Childhood lessons come from many sources, not the least of which might be an intense Basset hound.
Joseph Mackereth
When I was a little girl growing up in central Virginia, anything that came from beyond the county line was considered exotic—novel, new, interesting, and to me it was all fascinating. I was a moth to a flame.
So when a new family moved into the area, I was curious. Would they have a child my age? Where did they come from? Did they have a cool car? How about pets? Soon my curiosity was answered because their son was indeed my age and dropped right into my sixth-grade classroom. Dropped into the only empty seat, which was next to me. It was a sign from God that we were meant to be friends. Yep, me and Aaron Higginbottom (snicker, his name has “bottom” in it) were going to be best buds, whether he knew it or not.
Since I appointed myself his personal welcome committee and tour guide, we became friends. Aaron wasn’t given much of a choice, as I was an abundantly strong-willed little girl. I think he warmed up to me but it took a while for him to recognize my charms, as they were being shoved down his throat from Day 1.
It was only a matter of time before I was invited over for an after-school play date. I was so excited. I was going to see inside my new friend’s house. I imagined all sorts of mysterious items—zebra rugs, crystal balls and tapestries galore, or at least that’s what I assumed. It was actually decorated in a normal style, lots of inherited furniture, or what I now call “story” furniture. You can’t compliment a piece of inherited furniture without hearing a story. “That cupboard? That was great-uncle Bertram’s and he had promised that cupboard to his cousin Emma but she died before he did so we got it.”
When I met Aaron’s mother, I became completely enamored with the whole lot of them. Aaron’s mom—or mum as he always said—was British and her name was Poppy. Named for a flower, which was just like my great-grandmother Rose and my other great-grandmother Lily. I knew Roses, Lilies, even a Daisy, but I had never met a Poppy. What a cheerful name.
Aaron’s dad was also an exotic to me. Mr. Henry Higginbottom was part Scots and I loved to listen to him talk. His accent was fascinating but anything past the greeting, I simply did not understand. Still, it sounded like music to me. Mr. Higginbottom could have told me that he was about to do away with me and I’d just sit there, smiling like an idiot, lost in his accent.
The house pet was a Basset hound named Chester. Chester loved all children, loved his cushy bed, loved sniffing on his walks, and not only loved but lived for food. You know me and dogs. I thought Chester was magnificent. I’d not seen a Basset before. There were lots of hunting dogs and herding dogs around me growing up but a Basset was unusual. He was slow, long, patient, and had the most velvet-like ears I’d ever touched.
Being with the Higginbottoms made me feel different, like there were more possibilities in the world than I’d seen before. I was in love with the whole lot of them. When my family got invited over for Christmas dinner, I was over the moon. I had to wear just the right thing, find just the right gift for Aaron and I had to be worthy of everything I thought the Higginbottom holidays would be. No “tomboy” antics that day. No sirree, I had to act like I’d been somewhere. I had to be—gasp—ladylike.
Mrs. Higginbottom had a steadfast rule that was almost her undoing that Christmas. She insisted that the entrée must be a goose. Not any old Canadian goose that someone had shot. No, it had to be a plump, pampered, hand-raised goose worthy of the celebration. I remember that it took her weeks to find such a bird, and she had to go clean over to the other side of Richmond to get it. It was impressive. This was one chubby goose. It was going to be delicious.
We arrived on Christmas afternoon, gifts in hand, and it was wonderful. My mama had brought a platter of biscuits figuring that biscuits go with everything. She’s right, you know. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, a small tree sparkling in the corner, and candles on the table. I had walked into a Hallmark Christmas movie and I wanted to never leave.
This was going to be my first time eating a proper British holiday meal, including a goose. I wandered into the kitchen to see how goose was cooked. Poppy Higginbottom was pouring a ton of grease into the trash can. This was a particularly fat goose and had rendered more grease than needed to make gravy. A lot more in fact, so it was being thrown out. Chester was losing his mind. The full trash can was taken to the back porch so Chester wouldn’t get into it. Smart.
We all were having a lovely time, sharing stories and filling our bellies with chutneys, goose, parsnips, biscuits, potatoes and sauces I’d never heard of. It was all delicious and I was having the time of my life. Chester was getting more and more excited until he couldn’t stand it anymore and almost pulled the tablecloth and all the food off the table. That’s when Mr. Higginbottom took Chester by the collar and led him to the back door, shoving him outside.
Time to review. Mrs. Higginbottom had put the trash can with all that fat in it outside so Chester couldn’t get to it. Mr. Higginbottom put Chester outside because he was causing havoc. No one put two and two together until Chester gorged himself on all the fat in the trash can. At first it was funny. What are you going to do with a dog like Chester? Then it wasn’t funny as Chester became clearly distressed. Oh my god, Chester is in serious trouble. No vet is open. It’s Christmas day for petey’s sakes.
My dad had driven separately from us because he was technically off but also on call because it was Christmas, so he threw Mr. Higginbottom and Chester into the squad car and drove them, sirens blaring, to the vet’s clinic, which was at the vet’s home. Chester’s liver was struggling to cope so Chester got IVs and a transfusion from the vet’s English setter as his only hope. Since there was nothing more the vet could do, he sent Chester home.
Chester arrived back at home where we were all waiting, and I have to tell you he looked bad. His bed was moved next to the fireplace so he could be comfortable. Nobody other than Aaron and me thought Chester had another 24 hours in him. The gaiety of the day was pretty well crushed so we left.
I didn’t hear anything from Aaron for a while so I just assumed to leave him alone because he must be grieving Chester’s loss. I did not know what to say. Aaron finally called to invite me over. When I got there, who greeted me on the porch? A loud, rambunctious, obviously much better, Chester!
Did Chester learn his lesson? He’s a Basset, of course not. Can Chester teach us a lesson? Sure. This holiday, gather with friends and family, eat well but don’t hurt yourself, and if life knocks you down, do your best to rest and recover. Live 2023 with all the joy of a chubby hound.
The story above first appeared in our November / December 2022 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!