Bandit

My first dog was not a golden retriever. My parents thought it best to introduce their children to the harsh realities of life at an early age. So at the tender age of three, we welcomed Bandit into the family. Bandit was what I call a "runner." She exploited any chance to escape the house, backyard or leash with dazzling alacrity. Usually around the three hour mark during an escape, Bandit would get hungry and start sniffing around a dumpster at some not to distant gas station. The station attendant would then call the number on her tag, let us know our run away was safe, and we all would pile into Mom's tan, Chevy Nova, and retrieve her.

The only people Bandit would never run from were black people. She absolutely loved black people and would never fail to show a black person her affection. The Parsons were the only black family on our street, and lived across from us. Whenever they pulled up to their driveway, and Bandit was in the backyard, she would bound around the corner of the house, dodge swiftly past the gate under a barrage of curses from my father-who never seemed to get the gate closed in time- and greet the Parsons as if Mr. Parson were Nelson Mandela just released from prison.  If only I was black, maybe she would have loved me more.

My most vivid memory of Bandit is also my most painful memory of her. It was a Saturday morning, winter, frost on the windows, I found Bandit in our basement. Strewn across the concrete floor were shreds of blue fabric, white cotton, specks of red. In the midst of the mess was Bandit with the remnants of my most prized possession: my Spiderman slippers. How could any dog betray the unconditional love of a little boy, in such an act of total destruction? My small world was turned upside down, I fell into the deep rage that only children know and with tears streaming down my face struck this dog with all the force a three year old could muster screaming, "I don't love you anymore Bandit, I don't love you anymore!"

I don't remember what finally happened to Bandit. I think she kept running away, until one day my parents had enough and took her back to the pound. In all the years that have passed between now and then, I still am saddened by those fateful words I spoke to my first dog.