Mom, if you read this blog post, don’t get mad, it was written by request.

After my parent’s divorce, Lucy, our Poodle, went to live at my Grandparents’ house.  They looked after her much of the time when my parents would travel, as well as looking after me.  Some time, not long after, my mother purchased two maltese puppies, Popcorn and Crackerjack.  Super cute little white balls of fur.  Total city dogs.

Now a couple things you need to know.  Number One – we lived in a pre-war building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the kind with an elevator and an elevator man to drive it.  In old elevators like that there is a gap at the side of the car, where the door shuts (do you see where this is going?).  Number Two – Lucy had been a neurotic mess of a dog, who trembled and shook the entire ride up, so my mother would undo her leash while still in the car and the dog would dash out as soon as the door opened.  Number Three – Maltese, especially puppies, are smaller than Poodles.

My mother took the puppies for a walk.  She was coming back up in the elevator and, out of habbit, unbuckled Crackerjack’s collar and leash while the elevator was still rising.  Thank God she didn’t have time for Popcorn as well.  The door opened, the dog turned rather than running out, and we were left with one puppy.

This is a terrible, horrible sad story.  The really mean part is that I was fifteen, and Popcorn was mine and Crackerjack was hers, ostensibly, and I was so adolescent and loathsome that I told her at least she hadn’t killed my puppy.  Gah!

No picture.  What, you want cute puppies frollicking to accompany the horror?

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