Now, I'm a Dog-Person

I’m not allowed to have hamsters as pets anymore. When I was eight years old my hamster, Mr. Butters, bit me. The Texas summer seemed like a perfect time to take him outside for a roll in the hamster ball. Nocturnal by nature, Mr. Butters was not in the mood for exercise.

So, he bit me.

My training from analyzing Doogie Howser, M.D. kicked into fourth gear: Apply pressure to the wound. Find a bandage. Our household was all out bandages, but I had the next best thing. With expert finesse, I return to the back yard, injury adorned with my mother’s white bath towel. Before you jump to conclusions, rest assured that I wasn’t so absent minded as to use her decorative bath towels. Mom was very clear that the towels hanging on wall hooks were for décor only! This was evident by the still attached price tag meticulously tucked out of sight (imagine being an eight year old trying to explain the difference between decorative and useable bathroom towels to friends).

Returning to my play outside, I was certain the wound would have no trouble clotting… at least it would have clotted had my mom allowed. Through the kitchen window, she takes interest in the blood stained bath towel surgically fitted to my hand. I hear her before she even steps foot outside, “¡JOSUE!” (My Hispanic birth name, usually preludes panic or imminent harm). She charges at me.

“IT’S NOT A DECORATIVE TOWEL! I SWEAR IT’S NOT!” I pleaded.

In a fluid swipe comparable only to veteran prize fighters, she removed the towel and lifted the injured hand to her eye level along with my dangling body. Blood erupted from the wound as if it had been suddenly frightened out of my hand. Carrying my hand, with me attached, inside the house we immediately called the town pediatrician, Dr. Julie. Promptly, my mother had us transferred to the emergency room. A week later, Mr. Butters was returned to the previous owner.

Now, I’m a dog owner.

Where the Hell was Modern Parenting when I was a Kid?

“¡Josue!” said in a piercing low growl, usually followed by “¡Hoy te Pego!” is a phrase my mother was all too familiar with using. It’s a tornado siren of impending doom and the harm to come, except tornadoes are friendlier. First, the sharp hiss of my Hispanic birth name, “¡Josue!” with inverted exclamation mark and all! Then, the promise of harm to come: “¡Hoy…”, meaning
“today”, and “…te pego!” translating to “…will hit you!”

“¡JOSUE, HOY TE PEGO!”

or

“Joshua, today I will hit you!”

I’m very apt to blocking after eighteen years. I can endure a furious maelstrom of slaps and screams. Chupacabra has nothing on Mama Flores.