Bandit's Breath

When my mother showed us a photo of him, he looked like a guinea pig. He was black and white with a pink nose. He was too young to leave his mother so we had to wait to meet our new Shetland sheepdog. The day finally arrived when he was big enough to be separated from his mother.

He was such a tiny little pup and he had breath that smelled like hot black tar. He was our first family dog. His tummy was still bare of fur and speckled with black and pink freckles. We had a little cardboard box for him to sleep in. My mother complained he would never learn to walk if I kept carrying him everywhere. But, he was so cute; I couldn’t let him out of my arms. One night over dinner, we debated over a long list of names for him.

“How about Domino since he’s black and white?” I offered.

“How about Sweetie Pie?” chimed in my sister whose pets had names like Cutie Pie or Hymie and Dimie.

My mother did not look impressed with any of our creations.

“How about Mud Pie?” piped up my father.

“Ugh,” my mother said with a scowl.

“How about Toby?” I said, one of my friend’s dogs had this name and I liked it.

“How about Bandit?” said my father.

“Yes!” we all seemed to say in unison.

“Very good,” exclaimed my mother.

“And his middle name can be Toby!” I added.

No one seemed to care about his middle name, so no one disagreed. And there it was, our new puppy “Bandit Toby Meriweather”

Thanks to me, he quickly learned to sit, “give me your paw,” lie down, roll over, and some other tricks that were less appreciated like climbing onto the kitchen table. He learned all these tricks in one or two days.

Taking him on walks was awful. He would pull on the leash mercilessly and pee on every plant, bush, strand of grass and pole. One of the most annoying habits was his herding. He was a Shetland sheepdog. Herding was in his blood. We let him roam free in our neighborhood as we lived across from a lake and far away from busy streets.

Bandit tried to herd anyone and anything. A jogger would be in view and soon Bandit would be running dangerously close circles around the poor soul, barking at his heels. Some joggers threw rocks at him. In the morning, he would chase our school bus as far as he could go but at some point, the bus was just too fast for him to keep up. My face would flame up red with embarrassment while Bandit barked and chased us. The children watched him out their bus windows laughing.

He also herded the horses that frequently passed by our house as there was an equestrian center in our neighborhood. He scared them terribly and would then eat their manure. This was another disgusting habit of his. He’d run up to us, panting his horse poop breath in our faces.

“Oh, Bandit!” we’d cry and then announce, “Mom, Bandit ate horse manure again!”

“Disgusting”, my mother would say to him and sometimes she’d brush his teeth.

As my sister and I reached puberty, we’d cry in horror as we’d walk into the house after school and discover ripped up maxi-pads strewn all over the living room floor. Bandit was known to rummage through the garbage bins when he was alone.

“Oh, Bandit! Disgusting!” we’d say as we hurriedly collected all the bits of bloody cotton before anyone came home. Bandit was capable of eating practically anything without any complex whatsoever.

One afternoon after the school bus dropped me off, I realized I did not have my house key and no one was at home. I figured my mother would be home in an hour or so and I could wait outside in the backyard. We had an apple tree that my father had planted several years ago. I was starving and our little tree had several tiny apples. I picked an apple and began to eat it. It was very starchy and not tasty. Then I felt the urge to go Number Two.

I promise, I tried to hold it. But, it was becoming an urgent situation. I began to desperately scan our yard to see if there was some private place. I glanced at the space underneath our deck several times, contemplating my pooping place. Holding it in became unbearable so I crouched under the deck and tried to dig a hole into the earth with a stick. I squatted and relieved myself and then carefully buried my scat.

I didn’t tell anyone about this as I was easily embarrassed and flushed merely from hearing the word “fart.”

That evening before going to bed, we were all hanging out in my parent’s bedroom. Bandit used to play outside every night until one of us called him inside for bedtime. When it was time for him to come in, one of us would open the door and yell as loudly as possible, “Baaaandiiiiiit! Cookie!” He’d come running to the door.

That evening, my mother let him into the house and he jumped onto the bed joining us and panting.

“Oh, Bandit!” cried my mother, “You ate horse manure again.

“Gross!” my sister said catching a whiff.

As Bandit happily breathed in my direction, I realized it was not horse manure. I knew what it was and I was mortified.

“Gross,” I said feeling my face change several shades of pink. I managed to leave the room. “Good night," I called over my shoulder. Let them think Bandit ate horse manure, I told myself. I quickly retreated to my bedroom, my heart racing. Never had I been so embarrassed in my life.

The next day before I went to school, I walked to the back yard, back to my secret place. There was an empty hole in the dirt under the deck. My deepest fear had been confirmed. I never told a soul. I couldn’t bare the humiliation. Until now, Bandit’s breath was a secret.