Hellidays - When Bad Holidays Happen To Good People

Over Christmas in 1979, our little Scottish terrier “Rags” was sick.

She just wasn’t herself. Now back then, none of us knew that chocolate was bad for a dog. And I used to take her to Baskin Robbins with me and get her her own scoop in a cup.

Little did I know I was killing “Ragsie” with Chocolate Fudge Brownie.

So, on New Year’s Eve, my mother made her usual buffet. Wearing a housedress she set out candles, shrimp with cocktail sauce, a punch bowl with Vernor’s and vanilla ice cream (called a Boston cooler, but why? Vernor’s was made in Detroit. We lived in Detroit.) Chips and dip. Assorted cold cuts. Crackers. Bread. The “works.”

Then Rags started vomiting bile. After a couple of hours, she died — at two minutes to midnight. I’ve always HATED New Year’s anyway, because no matter how bad the previous year was, there is a certain comfort level in it.

It was pouring rain, and somehow we managed to find a vet that was open. My father drove the car and I had a dead dog on my lap. Not the kind of lap dog you want to have.

It was a sad, sad New Year. When we got home I could barely polish off the buffet.