Jennifer's Bloggin': Finding Mad Dog by Jennifer Lightburn, copy right ...

Jennifer's Bloggin': Finding Mad Dog by Jennifer Lightburn, copy right ...: I knew bringing home straight A’s would make my mom proud, though, she’d be cussing aloud.   She promised me a dog.   I’d...

Finding Mad Dog by Jennifer Lightburn, copy right 2013

I knew bringing home straight A’s would make my mom proud, though, she’d be cussing aloud.  She promised me a dog.  I’d wanted a dog since pre-school and I was getting ready to turn fourteen, but my mom always told me that I didn’t have enough common sense and maturity to take care of an animal.  She didn’t say it as maliciously as it sounds; just simply matter-of-factly, but she meant her words with all her heart. 

            My mom adamantly refused to take care of any animal, and she didn’t want an animal abused in anyway, shape or form, which was her excuse for declining my frequent begging and pleading to get one. 

            She wouldn’t even buy me a goldfish.  She was as sure as her hair wasn’t her natural color that I’d immediately send the fish to seawater heaven.  This because my little cousin, Joey, who was five at the time, decided to take a nap with his fish and then cried until he nearly passed out when his mother said, “They ain’t never gonna wake up.” 

            I couldn’t get a gerbil because it was just a long rodent to my mom and she’d end up beating it half to death if it accidentally got out of its cage.  I couldn’t get a rabbit because as cute as they are, mom said they’d leave golden nuggets every few hops.  I couldn’t get a bird because they shake their feathers, and if the cage weren’t cleaned, bird turd would fly in the air.  She said no to a cat because they’re too conniving. 

            The only animal my mom would consider was a dog, but my older brother, Leroy, ruined my chances by his example.  His dog Chow only lasted four months.  Chow urinated whenever he got excited.  Though he was a friendly dog, he was afraid of his own shadow and would piss at the drop of a dime.  When he sprayed my mom’s leg right before she was about to go to work, I knew Chow was a goner.  She called in sick that day, and she let me and my brother take the day off from school because it was Chow’s last day in our house. We played with that mangy mutt all day until my mother was ready to take him back to the pound. 

            I thought our dog days were over until I made a deal that my mother couldn’t resist.  Straight A’s. 

            I waited until the perfect opportunity presented itself. 

            Wednesday night!                              

            I knew my mom would be in good spirit because she and her Scrabble club members brought their favorite potluck and beverages to our house.  Every Wednesday night, they got off, challenging each other with every obscure word that hit the board. 

            That night, they seemed extra lively placing their letters, especially after that second bottle of wine.  Miss Wendy even hollered, “Triple Word Score!” and rolled her neck like she had a little R&B in her 501’s.  Since I can remember, Miss Wendy typically slept on our couch on Scrabble night, so mom poured her another glass of wine and one for herself. 

            That’s when I took the chance. 

            “So, did my mom tell you that I got four B’s and two A’s,” I asked, strolling by the living room table.

            “That’s great, but how about next time you make that four A’s and two B’s,” Miss Wendy said.

            “I’ll give you ten bucks for every A you get next semester,” Mrs. Tammy, our next door neighbor said, an octave higher than her usual tone of voice while holding up her wine glass like she was about to toast. 

            “Shoot!  If my son got four A’s I’d buy him an X Box and X Box Live,” my mom chimed in.

            Yeah, right. 

            I’d been asking for a new X Box for the last six months because my X box kept scraping circles around the rim of the disk and ruined many of my games.  Now all of a sudden mom was considering an upgrade.        

            As inconceivable as her words were, they were exactly what I was waiting for. 

            “I take your bet,” I said aloud.

            Wine glasses were settled and all eyes were on me. 

            Mom said, “That was not a bet; it was a proposition.  But now that you’ve called a heart a spade, you may want to think about the consequences of your failure.”

            “Mmm hmmm” Ms. Elliott said, sitting as daintily as one could sit being 5’2” and three hundred pounds.  She put a permanent dent on our chair, as she danced in the seat over my mom’s assertiveness towards me. 

            “Make him cook and clean for an entire month.  Spotless.  Give this house a good spit shine like it was done back in the day.”

            Because I know my mom and how she thinks, I knew Ms. Elliott’s comments sounded like a quiet diss on my mom’s homemaking skills.        

            I didn’t like that old hag.  Not because she was fat and always had something to say.  I didn’t care that she liked to hear herself talk as long as she minded her dag-gone business and left mine alone.  Still, Ms. Elliott’s evil nature was exactly what I needed to make my dream a reality. 

            I placed my hand on her soft, gushy shoulder and said, “Today you don’t have to waste your saliva because they’ve come out with a product called Spic & Span, and we got quite a few bottles in the closet.”

            “If I was your momma, you’d be using every last one of them bottles.  I’d have you down on the floor with a toothbrush, cleaning the grout between the tiles,” Ms. Elliott slurred. 

             “Well, that would only happen if I lost and I wouldn’t.  I could get four A’s, but I’d get six A’s if my mom agreed to buy me a dog,” I dramatically slurred in retort.

            “Boy!  You’d better watch yourself,” my mom said. 

It didn’t matter how disrespectful an adult was to me, my freedom of speech was limited around my mom and her friends, and this I knew as much as I knew I wanted to live to see fourteen. 

“Number one, I shouldn’t have to bribe you for you to do well in school.  You’re preparing for your life not mine,” my mom said.

            “Be that as it may, would you buy me a dog if I got straight A’s?” I asked.

            “Dominique, you nearly failed Art,” Ms. Wendy said to me.  “How are you going to get an A in math, science, English and social studies if you can’t even draw a straight line?”

            I didn’t see what art had to do with core courses.  I didn’t like art.  I didn’t like to draw.  I hated coloring even in kindergarten.  I didn’t like learning about Picasso and Monet.  It just didn’t interest me, so of course; I napped during the class until I couldn’t nap anymore. 

            I walked around the table to Miss Wendy. 

            “The fact remains that Mr. Nelson said I’d fail his class unless I aced the final, and what happened?”

            Everyone knew but no one said anything.

            “I aced that bad boy!  Yeahh boyyy!”

            “So you think you’re going to ace all six classes next semester,” Miss Wendy asked with a sudden cheeriness.

            “There’s no way on God’s green earth that you’re going to ace all six classes,” Ms. Elliott said.  “Take the bet, Helen,” she said to my mom. 

            Not only did madam marshmallow insult my mother’s tile floor, but also she nearly called me a failure.  With as much respect as my mother had for her former supervisor and longtime friend, I knew Ms. Elliott’s words were eating at my mom’s ability to maintain her decorum.  There’re only so many insults mom was willing to take.

            “You’re going to get straight A’s?” Mom asked, looking at the letters in front of her.

            “Yes,” I replied.

            “Yes, what?”

            “Yes, I’m going to get straight A’s.”

            “In what subjects?” Miss Tammy asked gently in her elderly way. 

            “Trig. World History.  English.  Biology.  Art.  PE.”

            “What about electives?” Miss Tammy asked, smugly          

            “Would you like to pick them, Miss Tammy,” I said.

            I saw my mom smirk as quickly as it dissipated, and then she said, “Are you sure you want to take this proposition because you’re going to be my personal Merry Maid for the next three months, and I’m talking about you fixing me breakfast, lunch and dinner too.”

            “Bet!” I said ecstatically, even though, three months of labor seemed a little steep. 

            “And I mean you’re going to be taking out that dog.  Not me.  You’re picking up after that dog.  Not me.  You’re feeding that dog, washing that dog.  Not me.”

            “Can I believe what I’m hearing?  Mom, you actually have faith that I can pull this off?”

            “There ain’t no way on…”

            “I know… God’s green earth,” I said for Ms. Elliott and then turned back to my mom.  

            “I’ve got three witnesses,” she said. 

When I tell you that I was hating life for the next three months, I mean, I was hating life.  I had to vacuum every day, as soon as I got home because my mom had a sick sense of knowing the moment I walked through the door.  She wouldn’t even let me go pee because “the dog isn’t going to be able to wait.”  This was training, or “conditioning”, she called it, to prepare myself for the reality of walking a dog.  On cold and rainy days, I was forced to walk in the rain because I’d have to walk the dog in the rain, snow or when the sun is shining, should I pull off my master plan. 

            Though my mom was using brutal reality as hurdles to stall my course, she only made me want a dog even more.     

            Mom never had to ask me to study.  I think that’s what really scared her and gave her the idea of adding impromptu chores to my daily routine.  She didn’t have to call me three and four times to turn off the television and pick up a book because my head was already inside of one.  All this extra studying was on top of basketball practice and mowing lawns to save the money to pay for dog food and vet visits.  By the time ten o’clock rolled around, I felt like I was going to pass the hell out.  I no longer had to count beautiful women jumping over my bed.  I put my head on my pillow and I was out like a light.  Still, it always seemed that as soon as I got good and comfortable, my mom would knock on the door and tell me that Charlie, my non-existent dog, needed to go out.  She wanted me to practice taking out a dog on a second’s notice.  There are few things worse than having to take out an invisible dog when it’s cold enough to put on gloves, a hat, scarf and coat.  What’s worse?

            “Oh, no.  He didn’t go poop.”

            Having to take Charlie out again – that’s worse.  Now, how my mom knew that Charlie didn’t crap is beyond me because I decided to just take him pee at the last minute.  And I never could convince her that he finished handling his business.  I’d end up walking him back outside because my mom’s face said more than I felt like hearing.

            Far worse than dealing with spontaneous walks, was taking Art History II as my elective.  My mother reminded me about my “smart-alecky” comment to Miss Tammy, asking her if she wanted to pick my elective.  Both Miss Tammy and my mother couldn’t resist making me learn about the Renaissance period and modern day art.  My only saving grace was that Chandelle Scott signed up for that class too.  Chandelle was the prettiest girl in tenth grade, and I wouldn’t be over-exaggerating to say that she was one of the prettiest girls in school – hands down.  She had long and curly ebony hair that flowed down the length of her back.  Her brown eyes sparkled like sunshine.  Her smile made me feel things.  Her personality matched her kick-ass body, and she was smart.  What I liked about her most is that as fine as she knew she was, she didn’t act like it.  She didn’t walk around with this I’m-better-than-all-you-chicken-heads mentality.  In fact, she was easy to talk to you.  I sat next to her in Art until Drake Adams, the star football player, claimed that I was sitting in his seat.  With all the open seats, I just so happened to choose his seat on the very first day of class.  Not feeling like getting struck by embarrassment, I took the seat behind Chandelle.  It’s not as if I was a punk and couldn’t hold my own.  Drake was twice my size and had a reputation of having anger management issues.  One strike by him and I’d go flying across the room, and it just wasn’t worth the hassle, first thing in the morning.  Drake forced me into a better position anyway.  I got to smell Chandelle’s hair, which always smelled like flowers.  Whenever we had projects or assignments, we formed groups, and I was in her group, which was broken out by rows.   Whenever we had a test, Chandelle turned around to pass me a #2 pencil and/or testing sheet, and I’d get to see her beautiful face.  This is what made Drake want to switch places with me, but Mr. Haynes overruled his request, stating that we were in our assigned seats for the remainder of the class.  He didn’t want to redo his seating chart because he’d already started memorizing student names.  As much as I despised the class, I did get to see Chandelle, so I knew I wasn’t taking the class in vain.  All I had to do was memorize a bunch of dates, periods and compositions, and I’d ace the class.  With Chandelle and a dog as my motivation, three months of hell flew by like a breeze. 

            When I came home with my report card, my mom played a drum roll on the kitchen cabinet. 

            I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I was so proud of myself that I wanted to shed a tear.  Straight A’s. 

            “Read’um and weep,” I said to my mom.

            I knew my mom wanted to break out in tears right there on the spot.  I didn’t know if she was proud that I made the Honor Roll and President’s List or irritated that she lost a bet and would now have to live with a four-legged animal.  She looked like a mad woman the way she changed emotions so quickly from happy to irate, but I didn’t let her bi-polar episode ruin my good fortune.  I grabbed the keys off the key holder and told my mom that I’d meet her in the car.  In the car, I decided that Charlie wasn’t a good enough name for my dog.  My rover deserved a name that was as fierce as the dog I wanted to get: a Pit Bull, German Sheppard or Rottweiler. 

            By the time my mom got herself together and met me in the car, I’d figured out what I was going to call my dog. 

            And now, I was ready to find Mad Dog.