It was an honor to be asked to read to my friend’s third-grade class on National Reading Day. I remembered how wonderful it was to have my boring, phonics-filled mornings interrupted by guest speakers when I went to elementary school. There were countless times I wished during art, science or social studies that a fireman would come crashing through the door to talk about the importance of smoke detectors, or a policeman would barge into the classroom to warn us about staying away from strangers. Even though I was an above-average student, I enjoyed getting a reprieve from “real work” and the monotony of listening to the same teacher’s voice droning on for hours.
The children in Mrs. Smith’s class were bright-eyed and big-mouthed before the show, yet they remained silent during the reading of my story. I told them all about my beloved greyhound. My mother and I had adopted him after he retired from competitive racing in Connecticut (he was a slowpoke — called it a career at age 3). We then retired his racing moniker, “Come Dance With Me,” as soon as we brought him home to New Jersey and rebranded him as Jeepers. He took to the new name after several weeks of ignoring us like we were speaking Spanish.
Jeepers lived a healthy, happy life away from the racetrack. He blessed my family with a plethora of unforgettable moments. There was the time Jeepers jumped into the back seat of a patrolling police car and was chauffeured around the neighborhood by the boys in blue like he was royalty; the afternoon he donned fake antlers and went trick-or-treating as a reindeer on Halloween; the moment he leaped down an entire staircase, clearing every step as I screamed, and successfully landed on all four paws on the living room floor before hammering his head into the front door. There was also the time when during a leisurely walk outside, Jeepers mistakenly thought a skunk was a rabbit and needed to be bathed in tomato juice to eradicate the sour stench he was sprayed with. Jeepers was always the center of attention.
The kids had their eyes fixated on me and wore the same glorious glows on their baby faces men wear when they see power tools in Home Depot circulars. I could hear the children softly oohing and aahing as I painted pictures of Jeepers racing around the house causing mischief for my family. They were fascinated about Jeepers because most youngsters do not come in contact with greyhounds since there are race tracks in only a handful of states, and because the breed does not garner the same attention others such as poodles and pit bulls receive. So, hearing tales of Jeepers circling the dining room table at record speeds and seeing illustrations of what he looked like as my book was passed around the classroom helped them understand the physical and mental makeup of the average greyhound. After I finished reading my 16-page story to the kiddies, I was thanked with a resounding ovation.
Mrs. Smith opened the floor for questions. So many hands went up that I thought I was at a Bon Jovi concert while the band was playing “Livin’ On a Prayer.” I prepared for questions I assumed would be asked, such as if Jeepers was faster than a sports car (only if it was motoring through a school zone), what he liked to eat (dry dog food and bacon-flavored treats) and how big his bowel movements were (legendary).
“Is Jeepers dead?” one blonde-haired girl posed for the first question.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I replied; “He passed away a few years ago.”
“How did he die?” one brunette boy then asked.
“Well, uh, well, uh, he really just died of old age,” I stammered out. Bold-faced lie. Jeepers died of a form of cancer, but I would have preferred talking about his bowel movements than wade into those waters.
“My dog died, too!” another girl announced, almost as if she was part of an exclusive club that was cool to join. I had no response and stood there with a blank, pale expression. I thought it would be sad for the kids to discuss Jeepers’ demise, but they enjoyed it as much as old busybodies enjoy talking about who’s been gaining the most weight at their adult living community.
“Before Jeepers died, what would he watch on TV?” a boy from the back wanted to know.
“I don’t know if he had a favorite show, but his ears seemed to perk up whenever I turned on the Animal Planet channel,” I replied, eliciting a collective laugh from the gallery. I hoped this would drive the interrogation down another highway. I was wrong.
“How old was Jeepers when he died?”
This was getting downright morbid. These children were more interested in death than a room full of coffin salesmen. “He was eight. That’s pretty good for a greyhound. They don’t normally live as long as other breeds of dogs.”
Mrs. Smith seized the opportunity to try and steer the line of questioning in a different direction. She must have noticed the perspiration beading on my brow and the sweat circles forming under my armpits. I wasn’t dressed entirely in black, so the kids couldn’t have mistaken me for an undertaker. “Does anybody have a question about Jeepers that doesn’t involve his death?” Mrs. Smith politely asked her class. There was a short pause until a cute, curious girl in the front of the congregation timidly raised her hand. I nodded at her.
“So, if Jeepers was eight when he died, what was his age in dog years?”
Craig Rondinone has written two books — Ten Tales To Make Your Head Explode (short story collection featured on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon) and Jeepers (children’s book utilized in reading curriculums in elementary schools) — and has had prose and poems published in several literary journals, including the Ravens Perch.
