This is the original draft from a story that later appeared in the Leaf Chronicle.
Recently, I went back into the wilds of my hometown to visit my folks. They had just completed their dream house and, six months after moving in, were still excavating 45 years of clutter from the house that I and my two brothers grew up in. My mission on this trip--if I chose to accept it--was to clean out the closet in my old bedroom. If I failed to accept the mission--my stuff went to the dump. So I started up the old Ford and headed for home.
Upon arrival, I found what used to be my room completely empty. It was sad to see what used to be my strong hold, my fortress from the world, reduced to a big empty shell. This was the place where 1000 dreams and wishes were launched to either take flight or crash and burn. It was here I had listened to my music, read my books, and wrote the first scrawls of what would one day become something almost intelligible.
But I had not come to mourn a bedroom--I had come here to haul away the things that had made some of the memories I had of it.
This great scavenger hunt thru the past yielded a car load of "antiquities" that I hauled back to Clarksville.
The pile of junk sent Lucy, Charlie, Pearl, and Hines into excitement overload. They had to investigate every box and stick their noses inside to see what Daddy had brought home. To this crew, EVERYTHING new is something that is to be chewed, eaten, or urinated on.
They would never miss an opportunity to do all three.
Charlie, my middle child, immediately stuck his head into a box and brought forth a prize; my bearded GI JOE with Kung Foo grip. My heart almost stopped when I saw Joe, dressed in his best camouflage, clinched in my curious mutt’s mouth. I grabbed the saliva soaked action figure from Charlie and scolded him. He sat down heavily on the floor , a scowl of disappointment on his sweet face.
Now God knows GI JOE had been through tougher treatment in his lifetime.
In his mid 70's hey-day as the number one action doll (not one of those tiny figures that came later), he’d been buried alive, drowned, thrown from tree tops, and experienced numerous scratch and dent missions behind enemy lines.
My brother and I even tried to shave him…with a bottle of my Grandmother's NAIR, and he still survived to fight for freedom another day.
But, the rough and ready treatment of an overzealous child with an accute imagination was child play (pun intended)against Charlie's jaws of doom.
Joe went back into the box to enjoy his retirement from active duty.
GI JOE, Johnny West, and all my other childhood valuables, went to their permanent resting place in our spare room. It’s the one part of the house that the dogs rarely see because this room does not observe an open door policy. Basically, this is where all clunky treasures, forgotten hobbies, and boxed memories go to die.
Due to the long drive, and all the packing and unpacking, I was exhausted soon after getting everything put into the room. I put on my jammies, gathered all the babies, and went on to bed.
As sleep crept across my pillow, I dreamily noticed that the door to the front room, which always stayed shut, was still open. But before I could seriously consider the consequences, I fell asleep.
Next morning, I took the dogs out for PT (Poop Trip), made the morning coffee, filled my lunch box for the day, and then made my way to the front room to iron a shirt. All excess clothing , the ironing board, and the clothes iron were stored here.
Charlie, who usually follows me everywhere, stopped in the hallway just outside the door to the room. As I stepped into the dark , something crunched under my foot. A sick twist filled my stomach as I flipped the light switch on.
There on the floor lie the last remains of a legend.
GI JOE was a mangled mess. His face held the surprised look of sudden attack, while his torso was limb free. Next to his half bearded head, detached from the rest of his body, lay his super dooper secret defense: his Kung Foo grip arm.
I could see that it happened so fast that he never even knew what bit him.
I gathered Joe up (or what was left of him) and thanked him for being a defender of both my country and my childhood. Little paws followed behind me and I whistled “taps”, gave a silent salute, and sent Joe on his last great adventure into the garbage can.
Charlie still sat on the bed, looking pitiful.
That's my Charlie, sorry he did it, and even sorrier he got caught.
I rubbed his ears and sighed. In the long run, it wasn’t Charlie’s fault, but mine. I had left the door open and he only did what comes naturally to a curious "kid" with a chewing fetish.
After all, every little boy (furry or not) dreams of the day when they are old enough to play with their Daddy's toys.
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