Dog Stew

Before his death - a drunken, late night collision with a wandering plow horse - Gene and Buttons were what Nana called joined at the hip and you never saw one without the other.  Buttons trotted patiently at Gene's side to and from the factory, to and from the days of fishing, to and from Saturday night dances and Sunday morning services.  He was a faithful and ever present companion, well trained and protective, even tempered when Gene was not, and bright as a new penny - which folks also said Gene was frequently not.  Besides our two dogs, Buttons was the only other island animal that Nana would consent to having inside our house.  He's a gentleman, she liked to say,  He earns his keep and knows his place.  Buttons would bark agreeably at this and lay his shaggy head on her lap, eyes soulful and shining in hopes of a treat.  When it came, he would take it delicately from her outstretched fingers with never an impatient nip, and lay contently lay at her feet.  Good manners, she would say with a smile, makes for a good dog.  Not like some I know, this with a scowl at Lady and Fritz who danced around her feet like wind up toys at the prospect of a biscuit, Actin' like their damn throats been cut!  She didn't precisely not like animals, my daddy often told me, but she didn't see that they served much use unless you could consume them.  Dog stew!  she would frequently threaten under her breath, Gonna make me some dog stew tonight if you two don't get out from underfoot!  The first time I heard this, I was horrified and ran to her in uncontrolled tears - Somebody needs to teach this child about exaggeration, she told my mother with an impatient toss of her apron as she began to sternly now-now me, Ain't nobody gonna cook those dogs, child, it's just an expression and I didn't mean it.  She didn't relent often or easily and an apology, even to a child, was hard won.  She shooed me and the dogs out of the house with a rare wink,

Gene and Buttons followed close behind and my mother discreetly kept silent.


Approval came hard in the maternal side of our family and praise was seen as needless and ingratiating, a sure way to spoil a child and inflate a young and impressionable ego.  Perhaps it was the harsh Nova Scotia winters or the natural New England reticence - perhaps just that women raised with only negative reinforcement tend to repeat the cycle - my mother was raised coldly and indifferently as was her mother before her, as was I after.  When my mother was married in the 1940's, children were an obligation rather than a choice or a decision.  Being an unquestioned extension of marriage is no trifling matter when you come to realize that you were less wanted than required - my brothers and I proved to be ill fitting accessories at best - not quiet, not content, not perfect, not flattering, not even fulfilling.   


Contrary to what the child rearing books of the day liked to proclaim, parenting is not for the faint of heart,
the selfish, the malcontented, or the approval seeking.  Sometimes it's all just leftovers and dog stew.