The Incident of the Cow and the Toilet

“Hey Rod! Hey Rod! Hey Rod!” I yelled, running through our Grandmom and Grandpop’s house, looking for my brother.

As I have previously mentioned, my brother Rod was three years my elder: just close enough that we sometimes trusted each other with the most confidential of secrets. But also close enough that I annoyed, bugged and bothered him (especially when his friends were around).

But at the time of this story, we were vacationing in Philadelphia while staying at our Grandparents’ home and all Rod’s friends were back in Albuquerque. Sure, I might have been annoying him, but we both knew… I was all he had.

At this early age, all my aunts and uncles still lived in the house; the place was a zoo. Everybody was always yelling at everybody. It’s not that anyone was angry—I think their normal speaking volume was set to eleven. When the cacophony would get too overwhelming, my Grandpop would retire to the living room, turn down his hearing aid and read in peace while the chaos went on around him.

I was part of this chaos: seven years old, running around, yelling and, on this day, looking for my brother. When I found him, I dragged him to a quiet place, where no one could hear the secret I was about to disclose…

I had just been in the bathroom and, as I faced the toilet, urinating, I noticed something new resting atop the toilet: a cow. A crochet, spotted, black and white cow. Its fat body and large nose clearly communicated, “cow”.

I understood the urgency of examining this objet d’art. I must see it more closely. I must hold it.

To lift such a large item would require more than one hand. So, like a skilled jewel thief, I “let go” and, using the slightest shifts of my torso, I skillfully aimed my stream.

I had practiced the no-handed method countless times and, by age seven, I was proud of my ability to get most of the urine into the bowl… without looking down!

Easy-peasy.

Thus began part two of the operation: lifting the cow. Best to do it quickly, like snapping a diamond off its pedestal.

I am brilliant!

I am a mastermind!

I plucked the cow from its resting place.

But… as I dragged it toward me, the unexpected happened! Something large slipped out of the base of the cow.

I had no time to react! I watched in horror as this foreign object flew downward, through my stream… then a SPLOSH in the bowl below.

When the object came to a rest in the bowl, I recognized its familiar shape: a roll of toilet paper. But… stuffed inside the cow? Why?

Thinking fast, I snatched it, wet and dripping, and shoved it back into the cow.

In the first moment: panic.

In the next moment, I realized the cow looked as good as new.

I had hidden the evidence of my crimes. Suddenly, the event seemed amusing. Even hilarious. Rod would understand. He could laugh with me. At the very least, I knew he wouldn’t tattle (I knew he wouldn’t break that sacred code). He would see the humor in this. I ran around the house, looking for him.

I found him. When I told him the story, I did not expect him to laugh maniacally. And laugh and laugh and laugh. His reaction was more than I expected.

Finally he admitted… he had done the exact same thing earlier that day while peeing: he lifted the cow (to meticulously examine it) and watched as a roll of toilet paper dropped out and fell through his stream, splashing into his pee-water. His reaction… identical to my own: he rushed to pick it up and shoved it back into the cow.

We can’t know for certain, but it is likely that his wet toilet paper was the same roll that fell through my stream and into the toilet bowl.

A worse scenario: my poor grandmother might have discovered one urine-soaked roll, replaced it and, hours later, found another urine-soaked roll. I can’t imagine what she thought her grandchildren were up to.

Rod and I laughed our heads off that day. But we never thought of telling a soul.

Running from the Rapture

My walk home from school took me down a long alleyway that cut through our suburban neighborhood. I always started off walking with a few friends but, by the time I turned the corner onto our quiet street, I was alone. Invariably, I looked up and down the street; often I saw no one: no cars, no people, no movement in any of the houses. Many of these days, the same thought flashed through my head, “The “rapture” has taken place and I’ve been ‘left behind.’”

When I was six, my mom explained that, when I died I would go to a place called hell, where I would burn in a fire for all eternity. Burn and burn but never die.

But there was a simple way out of this torture: “You need to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior.” If I were to make that decision,” Mom explained, “You might even be raptured up to heaven with the rest of the family.”

My dad preached sermon after sermon about the rapture. Even when not at church, my thoughts orbited around the RAPTURE: the doctrine that Christ will someday return to swoop all believers into a wondrous golden city called the New Jerusalem (described by some, including my father, as a great pyramid that orbits the earth). My parents understood that all signs pointed to the fact that the rapture was right around the corner. It could happen any day!

“Two men walking up a hill,
One disappears and one’s left standing still.
I wish we’d all been ready.
There’s no time to change your mind,
The son has come and you’ve been left behind.”

I’ve since learned that the New Jerusalem is imagined by some Christian scholars as a cube-shaped.

We sang this chorus regularly. To this day, the lyrics are etched into my brain.

At seven, all talk of the rapture terrified me.
Day after day, I sprinted home from the exit of the alley, half-expecting to find that Mom had vanished—that our home would be empty—that I would be forced to find a way to survive by myself during the predicted “tribulation”.

Each day, I would burst through the front door and… Mom was there to greet me!

Day after day, the rapture had not yet taken place. Eventually my dad seemed to lose interest in it and his sermons veered to topics of more earthly importance.

Bonded by Blood

In the far corner of our second-grade playground, near the chain-link-fence, a massive tractor tire lay on its side. That tire was the perfect place for certain kids to congregate, to gossip, tell stories and shoot the breeze (despite the fact that it smelled like urine).

On one fine day, four of us were sitting in a circle, conversing as we watched the world go by.

First, there was Gretchen. She called herself a “tom-boy” and was one of my best friends. She lived a few houses down from where I lived; we played together all the time.

Gretchen was cool.

Then there was Johnny, a dark-haired boy from our class. He wasn’t exactly a great friend, but he was decent enough.

Lastly, there was Sam, a boy from another class. I rarely saw him. He had buggy eyes, short-chopped hair and seemed a bit needy.

I don’t remember which one of us introduced the idea of becoming blood brothers. I’m guessing it was either me or Gretchen: we both loved risk and high adventure! Once the idea was presented, it took less than a minute for all four of us to agree. We had no time to waste… recess would be over soon.

One small problem: we had no knife.

But I was a boy scout and I had learned to be resourceful in the most dire situations. Because when you’re out there in the wilderness, trying to survive, you have to make do.

Quickly, we searched around the tire. In a matter of minutes, we found a small shard of glass. It felt like a sign!

Note: The four of us had no idea of the grave danger we might have potentially caused ourselves. If you read the following and think the activity sounds fun, please bear in mind, the sharing of blood is a great way to catch all manner of diseases. Or die.

The glass was razor sharp. With a light skimming of the glass across my index finger, blood began to drip. Johnny and Sam followed suit; blood dripped from their fingers.

So far, our plan worked perfectly.

But when Gretchen held the glass to her finger and yanked, nothing happened. She tried again. And again. At last, she came to the realization that she couldn’t bring herself to do the deed. No matter how hard she tried… no matter how much she wanted it… Gretchen could not make her right hand damage the left hand.

Finally she did the only sensible thing and she asked me to take care of it for her. I was honored

I took the shard in one hand and I held her finger in the other.

I am sure this will be as easy as slicing my own finger. Easier!

But I did not account for the fact that I couldn’t feel the pressure of the glass “blade” against her skin. I yanked… delicately. Or so I thought, but I instantly knew something was wrong. I gazed in horror. The wound was deep. Very very deep. At first, there was no blood. In the next second, blood… everywhere. Endless amounts of blood.

To this day, I still recoil whenever I think of the gash in Gretchen’s finger.

Gretchen was not immune to the pain. But she was not going to loose this opportunity and we all pushed our fingers together—more blood continued to pour out of her wound. She did not shed a tear. BAM! That was it. We were blood brothers. No more ceremony. No words.

At that age, from our pout-of-views, becoming a blood brother was the deepest bond one can make with another person. We would live and die for our fellow blood brothers. This bond cut as deep as any family bond (maybe deeper). All four of us understood the meaning of this.

The problem is that, on a whim, I had become blood brothers with three kids, one of whom I barely liked… or actively disliked. The needy, buggy-eyed Sam was now my blood brother. Now, if he wanted to play with us, we had to go out of our way to include him. We shared an eternal destiny with Sam. It didn’t matter that he was annoying. Or strange. He was one of us now. We were a family.

From time to time, I wondered about the folly of having not more carefully chosen my blood brothers. Gretchen was a perfect choice. But what about the other two? Wouldn’t my good friend, Casey, have made a better blood brother? Or my best friend, Matthew? Why had I jumped into this whole blood-brother thing, without thinking of the long-term impact?

One day, I was sitting in class and a teacher came to the door; she asked for Gretchen, Johnny and myself. I was so sure that we were in big MASSIVE trouble. We were led down the long hallway while it was explained to us that once a month, Sam gets to invite three friends to his special class.

Special class? What kind of special class? What could this mean?

I’ll be honest: all I remember is the trampoline. We all bounced and bounced on that trampoline for two hours, maybe more. Blood-Brothers-Four, in harmony!

Why was there a trampoline in Sam’s classroom? As an adult, I have made educated guesses but, as a child, I only learned one lesson from this encounter: becoming blood brothers with someone you don’t like pays off in the long run.

Our family moved from Albuquerque the following year.

It was a relief to leave my blood brothers behind.

The Kindergarten Dropout

I was jazzed about attending Kindergarten. Mega-jazzed. I’ll tell you why.

We were driving down Route 66 in Albuquerque at night, surrounded by a marvelous chaos of lights and bright signs. To my five-year-old eyeballs, all of those marks and squiggles on the signs were meaningless. However, I understood that, to the trained mind, these marks could be translated into… meaning. I tugged on my brother, Rod’s (8) shirt, and pointed to a sign, asking him, “What does that say?” At eight, he was proud to display his newly gained reading ability. I was awestruck as he read with such speed and dexterity! Magic. This was magic!

As we drove, he read more signs. And more signs. I listened as if he were an oracle. Or a poet.

This is all true. No exaggeration.

I asked, how are doing this? His explanation shook me to the core (and I have never forgotten his exact words), “When you learn to read, a whole new world opens up to you.”

I didn’t take these words figuratively. I looked around at the bright lights and the thousands of mysterious marks, and I understood his words in a fantastical sense. Rod (and my parents) were beholding a world that was invisible to me.

A WORLD!

I had to learn to read before I could see or enter this world! It was everywhere. But I must break the code before the scales would fall from my eyes!

This class is similar to my own kindergarten class. Note the lack of books.

Upon entering kindergarten I had no time to waste. I was ready to read. Quickly! No time for dilly-dally.

Instead, we began rehearsing the alphabet? Again and again and again. And learning cursive? I was no genius but, at this pace, I would never get to that world. Nothing was happening. I hated the monotony of kindergarten.

Because I gave away my Matchbox car, I am including this image as substitute.

Christmas was drawing near (and yes, I had made it that far into the school year). On the last day of school, before Holiday vacation, the school was planning their Christmas gift exchange. I had never been to a gift exchange didn’t understand what it meant. I knew I had to bring a wrapped gift. Without telling my parents, I choose a Matchbox car from my own collection—not my very favorite car, but pretty damn awesome. “My sacrifice will make it more valuable to any lucky boy or girl,” I thought, as I wrapped it (as best I could).

Unfortunately, when I chose the gift, I was not aware of the small-gift-goes-last rule.

Before the exchange began, the teachers took each of our presents and placed each student into a large circle. I wasn’t paying much attention to the process because I was salivating over the size of some of the gifts! It was probable that I would get my hands on an actual big toy, the kind that Santa brought to us on Christmas morning. My mind was blown by the sheer amount of large shiny boxes. Look at all those toys! By the time we were all seated, I felt it from deep inside; I was going to get my hands on something awesome—I would definitely get a present that kicked ass on my used Matchbox car.

But… oh… what about the poor sap who ends up with my Matchbox car? It was the tinyest, shittiest looking gift in the pile. No one would choose that… not unless they were forced.

My present is too small to see. It’s hidden, on the opposite side of that mountain of huge gifts.

When the rules were explained, I realized, this whole thing was one big con. We hadn’t been randomly seated; each student had been seated relative to the size of their gift. Yes, we might be sitting in something that looked like a circle, but the boy to my left (having brought the largest gift) was first in line. Guess who was the last in line (based on the size of my gift)?

I couldn’t believe the teachers could be so illogical. So unfair. What if my tiny box contained a diamond ring? The teachers couldn’t know. They couldn’t judge by its size. Everyone knows that you can’t judge value by size.

I watched as child after child ran to fetch their gifts, tearing off the glittering paper, jumping up and down with joy, most of them ending up with pretty cool merch.

A day to remember.

At last, there was just me and the boy to my right. And two presents left. He took my Matchbox car. His disappointment was evident.

I forced a smile and bit my tongue as I ran to retrieve the only remaining present. I only remember that it was not used and it was slightly larger than my Matchbox car. I went home that day humiliated and disappointed.

But… Christmas vacation had begun! Yay!

No more kindergarten for a couple weeks. Rest. Wonderful food. Christmas day! Christmas presents! Christmas trees and lights and carols and Christmas TV specials (which back then only came on once a year). Paradise. But all good things must end.

If you’ve ever spent much time around a five-year-old you are aware that most of them don’t spend a lot of time planning far in advance. A few days before school was set to begin, the dread set in and I understood—I deeply understood—Kindergarten was not for me. I made the decision… no more kindergarten. But how was I going to achieve this? I’d have to play it by ear.

So the first day of school, after vacation, my mom drove me to school. When we arrived, I broke it to her, “I’m not learning to read and I’m not going back.” I did not mention the Christmas exchange, because I understood that she would not be sympathetic about my desire for a larger gift. Instead, I stuck to academics: the only argument I could win.

I made it clear to her (in no uncertain terms) that I hated school. I knew my alphabet backwards and forward but my teacher kept reviewing it again and again. I needed to learn to read. I made it clear: this was the end. I was not stepping foot into that classroom, no matter what she said or did. Needless to say, there was gnashing of teeth and shedding of tears.

Flummoxed, she said, “Let me go talk to your teacher.”

Then the most heinous thing happened.

I waited in the car for what seemed like forever. I was probably picking my nose or climbing over the seats or playing with the spiral light of the cigarette lighter when, unexpectedly, my entire kindergarten class came out to the car and began to bang on the windows of the car, slapping their hands, laughing and yelling, “Robyn, come back, Robyn, come back!”

Seriously? This is your attempt to change my mind? A stunt like this did nothing but increase my resolve. And my fury. And my confusion (remember, I was five). So I did the only logical thing I could think of: I curled up in the fetal position on the floor of the back seat and covered my ears with my hands. And I probably cried. I’m not saying I did, but I probably did.

Smart thinking.

I stayed in this position, waiting until the sound of the children vanished, and my mom got in the car and we drove away.

And this is how I dropped out of kindergarten and never went back.

I did eventually learn to read during the first and second grade where I realized Rod’s words were figurative. Bummer. Reading wasn’t disappointing. But nothing can really compare to a key that unlocks a fantastic realm.

Erratic World of Science!

When I was nine, I wanted a microscope. I mean, I really really wanted a microscope. And for Christmas, I got one! The kit came with loads of strange chemicals (that would not be included with any child’s chemistry set today), a bunsen burner, one glass jar containing one frog (in formaldehyde), and a dissection kit (which included three or four very sharp knives of differing shapes and sizes). Because I was still vacillating between brain surgery and animation as career choices, the frog excited me! I felt I might even give it a try at some point… in the future.

But for the time being, the microscope was my passion. I looked at everything and anything under the powerful eye of that magical microscopic eye! In my journal, I drew whatever I examined.

I loved my little microscope Journal. I felt like a real scientist! It was all so cool.

One lazy day, about six months after I had been given the microscope kit, I felt the itch to dissect an animal—how hard could it be?

I decided that the backyard was the correct place for this experiment. The noon day Hawaiian sun provided ample light for the proceedure. Four pins came with the kit. I can’t recall to what surface I pinned the frog. I choose a blade. It was curved and razor sharp. So far, the procedure was going well. I was pleased.

The first incision was light, from top to bottom.

Though aged, this a similar specimen as the one in my microscope kit. The inhalation of vapors may have led to my erratic behavior.

Do not read on if you have an uneasy stomach.

I was astonished to discovered an outer layer of skin, like green cellophane (or so I remember). I peeled it back a little and I was suddenly stuck with the impulse to abandon the entire process. But I must not stop. How could ever be a brain surgeon if I couldn’t even bring myself to dissect one tiny little frog!

Following the same line I had just cut, I quickly pushed downward, through the frog’s “inner skin”, from throat to belly (and forgive me for not knowing the anatomical frog-names of these frog-parts).

To this day, I can still see everything inside that fucking frog. It was a nightmare. A terror to my nine year old eyes. I won’t describe it. I will say… the worst part: its abdomen was filled with hundreds of eggs. I gazed. Frozen. All those little preserved eggs. Finally I forced myself to poke at its intestines.

Then I panicked. Logic fled. I needed to hide the evidence. It never occurred to me to put this poor dead frog into our trash can. Instead, in my terror, I picked up the frog and I threw it over the fence into our neighbor’s yard.

Afterwards, there was a moment of “Wait, why did I just do that?” But, of course, it was too late. There was no way in hell that I was going to climb over the fence and retrieve that grotesque mess I made. Though after that time, I wondered, did our neighbors find it? If so, I can only imagine what they thought.

I continued using my microscope. I continued keeping my notebook, but I was done with dissection. And from that point on, I understood that I was never going to make it as a brain surgeon.

The Poop Prestige

You will not be as astounded when reading this story as I was while experiencing it (as a seven year old) because you are older, smarter and wiser. At the age of seven, the world is new and many things seem impossible (which is why I only ever do magic tricks for anyone under the age of six).

This is the story of an elaborate magic trick. If my brother, Rod, were telling the story, he might begin with the poop. As the sole audience member, I feel it wise to begin with the dog.

I was seven when we drove across town to meet our new dog and bring her home from the dog breeders. She was a small gray poodle and, for some reason, the breeders thought she would be perfect for our family. We had no choice in the matter. I remember that specifically. I remember them saying, “She is the perfect breed for your family.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I instinctively hated the name: Susie Cutie Silver Bell. The breeders recommended we keep her name because she would respond to that. Why couldn’t we call her something else? Anything else? The breeders were old and they smelled funny. Their house smelled like pee and old food. They had dozens of animals everywhere in cages. They were the kind of old people that liked a name like Susie Cutie Silver Bell.

On the way home, I argued with my parents, “Please, can we rename her—she’ll get used to the new name.”

“No honey,” my Mom explained, “Remember what the breeder’s said?”

Right off the bat, things were doomed.

I was so excited to get a dog, but Susie Cutie Silver Bell (or as I will refer to her from this point forward, SCSB) was spoiled and nasty, she did not like to cuddle, she was not interested in humans (or dogs), and, to my seven-year-old mind, she seeemed haughty and too good for us. I wanted to like her, but she and I could never get along. She spent most of her days preening and pruning around the house, like she owned the place.

In hindsight, right now, at this very moment, I wonder, was it about her name? Was I prejudiced to never love her because could I, as a seven-year-old, never bring myself to bond with a dog named Susie Cutie Silver Bell? Or was it her? Was she a little bitch?

Around the time of the Prestige, I decided to play behind our living couch. I pulled the couch away from the wall, revealing 15 - 20 little SCSB’s poops: each of which was about the size of my seven-year-old pinkie finger. My parents were disgusted. My brothers and I were amused (and slightly disgusted).

Needless to say, this act of defiance did nothing to bond me to SCSB. I wanted the kind of dog like I saw on TV shows and movies: a dog that would follow me around the house and neighborhood—loyal to the end. I wanted a dog to play catch and tug-a-war with. Man’s best friend… etc...

I felt far more warmth toward the TV than to our dog. As it was, one day, I was in the den watching cartoons, when my older brother burst into the room. He was 10 (and at my age that meant he was practically an adult). He was not in a happy mood. “Robyn, you idiot!” he sputtered, “You were supposed to pick up Susie’s poop! All of it!”

His face was red. I was too startled to speak.

“Follow me. Hurry.”

I follow him because he seemed so upset and because he was my big brother. I must have done something very very wrong. We rushed through the house. From the den to the dinning room to the living room and out the front door. How could I have forgotten to have pick up SCSB’s poop? Was I suppose to pick up SCSB’s poop?

We soon outside under the blazing New Mexico sun. Think… a typical suburban neighborhood from the 1970’s—every home is a ranch style, no basements. Rod, still fuming, points at fresh (almost glistening) piece of dog poop, sitting in the grass. From the looks of it, this poop has been freshly laid. Rod continues, “Look at it! Why didn’t you pick it up?! Just pick it up already!”

Very confused and suddenly wondering why I followed him outside, I say nothing. I want to say, “Stop. Don’t yell at me.”

“Robyn, sheesh. Just pick up the poop, you idiot… with your hands! What are you so scared of? You just pick it up… like this!”

Leaning over, he picks up the dog dung. He shakes his head, and sticks out his lips—he’s disgusted at my cowardice. He lifts the filth near his open mouth. I’m thinking, “It’s a joke… it must be another one of his jokes.” Until it touches the poop to his tongue, closes his lips around it, and begins to chew. And chew and chew, seeming to enjoy the torture I am experiencing… until he swallows.

I am seven years old. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I want to vomit.

Then… his hysterical laughter. And more laughter… I am sure he’s lost his mind.

Obviously, he did not eat dog poop. He set this trick up in advance by making a pan of brownies, setting one aside and sculpting it into a tiny turd, and placing it into our front yard, After that, all he needed was his own acting ability and his younger (gullible) brother.

Post- show, he was nice enough to invite me in for a pan full of home-made brownies!

What ever happened to SCSB? We moved to Hawaii two years later and my parents gave her back to the breeders from which we got her: probably better for her and for us.

Starting Things Off

I have decided to make some changes here at my site. First, a new online newsletter (blog)? And then a few visual changes and a new masthead. I wanted something simple and whimsical, representing some of the stories I’ll be writing (from my childhood). I used AI to try to describe the Fisher Price toys I used to play with (around age 5).

I thought it might be fun to post some of my other potential contenders:

Which is your favorite? If there’s an overwhelming vote in any direction, I still have time to change things up.