SNEAK PREVIEW: THE BISHOP’S DOG

        As a youngster I had plugged a few hairy mutts with my Daisy Red Rider. They had been out roaming the neighborhood, up to no good, squatting and lifting their hind legs, then laughing as they worked their way down the street looking for the next nicely kept yard. So, I felt no guilt using my BB gun to encourage them on their way. After being stung they would turn, look back smugly with a dog-lipped smirk as if to say, “Ha. That didn’t hurt a bit!”     
       

        Years later I was a little surprised at how the “Bishop’s Dog” events unfolded. Our small rental home sat adjacent to our bishop’s nice but modest home. No fences, no problem, so I thought. At the time our city had not invested in deluxe plastic garbage containers. So we fared the best we could with the old aluminum trash cans, much to the delight of the local canine population. Our two young kids, Chaunine and Mike still in diapers, were pooping up a storm. By garbage day the aluminum cans out back were filled to the brim with disposables and their ghastly contents.

Classic old metal garbage can.

        One morning while getting ready for work, I spotted white objects scattered over our back yard. On closer investigation I found one of our aluminum trash cans turned over and gross garbage spread across the entire back lawn. The beast that had done this had really enjoyed himself. Each stinking diaper had been ripped open leaving its soggy remains everywhere. What a mess! Picking up the foul crap made my insides boil. I swore this would not happen again! But it did.

        We tightened the lids and even weigh them down with cement blocks. Weeks went by with no problem, but then – surprise, surprise. The phantom mutt had taken up the challenge. The disgusting mess was back, worse than ever. This needed to come to an abrupt halt. A good sting in the butt might just discourage the perpetrator. I went shopping for a BB gun. A handsome Daisy pistol caught my eye. A plan was taking shape. I removed the screen from the bathroom window above the tub. From that vantage point I could survey the entire back yard. Locked and loaded, I placed the BB pistol behind the curtain on the window sill. I was ready for action. Of course nothing happened. The creature must have been on to me.

        Weeks went by and then, early one morning while shaving, I heard the garbage can fall over. The beast was back. As quietly as possible I crept to the tub, straddled it, and picked up the pistol. In the dim light of early morning, there it was, caught in the act of ripping. Suddenly it stopped, lifted its head and began sniffing the air. Finding my scent it turned towards me and for the briefest moment our eyes met. Then it was off, sprinting across the yard, making its getaway. “Not this time,” I thought. With BB pistol in hand, sights lined up, the barrel followed the bounding intruder. Ping! The shot was off. 

        “YEOWWW!” The dog released a painful howl and leaped high, pawing at the air. Then in a flash it was gone, scrambling around the corner. Mission accomplished! Maybe our yard would no longer be on its hit list.

        That evening I was relaxing comfortably in my easy chair when my wife returned from Relief Society in tears. “Someone shot the Bishop’s dog! They think it might be paralyzed,” she cried with concern. “Who would do a thing like that!” Needless to say I lovingly consoled her and then ditched the incriminating evidence. 

        Time passed and the Bishop’s dog miraculously recovered from what turned out to be a minor flesh wound. And to our joy our garbage can was never molested again. But from that point on each time I met with the Bishop he would pause during our conversation and look deep into my eyes with his penetrating gaze. I had to wonder, “Does he know? Does he really know who shot his dog? Is he expecting me to ‘fess up?” Not a chance! After all, it was HIS dog that had terrorized the neighborhood.

Victory!

SNEAK PREVIEW: TATTLE TALE TEACHER

      Fresh out of college, my wife, Leena and I headed for Church Rock, New Mexico, where I would team up with Mike Stanley, my old missionary companion, and teach sixth grade at an all Navajo elementary school.

Church Rock Elementary School, Church Rock, New Mexico

      While going about our daily routine at Church Rock Elementary, Mike and I interacted with a lot of fine people. The principal, office staff, custodians, cooks, aides, and other teachers. They were all great to work with. But, there was this one female teacher from New York City who took a dislike to us right away. It was hard to determine if her disdain was just for us or for men in general. She was short, rather stout, and you might say she had a low center of gravity. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

Seinfeld cast: "Not that there's anything wrong with that!"

      She was a freckle-faced woman who sprouted a curly stand of bright red hair which she tossed from side to side with vigor when she spoke. You could hear her complaining loudly in her high pitched, nasal, New York accent whenever she was within earshot. In an attempt to avoid her and protect his own sanity, Principal Hinman had placed her in an outside portable classroom at the far end of the playground, as far from his office as possible.

Portable metal classroom.

      Even at that she had blazed a trail through  the sand to his office. Back and forth, back and forth she went, usually with some complaint about Mr. Stanley or Mr. Rogers. “They are too loud at recess.” “They play too close to my classroom.” “Their kickballs bounce off my metal roof.” And on, and on. “They went ahead of my class at lunch.” “They were late for bus duty.” “And why do they get the nice indoor classrooms?” You get the point. An endless stream of being victimized! Of course we were innocent of any intentional harassment.

      One day in a moment of extreme duress she threatened to have her husband beat us bloody, tie us in knots, "take us to the mat for some ground and pound.” You know, tweak our noses! We secretly wondered, “Had she married an Olympic wrestler? Or maybe a linebacker for the New York Giants? Should we be concerned?”

Dick Butkus, New York Giants linebacker

      Then came the night of our faculty Christmas party, and her mystery hubby showed up. At first it was hard to get a good fix on him. He kept darting amid the crowd of party goers like a frightened animal, avoiding eye contact at all costs. All in all, I suppose he could have been described as a shorter, mousier version of Woody Allen. And he was going to do WHAT???

The great Woody Allen

       Winter was now in full swing and our playground was covered in deep snow. The temperature was just right for rolling huge snowballs and making snowmen. Off and on, at recess, a fun snowball fight would break out. Usually the teachers were being attacked by playful students. That’s when the portable classroom door would bang open and out leaped a bushy, bobbing redhead.

 

Rooster fight.

      No, a carrot-topped, fighting, screeching bantam rooster with red-painted nails like claws raking the air. It was difficult to tell just what the creature was trying to say through all the cackling and screeching. But I believe the general idea was that throwing snowballs is against the school rules. “If Mr. Stanley and Mr. Rogers won’t obey the school rules, I’m going to the principal!”

     Well, that called for a Sixth Grade Huddle. We would definitely explain our sixth grade rules to our students. First, we would each make two good sized snowballs. That would total about 100 snowballs. Second, on our whistle the first fifty snowballs would be released into the side and onto the roof of her tin portable classroom. Third, the second volley of snowballs would be released in the general direction of the Screecher as she came flying out the door. The sound was incredible as the first fifty snowballs landed, sounding much like kettle drums and gongs in a raging battle of cannon fire. BAM, BAM-BAM-BAM, BAM, BAM, BOOM!!!! KABOOM!!! BAM, BOOM, BAM, BOOM, BAM, BOOM!!!! All fifty snowballs hit their mark.

Mad as h**l!!!

      Sure enough the door flew open. But even before she could erupt the Screecher was covered by an avalanche of well-placed snowballs. The second whistle blew and with military precision we marched off, retreating to the safety of our warm, roomy, soundproof classrooms, followed close behind by an outburst of obscene curses and hand gestures the likes of which are rarely heard or seen except in the darkest back alleys of New York City. Her concert of curses is probably still echoing back and forth through the red cliff canyons surrounding Church Rock Elementary School.

End of a trying day!

      At the end of the day, following our regular school wide announcements, a special announcement was made: “Mr. Stanley and Mr. Rogers. Report to the Principal’s office!”