Send in the Clowns

They wore me down – they being my husband and daughter. We now have a dog – but not just any dog – we have a four-pound Guinea-pig-looking dog whose favorite hobby is trying to chew off my left arm and to consume every shoelace in the house. For years, I successfully fought off attempts by my family to get a dog. Because I am afraid of dogs, I had a list of reasons why a dog is not in the family’s best interest, and had statistical data and research to back up my arguments.

“Mom, I want a dog.”

“No.”

“But why not?”

“Here, read this,” I say, handing my daughter a story about how a man was found dead in his home, half eaten by his loyal cocker spaniel.

“Mom, the man had been dead for days and the dog was hungry!” she said, shoving the story back at me.

“That’s what the dog wants you to think.”

“Are you suggesting that the dog plotted the death of the man just so he could eat him?”

“Dogs are smart – and cunning,” I said. “Can’t be trusted – just like teenagers.”

“But you had a dog growing up – why can’t I have one?”

“Dogs were different back then.”

“How?”

“Inbreeding. Now, they steal babies.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, a couple of years ago, a dog grabbed a baby while it slept and ran into the woods with it – they never found the baby.”

“Mom, that was a dingo – a dingo Mom – not a beagle.”

But, because my husband and daughter are just as cunning, they studied me, looking for areas of vulnerability. They tried every trick in the book, and until a couple of weeks ago, my defenses were impenetrable. Then, I read a story on the Internet that said that teenagers that have their own dog are less likely to engage in bad behavior during college years. I barged into my husband’s office. “We are getting our kid a dog!” I blurted.

“I thought you were afraid of dogs. Why get one now?” he said, startled.

“So she doesn’t run away and join the circus.”

“You harbor some pretty weird fears – I’ll give you that – but okay, we’ll get a dog,” he said.

Running away and joining the circus is not as ludicrous as it sounds. I know this because I tried to do it when I was 18. I lived near Sarasota, Florida, home to Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey’s Clown College. I saw circus life as my ticket to an exotic life of travel and free popcorn. (I ended up joining the Navy, which is kind of like the circus except you have to pay for your popcorn.) So, I sent in my application to the college and was given an audition in front of a panel of esteemed clown judges.

“Okay Sharie, what are your talents?”

“Talents?”

“Yes. Can you juggle?”

“Yes,” I said as I picked up two tennis balls and tossed them in the air.

“Uh, that’s not juggling – that’s just throwing two balls in the air and catching them,” one judge said, jotting something down on his paper.

“How many balls do you need to use for it to be considered juggling?” I asked.

“No less than three.”

“Then, no, I can’t juggle.”

“Can you walk on a ball?”

“No.”

“All right,” one judge said, scratching his head, “how about make balloon animals – can you do that?”

“NO. They scare me.”

“So, what can you do?”

“I can trip and fall. I do it all the time – see,” I said, tripping and falling down in front of the judges.

“Thank you. You will hear from us soon.”

I did hear back from them a couple of weeks later in what I call “The Greatest Rejection on Earth,” because when you actually get told that you have nothing to offer the circus, you have hit an all-time low point in your life.

“Dear Sharie, we regret to inform you that, at this time, we cannot accept your application to Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College. While your talent at falling down was quite impressive, we are seeking candidates with a wider breadth of clown abilities. Should you become, in the future, able to walk on a ball or if you overcome your fear of balloon animals, please feel free to reapply.”

I took the rejection hard and to be truthful, I have never really healed. To this day, I can’t look at a picture of Emmett Kelly or Red Skelton without a deep sense of shame and humiliation. I avoid any situation that might put me in close proximity of a clown, like children’s birthday parties, street corners in San Francisco, and used-car lots. I didn’t want the same fate for my daughter. I wanted to spare her the same rejection because she is also unable to walk on a ball, and her falling-down abilities are far inferior to mine.

So, I did what any mother would do – I caved and got the girl a dog. It is the price you pay to ensure your child’s success, I suppose. And there is a price, believe me. Time I used to spend doing stuff I like to do, which is to sit around and do nothing, is now spent puppy-sitting, and picking up chewed pieces of shoelaces, which seems to be her favorite snack, as evidenced by the fact that all of our shoes have become slip-ons.

I would never admit this to my daughter, but the dog has grown on me because we have a lot in common. We both like to watch, “The Price is Right,” we both like to play tug of war, we both like beef jerky, and we both like doing our nails – at lease I think she likes it. And, about 30 times a day, we go outside for a walk to “do our business,” although I don’t “do my business,” outside – I only pretend because girls always go to the bathroom in pairs.

And, each day, when my daughter gets home from school, I have to pretend that I have had it with the dog, and launch into a litany of grievances, like, “Do you know what YOUR dog did today – she got into my nail polish, and now, look at her,” I say, holding up a perfectly painted paw, that just so happens to match the polish on my own toes.

“You know, Mom, if I didn’t know better, I would think you actually love the dog.”

“What could you be thinking? This dog is a nightmare – although I must admit, she is a quick learner – look what I taught her today!” I said, all excited as the dog showed off a new trick.

“Mom, why did you teach the dog to walk on a ball?”

“Yeah, cool, huh. Now that takes some talent, right there,” I said, beaming with pride. “We’ll show those nasty old judges, won’t we,” I said, as the dog covered my face in puppy spit.

“What judges?” my daughter asked.

“Oh, I’m just playing,” I said, not telling my daughter about my motivations behind getting her a dog. Somehow, I don’t think she would understand.

“Why are there tennis balls all over the kitchen,” my daughter asked, holding up a drool-covered ball.”

“You’ll see,” I said, winking at the dog. “Just you wait. She’s going to put on The Greatest Show on Earth.”

“What’s next – balloon animals?” she asked mockingly as I grimaced at the mere suggestion.

“NO. No balloon animals,” I said. Some fears are just too great to overcome.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.