Bad to the Bone:. Bo Hoefinger
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foot was barely in contact with the brake pedal. It was clear she needed help, my help, to get her reward.
My mind raced for a solution, the only reasonable of which was to fetch the cradle for her. Heck, it’s the least I could do for the meal that awaited me. Besides, I’m not easily embarrassed about picking garbage. In fact, I rather enjoy the notoriety of it.
As my mother leaned toward the door, I leaped over her to lend a helping paw. In midflight, my legs hit the gearshift, and I tumbled, rather ungracefully, into my mother.
It was like my mother was a cue ball and I a cue stick. I should have called the shot: “Mommie Dearest, street corner pocket,” because as soon as I bumped into her, she rolled out of the car and right onto the road.
I scrambled to steady myself only to find I was now sitting in the driver seat!
I looked down through the open doorway of the car, and there lay my mother facedown on the cold asphalt. That must suck for her, I thought, until I realized the car was moving! Now it sucked for me because I was going for a ride, whether I liked it or not.
The car was steadily gaining speed when I glanced into my rearview mirror to see my mother frantically scramble to her feet, only to slip on a small patch of ice a few short steps later. She’d never make it in time. I was on my own, driving without a license.
Well, without a driver’s license that is. I had a dog license.
I began to appreciate the difficulty in controlling a car. The concept wasn’t difficult to understand; position paws at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, aim high in steering, and swerve at all squirrels you see. But it’s just that with my fuzzy mitts I couldn’t get a grip on the steering wheel plus my legs were too short to reach the brake pedal. I was helpless, and danger quickly approached. I hurtled toward a shiny new Cadillac with frightening speed; one last glance in my rearview mirror showed my mother pulling herself up and sprinting in my direction. A surreal feeling enveloped me and everything moved in slow motion. I could see my mother opening her mouth, yelling “Baaaaaaaaaaaa Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh! Staaaaaahhhhhppppp Thaaaaaa Kaaaaaaahhhrr!” Her arms and legs pumped up and down, but she still seemed so far away. I was now so close to the Cadillac I could breathe in that new car smell.
I had a moment to wonder if this was the end of Bo Hoefinger—certified genius, uncertified driver. I knew I should have buckled up.
Not only is it a good idea, it’s the law.
I braced myself for the crash when a hand reached into the car and grasped the steering wheel. It was my mother! In a move worthy of a Hollywood stuntman, she jerked the wheel of the old Mustang, pulled herself into the car on top of me, and swerved out of the way of the parked car just in time.
Huh—maybe she’d learned something in driving school after all.
Unfortunately, we were now headed directly toward a four-foot-high retaining wall. And this time, my mother was too slow to react.
The snow at the base of the retaining wall was like an aerial ski ramp. When we hit it, the car jerked skyward, but instead of getting airborne and doing a whirly bird at the top, we lurched to a stop.
As we sat in silence, I knew my mother was thinking, Oh please God, if you could show me just a little bit of mercy and not let anyone see what happened I’ll be forever grateful.
I remember what I was thinking: I hope the brisket doesn’t dry out.
It wasn’t until we climbed down from the car that we realized it was wedged on top of the wooden wall, with the front end over a snow-covered lawn and the back end hanging over the road.
The porch lights of the home turned on and the front door opened, revealing a man in a nighttime robe and slippers.
“What are you doing? Why is your car on top of my wall?” he screamed.
“I…I don’t know!” my mother responded in despair. “I…I must have hit some black ice and spun out of control.”
“I don’t see any black ice out here.”
“That’s why they call it black ice. You can’t see it.”
The man rolled his eyes, then took a good look at my mother, vague recognition dawning on his face. “Hey, aren’t you Gordon and Barbara’s daughter?”
Sheepishly my mother replied in the affirmative, looking like a schoolgirl who had just been caught smoking in the girls’ room.
“Can I borrow your phone? I really need to call Triple A,” she asked.
“We can call your parents if you like?”
“No that’s okay. I’d rather just call Triple A.”
“Sure I understand.” Then, trying to make small talk he said, “So, I heard you’re married.”
“Yes, but before you go there, I don’t want to call him, either.”
I understood her hesitancy. After all, she was a garbage picker who fell out of her car. I tried to hide behind her legs, lest I be recognized as well. It’s not easy being part of this family; humiliation comes with the territory.
When the tow truck arrived, I overheard the driver saying into his radio, “I don’t know how she got there; all I’m telling you is that her car is stuck on top of a wall. Yeah, on top…about four feet high. No, I don’t have my camera with me.”
Once the car was back on solid ground with no major harm done, my mother decided to forgo dinner with her parents. She gave me an apologetic pat on the head and told me she needed a night to sleep on it, to digest the evening’s events.
The only thing I’d digest that night would be some dry kibble from home.
When my mother finally worked up the nerve to tell her sister the story, all her sister said was, “So, where’s the crib?”
Doggienügen. “What is it?” you ask. It’s basically when dog becomes one with their family. Some dogs have it, others don’t. I didn’t have it, yet.
But I would.
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