, I decided to play behind our living couch. I pulled the couch away from the wall, revealing 15 - 20 little SCSB’s poops: each of which was about the size of my seven-year-old pinkie finger. My parents were disgusted. My brothers and I were amused (and slightly disgusted).
Needless to say, this act of defiance did nothing to bond me to SCSB. I wanted the kind of dog like I saw on TV shows and movies: a dog that would follow me around the house and neighborhood—loyal to the end. I wanted a dog to play catch and tug-a-war with. Man’s best friend… etc...
I felt far more warmth toward the TV than to our dog. As it was, one day, I was in the den watching cartoons, when my older brother burst into the room. He was 10 (and at my age that meant he was practically an adult). He was not in a happy mood. “Robyn, you idiot!” he sputtered, “You were supposed to pick up Susie’s poop! All of it!”
His face was red. I was too startled to speak.
“Follow me. Hurry.”
I follow him because he seemed so upset and because he was my big brother. I must have done something very very wrong. We rushed through the house. From the den to the dinning room to the living room and out the front door. How could I have forgotten to have pick up SCSB’s poop? Was I suppose to pick up SCSB’s poop?
We soon outside under the blazing New Mexico sun. Think… a typical suburban neighborhood from the 1970’s—every home is a ranch style, no basements. Rod, still fuming, points at fresh (almost glistening) piece of dog poop, sitting in the grass. From the looks of it, this poop has been freshly laid. Rod continues, “Look at it! Why didn’t you pick it up?! Just pick it up already!”
Very confused and suddenly wondering why I followed him outside, I say nothing. I want to say, “Stop. Don’t yell at me.”
“Robyn, sheesh. Just pick up the poop, you idiot… with your hands! What are you so scared of? You just pick it up… like this!”
Leaning over, he picks up the dog dung. He shakes his head, and sticks out his lips—he’s disgusted at my cowardice. He lifts the filth near his open mouth. I’m thinking, “It’s a joke… it must be another one of his jokes.” Until it touches the poop to his tongue, closes his lips around it, and begins to chew. And chew and chew, seeming to enjoy the torture I am experiencing… until he swallows.
I am seven years old. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I want to vomit.
Then… his hysterical laughter. And more laughter… I am sure he’s lost his mind.
Obviously, he did not eat dog poop. He set this trick up in advance by making a pan of brownies, setting one aside and sculpting it into a tiny turd, and placing it into our front yard, After that, all he needed was his own acting ability and his younger (gullible) brother.
Post- show, he was nice enough to invite me in for a pan full of home-made brownies!
What ever happened to SCSB? We moved to Hawaii two years later and my parents gave her back to the breeders from which we got her: probably better for her and for us.