For this blog chain round, Jonathon Arnston asks:
Imagine the home where you grew up, and start drawing a floor plan. As you draw, memories will surface. Grab onto one of those memories and tell us a story.
My puppy is missing. She's been here for less than a week, and she's already sick of me.
"Ruby?" I scan through the jungle-ish backyard, seeing nothing but green. And a bit of brown, but that's a stump--when we first moved here, this huge coconut tree towered over the whole house. Dad had the good sense to cut it down, though. Whenever a coconut fell, I'd gasp so loud, you'd think the Backstreet Boys had arrived at my doorstep. Shirtless. But there are no shirtless Backstreet Boys and no Ruby here today. Just green and a bit of brown.
I walk back inside the house. My dog isn't on her throne, the red velvet recliner Mom bought for those of the human variety. She's not hiding behind the home theater speakers, either. Or in front of the big floor fan, which blows her hair out as if she's racing through a hurricane.
Someone is shouting in my parents' bedroom. I walk down the hall, ignoring the Vin Diesel poster taped on my door, and head into the room at the end. The TV is turned on. Cartoons are arguing about something. My little brother lies on my parents' bed, totally out cold. He holds on to the bed sheets as he snores.
And sleeping right beside him, paws up and on the sheets, is Ruby.
I sigh. "You've got to be kidding me..."
So. There you have it, folks. One of the most traumatizing memories of my life. I am still going to therapy because of it.
Thanks to Jon for an awesome topic! Make sure you check out Christine's entry over at her blog!