Yesterday, after my ex-brother-in-law's memorial service, I saw a photograph of him taken some time in the late sixties or early seventies. He was sitting in the driver's seat of a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle, with Shawn the Poodle in his lap. Shawn was a demon. He had not crossed my mind in years. I told the following story to my nephew's wife, who was sitting next to me when I saw the picture.
I don't know what year it was, but my BIL had gone off to boot camp in the early 70s, and my sister and Shawn were mostly staying at my parents' house while he was gone. They slept on the couch in the living room. Shawn stayed home with my mother when my sister went to work each day.
Pretty soon, my mother started to complain that her "drawers" were disappearing. One day, she caught Shawn sneaking behind the couch with something in his mouth and, sure enough, when she looked behind the couch, there were her missing panties.
But when she started to pull the couch away from the wall, Shawn went into attack mode. He zoomed behind the couch and, stationing himself between Mother and her underwear, went into a crouch, growled, and bared his teeth.
My mother wasn't having it. She grabbed the broom and battled her way in, alternately swiping at her drawers and fending off the attack. She won the round and reclaimed her drawers. Shawn learned what the business end of a broom tastes like.
Now that I think about it, my sister, who is a very sweet person, has a history of owning the meanest dogs in the world. There was Shawn, and then Buckwheat - some kind of little dustmop lap dog. Buckwheat nearly ate my aunt's nose off when she leaned down to say hello to him. And then Sparky, a rescued Yorkie-ish dog who attacked just about everyone except my sister. I guess it's a good thing she likes little dogs.
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