Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Strange memories from 93rd Street

When I was a young boy, I lived with my mother and my sister on East 93rd Street in Manhattan.  We had a dog, a Gordon Setter.  Like many setters, he was wire thin when he was young.  Concentration camp thin. Gordons are black with brown spots and also like a lot of setters, he was nervous.  Some might call it alert, but others would certainly call it neurotic. 

That was, of course, before he ballooned out in later years.  Imagine a straight piece of uncooked spaghetti transforming into a basketball over the span of a decade.  And then there were the ticks.  But I'm losing the thread of my story. 

My mother once said to me that she'd wished she'd been a little more adventurous with his name.  She'd wanted to call him Glenraven Ballachulish, which is actually a place name in Scotland.  When I told a school friend about this years later, he just laughed.

The dog had a name: Nat.

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