We had a laundry chute in my childhood home. Aside from being useful in collecting dirty laundry, it provided entertainment for my sister and me. We would play “office” by attaching strings to messages which we sent up and down the chute. It also provided other kinds of entertainment, most of which I don’t recall.

One thing that DOES come into mind is the time I scribbled with crayon all over the inside of the chute. I am not sure what possessed me at the moment to do this, but I do recall feeling guilty during the act, so I decided to sign the masterpiece with my sister Susie’s name. At the time I wasn’t exactly sure how any lines were needed to make the letter “E,” so I added a few extra just to be sure.

When my mother found the drawing, she asked my sister and me about it. “Who me?” I replied, “I didn’t do it.”The letter “E” turned out to be the smoking gun that identified the criminal, because as my sister pointed out SHE knew how to write her name. And thus I was identified as the culprit.



Well I just identified another criminal.

My dog isn’t supposed to sit on the white chair; the one with the fluffy red pillow. When I got home from work, Buddy was lying on the floor with a sweet little innocent look on his face.

I asked him if he had been sleeping on the chair, but that didn’t get me very far, because when I speak, this is what he hears:


He looked at me with a look on his face as if to say, “Who, me? I didn’t do it. I’ve been sleeping on the floor”

Not getting far with the interrogation, I looked at the pillow on the chair.

Yup, it was squished.




Illusions of Grandeur

I think that Buddy is suffering from illusions of grandeur.

He thinks he is a BIG dog.

He isn’t. He is a sixteen pound little puff ball

Apparently he doesn’t think so. When I take him to the doggy park, he jumps up on benches and rocks so he is eyeball-to-eyeball with the biggest dog in the park. He has absolutely no use for dogs that are his size. He wants to run with the BIG BOYS. He wants to carry the BIG stick.

I understand.

I remember announcing at dinner one evening when I was around ten years old that I had something important to discuss with my supposed parents. I had read about Princess Anne of England in my Weekly Reader, and of course had come to understand that I had been switched at birth with her. The intention of the switch was to ensure that I wouldn’t be spoiled, and that when I reached the age of 18 I would return to England and take my rightful place among British royalty.

I was indignant when my parents burst into laughter. Worse, after that my mother began to call me “Queenie,” as in “Go pick up your toys, Queenie.”

I am not going to burst Buddy’s bubble. If he thinks he is big, then he IS big.

“You go get ‘em, Buddy, you are a BIG BOY!”

photo: http://www.tiaratown.com/princess.html
photo: Buddy with Stick by Andrew McIntyre