A SHAGGY DOG—SHAGGY DOG STORY

April Ryan is a Seattle/Edmonds writer who is accepting writing challenges for Sharing Stories. A shaggy dog story or yarn is an extremely long-winded anecdote characterized by extensive narration of typically irrelevant incidents and terminated by an anticlimax or a pointless punchline. Shaggy dog stories play upon the audience's preconceptions of joke-telling. Note that April’s punchline is NOT pointless.

A SHAGGY DOG—SHAGGY DOG STORY

We bought our Australian Silky Terrier one fine day the end of November 1999. Exclaiming she was an irresistible ball of fur, I was immediately corrected by the breeder. “Her coat is hair—not fur. She is a rare hypoallergenic breed.” Plus, in a hoity-toity tone that was close to exasperation, we were informed her glorious locks wouldn’t shed all over the house and furniture. The matter-of-fact statement all but said, “You are too dimwitted to be ‘Silky’ owners!” As we laid down a royal flush of hundred-dollar bills, we were praised for our excellent choice in picking the most playful female in the litter. We drove away with the dog of our dreams.

Hours and days passed before we picked the perfect name, Sydney. Her ears were formed like the shell-shaped Australian opera house, giving her the super power to hear a piece of cheese drop to the floor.

Unfortunately, we brought her home during the rainy season. A quick dash outside on her leash to “take care of business” turned into a marathon of slow motion time, and fast plunging raindrops beat endless notes on the umbrella. Spring was a welcome relief. Our yard was small, perfect for planting daisies, tulips, and daffodils, with a postage-stamp sized lawn taking ten minutes to mow. As Sydney grew, she needed more space, so of course, we bought a house with a big fenced yard for her frisky energy.

Her “hairy” coat got so long and shaggy, she looked like a mop walking on the floor.

A high-pitched bark greeted me at the door after work. We sang duets as I changed out of my bus driving uniform into casual comfort. Oh, it was a top-forty ritual as she barked, and I barked back my favorite tunes. One fine hot and sweaty summer day, the fans were spinning, the windows opened, and I was barking a duet with Sydney. As I pulled up my Bermuda shorts, the front bell rang. I opened the door. Our neighbor was out of breath—gasping, he asked if everything was all right. When I answered, “Yes,” he asked, “Are you sure?” I nodded yes.

When he walked away, it dawned on me, he’d heard our duet. I called out, “You heard me and the dog barking. We’re really okay.” The next day when he was in his yard, I thanked him for his concern, and we laughed at the barking duet. At the end of our conversation, he said, “If I think you need me, I’ll be at your front door checking up on you.” Our duets became a whispered routine of barks and giggles. No more false alarms for the neighbor.

Along the fence, a path was beaten down with her patrolling to keep menaces away. No bigger than Gramma’s breadbox, weighing a powerful twelve pounds, she was our mighty protector and guard. When we saw eagles fly in circles above the yard, she was rushed into the house, never to be carried to a nested hideaway, although I’m sure of her winning an avian battle—being returned in a quick minute with a championship trophy.

Sydney leapt off the deck to chase away falling autumn leaves. She tuned into seasonal changes. When planes flew overhead, I’m sure pilots could hear her barks in a fog and return to the proper route to land at the airport. One leaf-raking fall, we heard Sydney fighting with a critter under the deck. We screamed, “Sydney—Sydney—Sydney,” over and over until there was a deadly silence. Standing motionless, we didn’t know what to do until we heard the drag-pull sound under the deck. We were ready to drive to the vet with our wounded dog.

Emerging rear-end first, she proudly pulled out her dead prize, dragging it by the neck. It looked like the biggest, ugliest rat with a long snake-like tail. Sydney shook her catch a couple more times, then walked away, preparing for another round. We discussed what to do. I was told to get a bucket with a lid, and a shovel. The dead body was diagnosed to be a possum, a big, ugly possum. After an hour resting in the family room, Sydney started barking at the sliding glass door, wanting to go outside to tackle her opponent again. I moved the bucket to the front of the house by the green recycle yard bin.

The next morning, we were ready to wrap the body in a newspaper and put it in the bin with the autumn leaves. The bucket was empty. The possum had played possum, just like the old biology books in high school had unbelievably described.

I am now alone. No one to tell me to get a bucket and shovel. No high-pitched duets to sing seasonal songs. I have decided death is like playing possum. At an unknown time in the future, I will wake up with all the people and pets I have loved and enjoy a time of new changing seasons.

April Ryan is a retired Seattle Metro driver and frequent writer for Northwest Prime Time.

SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).

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