I fought Mom for a while on the walking chore, but were eventually
forced into submission when given the choice between walking the dog
or paying its medical bills, of which there were numerous, due to its
crippling case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
We began walking Olive the week after school let out for summer.
I was sincerely hoping that a short jaunt up the block and back would
appease our mother, and that Pete and I could then quickly continue
on with our busy summer schedules, which included playing Zelda and
eating ice cream sandwiches.
“I just don’t want Olive to get too hot in all her fur,” I said to my
parents as I nudged my brother, reminding him to match the false worry
on my face.
“Good point, Kelly,” my mom said, nodding her head furiously at
me. “I would hate for her to have a heat stroke or something. Lord knows
that wouldn’t be good for her IBS. Don’t walk her any further than a
block or two.” We agreed vehemently and headed out the door before she
could realize that it was only 73 degrees, and that heat stroke had nothing
to do with IBS.
We walked down the street as fast as we could. Olive lagged
behind, stopping to eat dead bugs and lick at various splatters of bird shit
on the sidewalk. Pete tugged on the leash whenever she paused for too
long. She eventually stopped in one yard to urinate, and we watched as
she squatted in the overgrown grass in front of a ranch style home.
“God damn it, Olive, hurry up,” my brother commanded as
Olive slowly