Give not that which is holy unto the dogs
Matthew 7:6


When I was twelve years old, we had a wire haired terrier named Junior with a nasty temper and an intractable hatred of the human male. My mother considered the dog a member of the family and treated him with excessive care. “After all,” she would say as she fed him the prime rib I had my eye on. “He can’t fend for himself.“

At our holiday celebrations, the dog sat under the table at my mother’s feet snapping up the scraps of food she fed him. His digestive system was so overloaded, he leaked gas in a steady, pungent stream destroyed any appetite the rest of us had when we anticipated the meal.

My mother always had the first seder for Passover at our house and she invited her three younger sisters and their families to join us. All of the sisters loved animals as much as my mother did and when they came for dinner, they brought their pets with them. Aunt Tick had a bird named Caruso and an immense boxer named Dell who drooled so voluminously that she strapped a spittoon cup under his jaw to catch the drainage. Aunt Hazel had Sparky, a black cocker spaniel with sad eyes and bad bowels and a hamster named Ike. Aunt Celia was a spinster and her only true love was Poopsie, a miniature Chihuahua who resided next to her heart peeking out of her cleavage to see what was going on.

About five o’clock on Passover Eve, my relatives arrived, their animals leashed and caged and their children bathed and dressed. I was in charge of arranging the Seder Plate. As I placed the three matzos, a roasted lamb bone and a hard boiled egg on a bed of Romaine lettuce, I heard an unusual amount of barking, twittering and shrieking. I closed my eyes and prayed that our dog would spare my relatives at least until they gathered around the table. After the first glass of wine, no one would mind anything the animals did, anyway. I was certain the children would be sloshed after the first blessing and the adults numbed before the gefilte fish was served.

When I peeked into the living room, my Uncle Harry was bandaging Jessica’s arm and she was wailing as if he were amputating it. “It’s just a scratch,” he said. ”Don’t be such a sissy.”

Jessica’s face was beet red. “But it hurts,” she said.

Caruso was huddled in the valence, his yellow feathers barely visible in the drapery. Dell‘s tongue was hanging out like a limp flag and he had converted our living room into a sizable lake. Poopsie was nowhere to be seen although the buttons on Aunt Celia’s blouse looked particularly strained. My Aunt Hazel was feeding Tums to Sparky. “It’s all right honey,” she crooned. “Everyone has accidents.”

Junior stood triumphant in the middle of the room like a victorious lion tamer without a whip.

I returned to the kitchen where my mother was setting out the soup bowls and putting a matzo ball in each. “Things don’t look too good out there,” I said. “Maybe we should put Junior out in the garage . . just for tonight.”

My mother ignored me. “Call everyone to the table, Lynn Ruth,” she said.

Everyone sat down and my father blessed the first cup of wine. Passover wine is very sweet and tastes so good it’s hard to believe it has any impact. Within moments, everyone at the table looked out of focus to me and my father sounded like his mouth was filled with matzo meal as he read the story of the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. My aunts and uncles drifted into various stages of slumber and even the animals seemed doped. At the end of the meal, my father poured a fifth glass of wine for the Prophet Elijah. “Open the door, Lynnie Ruth,” he said. “And light a candle so he can find his way.”

I took the glass of wine and as I stood up, Junior awoke from his trance and followed after me. I set the glass of wine on the threshold and to my horror, the dog lapped it up. I took the empty glass back into the dining room and before I had a chance to say anything, my mother gasped. “A miracle! Elijah has come to our home! That must mean God is on his way!”

“But Mother . . . “ I said.

“Bow your head, Lynn Ruth,” commanded my father. “We are praising the Lord for his kindness and compassion.”

At this point, Junior felt the first wallop of the alcohol in his system. He raced around the room tearing at the furniture upholstery and nipping the other animals. He grabbed the drapes with his teeth and sent a shrieking Caruso into the kitchen, his feathers dropping like golden raindrops on my mother’s sponge cake. Dell tried to hide under the table but his foot caught the tablecloth and the dishes crashed to the floor. Sparky jumped on my Aunt Hazel’s lap and tried to hide under her arm. The front of my Aunt Celia’s blouse was soaking wet and Ike lay in a coma under a dish of spilled horseradish. My father ignored the chaos and recited the final prayer. “Next year in Jerusalem,” he proclaimed.

My Aunt Hazel looked up from under the table where she was attempting to resuscitate her hamster and shook her head. “If Ida brings Junior,” she said. “I won’t go.”

My mother picked up her puppy and fed him bits of chicken and potato pudding. “Don’t overreact, Hazel,” she said. “No one complained about Sparky ‘s diarrhea.”

My Aunt Tick stepped over a puddle of chicken soup and salvaged the broken plates, “It’s a good thing I didn’t bring our rabbit,” she said.

“Amen,” said my mother. “Who’s ready for another piece of cake?”


Every dog is entitled to one drink
English proverb a la Lynn Ruth