When I was 5 years old, the neighbor kids asked me if I wanted to accompany them to a forest pond and “catch water dogs.” Though I had never heard this term, I owned three volumes of Animal Kingdom Illustrated, one of which showed a picture of roughly a dozen Labrador Retrievers frolicking in a pond. A dog. Lots of dogs! I’m bringing home lots of dogs! I thought. I ran to my room and removed the laces from every shoe in my closet. The laces would serve to help me bridle these maverick labs back to my house. I vividly remember my mother standing at the sink washing dishes as she nodded in approval at my request to “go get something at the pond.” There was no way I was going to give her an opportunity for a preemptive strike on these dogs (i.e. maternus detestus caninus). I then raced out the door to meet the others at the mailboxes. The coffee cans carried by the other boys caused me some bewilderment, but it was their awkward stares at my shoestrings that created a cloud of confusion. Shoulders shrugged and we moved on. Coffee cans? How will you catch dogs with coffee cans? I assumed they were going to attempt to lure the dogs from the pond with the ol’ “empty can of food” trick, one that I had seen my grandfather utilize hundreds of times to manipulate horses. Maybe I should have brought a coffee can.On the way to the pond I heard talk of “scar[ing] them into the shallow end,” and of the construction of a “sand dam,” as tactics we would employ in the arrest of the dogs. Scaring the dogs in any direction seemed to undermine our ultimate goal. “They’ll just run off,” I interjected. “No they won’t. They don’t have legs,” said the boys, in unison. Before this ghastly disclosure, I was daunted by the image of the size of sand dam we would need to build in order to constrain large dogs. Now, their plans were very logical; it would be a small dam to prevent the labs from floating away. We weren’t dealing with your average yard dog – these were quadruple-amputees confined to the bounds of a forest pond.
Now, irrespective of whether a judgmental society had banished them to this pond, or whether their exile was self-imposed, I was still perplexed that so many of the misfits made their way to the same pond in Payson, Arizona. Could this be the “elephant graveyard” for handicapped Labrador Retrievers? “How did they get to the pond?” I asked. “They were born there, stupid,” I was sharply informed. I was immediately afraid of the forest and the pond. I now pictured the pond as deep and murky. My desire to bring these “things” home vanished. My vision of several labs gamboling about in my front yard was replaced with images of a yard full of wailing, disabled, demonic retrievers. A dog from this pond unquestionably would fail the scrutiny of my mother. I wanted to go home. “I don’t feel like getting a water dog now. We have a bunch in Gisela at my Grandma’s place.” My grandmother did not have a single handicapped lab, but this was sure to at least buy me some distance from the pond. I did not want to see these malformed mutts, not even in my peripherals.
Now, irrespective of whether a judgmental society had banished them to this pond, or whether their exile was self-imposed, I was still perplexed that so many of the misfits made their way to the same pond in Payson, Arizona. Could this be the “elephant graveyard” for handicapped Labrador Retrievers? “How did they get to the pond?” I asked. “They were born there, stupid,” I was sharply informed. I was immediately afraid of the forest and the pond. I now pictured the pond as deep and murky. My desire to bring these “things” home vanished. My vision of several labs gamboling about in my front yard was replaced with images of a yard full of wailing, disabled, demonic retrievers. A dog from this pond unquestionably would fail the scrutiny of my mother. I wanted to go home. “I don’t feel like getting a water dog now. We have a bunch in Gisela at my Grandma’s place.” My grandmother did not have a single handicapped lab, but this was sure to at least buy me some distance from the pond. I did not want to see these malformed mutts, not even in my peripherals.
Succumbing to the jeers and taunts of the neighbor kids, I cautiously accompanied them to the hell hole. As we stood on the beach of the quarter-acre pond, I was actually relieved not to see any dogs in such a miserable predicament. What happened to the labs? Did they emigrate due to shame? How did they leave? Were they now somehow ambulatory? Did something in the forest kill them? Do beavers kill stuff? Maybe a wolverine rid the pond of these freaks. As several thoughts raced through my mind, my thoughts were brought to focus - the boys began filling their coffee cans with salamanders. The boys didn’t call them salamanders; they called them “waterdogs.” Within minutes, I learned that I was afraid of holding salamanders/waterdogs – even more fearful than I was of a praying mantis being stuck on the front of my shirt. (Note: In kindergarten, I puked while removing a mantis from my shirt…when its legs were torn from it’s torso, yet they still clung to my shirt and contracted and writhed about). I digress.
Unfortunately, I must have worn my apprehension on my sleeve. Throwing waterdogs on me and putting them down the back of my shorts quickly became a sport for the others. Upon arriving home seconds later, I restrung my shoelaces while I reported the failed operation to my mother. She laughed and cried, in chorus. Though it was the “cutest story [she’d] ever heard,” she didn’t get me a dog. “We don’t have a fence. It would run away,” she informed me. "Not if it didn’t have any legs," I quipped. Truthfully, no quip followed her admonition, but I wish I had said that at age 5. Several years would pass before I could successfully couple irony and sarcasm. I'm still afraid to touch a praying mantis.
The Scariest Creature on Earth (aside from Richard Simmons)
Summer, as we were leaving Durango. 
The LDS church across the street - monument 
