On a spring Saturday morning in 1972 our Los Angeles household was working its way toward hectic. My husband, Bob, had a 12:30 rehearsal with his youth orchestra in downtown Los Angeles, 30 minutes from home. He was running late. Our son, Andy, 14, played oboe in the orchestra. He was making snail-like preparations.
Daughter Erica, 11, was immersed in the business of selling her Sheltie puppy, the last of a litter of four to be placed. We had an ad in the L.A. Times and prospective customers were to arrive any minute.
The puppy was what teachers called “special ed” in those days. Not a high achiever. Not particularly good looking. A bit clumsy. Several people had looked and left. Nearing the point of giving him away, we planned to be very flexible on price.
As Bob was gathering his scores and baton, prodding Andy to get moving, the doorbell rang. It was the puppy-seeking family – mom, dad and an extremely hyperactive son of about four.
“I had a puppy,” he announced. “But I dropped him down the stairs and he died.”
Erica turned white, began to sprout tears, and headed for the master bedroom, where Bob had gone to search for his watch. Andy went with her, to help with the situation.
In the living room, I watched as the family toyed with the puppy.
“We’ll take him,” said the dad.
I excused myself, saying I would be right back.
In the bedroom Bob pawed through dresser drawers, asking Andy if he was finally ready. Andy said loudly, again and again, “You CAN’T sell it to those people! You’d kill it!”
Erica sobbed, imploring somebody to do something.
“Let’s GO!” said Bob.
“Not until those people are gone!” said Andy.
“Mom!” said Erica. “I can’t let them have it! I just can’t. He killed his other puppy!”
Oh, lord. What to do? The other three pups had gone at $75 each. I hadn’t told this family the price. Maybe . . . .
I returned to the living room, closing the hall door in hopes of muffling the chaos.
“The puppy is $400,” I said.
“Fine,” said the dad.
“Excuse me a moment,” I said, returning to the bedroom.
“Erica, here’s the deal,” I said. “They want the puppy and will pay you $400 for it. You’ve been saving for a bike, remember? This will buy you two, three bikes. I know it’s hard, but maybe it’ll be okay.”
Andy was incensed. “How could you even say a thing like that. Geez!”
“I never dreamed they’d accept,” I attempted to say. No one paid the slightest attention. I herded Bob and Andy out the back bedroom door, which led around to the patio and the car. Whew!
“Okay,” I said to Erica. “I’ll be right back.”
In the living room I invited the family to sit. They did, except for the kid who was cart wheeling around the living room, dining room and kitchen.
“My daughter is very worried,” I ventured. “She is afraid that something awful will happen to the puppy because your son, you know, accidentally killed the other one.”
“I understand that,” said the mom. “I can assure you that it won’t happen again. We have a full time maid. She will protect the puppy, I promise. Your daughter can come visit whenever she wants, to make sure the puppy is okay.”
“Maybe if you tell her that, it will help,” I said.
I fetched a distraught, tear-stained child who glared at all three of them – well, at two of them. Junior was busy pulling books off the shelves in the nearby den. In the gentlest of voices, the woman said, “We love this puppy. We promise that we won’t let anything bad happen to him. We live near here, in Culver City. You can bike over and visit him whenever you want. It will be fine.”
The dad peeled four $100 bills from a considerable wad. “Here you go, young lady,” he said. “Please come visit. We very much hope that you do.”
When the front door closed, Erica examined the bills. Never had she seen so much cash.
“I’m gonna visit those people every single week,” she announced.
And she did. For two weeks.
Great story. I have_zero_ recollection of this event.
How could Andy not remember this? It sounds like a classic that was probably oft-repeated!