2014 Edward J. Nichols Memorial Award
The Naked Gardener
by Becky Hoy
When our family acquired Olive, my brother and I were rather
reluctant to walk her in the light of day. She was a hideous dog, part
Pomeranian, part Chihuahua with brindle fur, and, as we were told by
her previous owner who had shaved her when it got hot out, similarly
striped skin underneath. Her bulging eyes twitched from here to there
spastically as if unable to focus for too long on one object of interest, and
her affinity for snorting crumbs and other particles off of the carpet led
to regular wheezing asthma attacks. I diagnosed her immediately with
ADHD, much to the chagrin of my mother, who was positively charmed
by the small mammal.
“Oh her little face is just adorable,” she would say, before lifting
her into the air like Simba and squeezing her so hard that her eyes seemed
to be pushed even further out of their sockets. Olive didn’t mind. She
licked my mother’s face and pulled her lips back to reveal a terrifying
under bite.
Thrilled that we now had a dog, my mom was certain it would
teach my brother Pete and me some valuable lessons about responsibility,
maturity and caring for a living creature. There was probably something
in there about avoiding teenage pregnancy, too, but how anyone in their
right mind could equate Olive to a human child, I was unsure.
The lessons started flowing immediately as we were tasked with
feeding the thing each morning, putting her outside at various times
throughout the day, and walking her around the neighborhood to
“maintain her figure,” as my mom put it. Her soft spot for ugly animals
had blinded her to the fact that to parade Olive down the street would
be nearly as humiliating as dressing her in a royal blue Hannuhkah
dog dress, which my mother had unfortunately already done. Pete and
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