THE CHRISTMAS DOG

I had just turned six that Christmas (my birthday is December 13th). Even though I had never made a list of Christmas wishes, that year I really wanted a dog. Since my parents were never exactly enthusiastic about maintaining a pet, I decided that a chihuahua would be a perfect choice. They were tiny, obedient, probably easy to care for. We casually talked about it, but I had no big hopes that my wish would materialize.

Imagine my complete astonishment when I looked under the tree on Christmas morning  and found an adorable little chihuahua curled up sleeping in a basket! I was so overjoyed that I picked up the precious dog and ran into my parent's bedroom to show them.

Jingles and me on Christmas morning

 

I named the dog Jingles (inspired by the song Jingle Bells)  and spent the day playing with him. 

Unfortunately, happiness never (and I mean never) prevailed for very long in our family. That night, Jingles accidentally had a bowel movement under the Christmas tree. He was an untrained puppy, in a new home. Such unpleasant mishaps should be expected.

My father immediately went into a rage. He grabbed the dog and beat it mercilessly.  This insane outburst was nothing new and certainly nothing unusual.  

Dad was never able to handle any situation rationally or in an adult manner. His immediate reaction was always a burst of unbridled physical violence. Any incident - no matter how trivial or insignificant - could set him off.  He'd grab my mother or me and beat us relentlessly, without  restraint and with no subsequent guilt. I could very easily relate hundreds of similar incidents that involved my father's temper and physical violence throughout my childhood - including one which resulted in an ugly court case that happened when we first moved to California.

Of course, we couldn't keep Jingles the chihuahua. If I remember correctly, we only had him for one or two days.

Fortunately - perhaps miraculously - there was a positive end to this dire tale. There was a middle-aged man who lived across the street from us named Jack. He lived alone and wanted a pet. When he saw Jingles, he fell in love with the dog and took him immediately.

Jack built a special bed for Jingles, gave him all kinds of toys, and taught him to do impressive tricks. I remember that he taught the dog how to kneel by his little bed and put his paws together in prayer before he went to sleep!  Jingles was showered with attention and couldn't have had a better home.

My sixth Christmas was ruined by the dog incident. My fifth Christmas had been ruined by the train incident (see my previous blog post Tale of a Christmas Train).

At that time in my childhood I was never angry, bitter....or surprised. Disappointment, violence, unhappiness, and uncertainty were all a very normal part of my existence. 

Perhaps, perhaps that is why I became a pessimistic adult. I always expect the worst and have always had a difficult time accepting any semblance of happiness. It's just a fleeting theory. Heck, what do I know? I'm not Freud.

Truth to tell, the dog incident is only a very minor footnote in my chaotic existence. There were future Christmas horror stories involving my father that are almost too incredible to comprehend.