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| My Bimbo, 1956 |
Sandy always talked about animals; that particular night he told his young audience how lucky they were if they had a pet, and how important it was to take good care of it.
My head resting in the crook of my mother's legs, I looked up and quite innocently said "I guess I'm not lucky." Both my parents adored animals, but for some reason we never had a family pet.
That same year, early October, I was playing with my friend Marilyn in the courtyard of our apartment building when my father suddenly appeared. "C'mon, kid, let's take a walk." Sensing his good mood, I asked "Where to?" and he answered, "Sears & Roebuck for your birthday present." My tenth birthday was approaching. A devoted rock & roll kid, I had asked for a portable radio (if I couldn't have a puppy.) It looked like the radio won, but I was still excited. I parked my doll carriage in the alcove near the building's entry steps, asked Marilyn to please watch it until I returned, and set out with my father for the long walk along Fordham Road to Sears. I was always happy to be with my father when he wasn't angry.
We chatted along the way. Suddenly, I noticed a dog sitting in a parked car, window slightly open. Always unable to resist any living creature, I ran to the car to play with it. When I returned to my father's side, I again told him how much I wanted a puppy and did he think we could ever have one? "That's up to your mother," he replied. I drew in my breath and said, "But Mommy said it's up to you!" He noncommittally answered, "We'll see." I could feel my heart jump with promise!
We were close to our destination when we came to a pet shop opposite Fordham University. There were puppies in the store window and, like a magnet, I was drawn to them, mesmerized. Peripherally, I noticed my father entering the shop but I stayed by the window a little longer and then followed him inside, mystified as to why he had gone in. As I entered, I heard "Oh, and this must be the birthday girl!" The woman at the counter was speaking as she walked over to a holding cage, tenderly picked up a tiny black Cocker Spaniel puppy and put him into my arms. He was all over me, licking my face, wiggling up on to my neck! I was totally confused, still thinking of the portable radio, when she and my father told me that my real birthday present was the puppy. The intense joy of that moment still lives in my heart.
My father and I walked back home, the puppy bundled in my arms all the way. I couldn't wait for my friends to see him.
The first week he was with us, he didn't have an official name. My mother, sister and I all contributed ideas but my father recalled a beautiful Boxer he befriended at a family picnic who had the unusual name of 'Bimbo.' And that is how Bimbo got his name. (In those days, the word did not have the negative connotation of today. Loosely translated from the Italian 'bambino,' bimbo is actually an affectionate nickname for a little baby.)
Anyway, it was my job to walk him ~ he was the family pet, but my present ~ and he loved to snuffle in the snow. One winter morning, about 15 months later, we awoke to one of those huge 1950s blizzards I remember so well. I dressed Bimbo in his little red turtleneck sweater, and we went for a walk up the block where there were enormous snowdrifts. I picked him up so he could dive into the snow and then come snuffling back out so we could do it over and over again.
A week or so later, Bimbo began having convulsions. We took him to a veterinarian, Dr. Fletcher, who said it was some sort of rare blood disease that had attacked his brain. Completely panic-stricken, I overheard him telling my father, "Only one out of ten dogs survive this, he really should be put to sleep." I screamed out, "What if he's the one dog who survives? You can't just kill him without giving him a chance!" The vet said they'd keep him for a couple of days' observation, and hope for the best.
It was a cold and gray Saturday morning when we returned to the vet's office to pick up Bimbo. I had taken a plaid woolen blanket to keep him warm on the way home. I guess they placated me, allowing him to come back home, but he suffered four more convulsions that night.
The next morning, my sister and I were reading the Sunday comics when, as he was leaving for the vet's office, my father asked, "Aren't you going to say goodbye to Bimbo?" I thought he meant "until he comes home again" so I patted him on the head and said, "Good luck, Bim."
The next day, February 11, 1958, I arrived home from school and everyone was in the kitchen, very quiet and solemn. I asked, "How's Bimbo?" and my mother, sobbing, told me that he had another convulsion at the hospital and didn't survive. (With great kindness, everyone was sworn to secrecy that Bimbo was euthanized. I didn't find out the truth until I was 21 years old and a neighbor slipped and that's when I learned what I had long suspected.)
Unable to stand the pain, I ran out, first down to the cellar of our building where I could be alone, and then up the block to an open lot, where I sat on a big rock and cried and cried until I was so cold, I had to go back home. As I looked around at all the places Bimbo had made his own, the emptiness was unbearable. I remember my father leaving for work that night, crying as if he had lost a child. I was angry with God but my mother explained that maybe a young child in heaven wanted a pet, and so He chose Bimbo. When I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed, I saw my red and swollen eyes in the mirror and asked God, "But why did you have to take my puppy?"
A few weeks later, I was walking to the public library for a school project and saw an elderly gentleman with a black Cocker Spaniel. I played with him and quietly said, "Bimbo? Bimbo?" If he responded to his name, I was just going to have to tell that man that he was my dog, and I had to take him. (I fantasized that maybe he had escaped from the animal hospital and somebody found him, maybe he really didn't die...) But the dog did not react, so I sadly abandoned my plan.
I think that was my first experience with a shattered heart. I can still feel the anguish, a lot of it due to feeling responsible for his illness...maybe playing in the snow that morning caused him to get sick. In reality, it was distemper, and I never forgave the vet who told us that he had "all his shots."
And to this day, every February 11th, I still cry as I remember my little baby, Bimbo.
