This story alone rates a book in itself and is probably my most requested story. Whenever I’m with friends or family and they realize someone hasn’t heard it yet, they invariably plead, “Oh please, tell them the Toby story.” And I will and it goes something like this:

I was fortunate that whenever I had idle time I could be immediately and profitably absorbed into the work force at our family glass and mirror company known as Eastwood Glass. And during summers I worked there as a glazier-in-waiting, learning the trade and making limited contributions. On this particular day, August 11^th 1974 (which I simply refer to now as 8-1-1) I knocked off work around 5 and my dad dropped me off back home. He dropped me off because he didn’t live there. He lived in back of the glass works sleeping on a cot with a shotgun resting against an open dresser constructed of plywood and 2X4s where he stored his meager clothing (I kid you not). There were quarters.

In any event, leaving dad and entering our modest 3-bedroom 1 bath 1100 sq. ft. middle class home, I was eagerly greeted by our excitable Yorkshire Terrier named Toby. In his eyes, I’d returned from the hunt and he was welcoming me back to the pack. He proceeded to jump up and down demanding his slobbering dollop of canine attention. Standing there in the hot doorway, I wasn’t prepared to bestow any doggy love. Instead, on this steamy summer day I walked down the long hallway and lay down on my sister’s bed to stretch out and relax. This allowed the little yapper to jump up on the bed, surmount my chest and commence to give me a proper pooch greeting by furiously licking my face.

Now even though I was only 13 years old, it had been a long day and my fatigue was manifested in a glorious and well-earned yawn. The kind where your eyes close and your jaw unhinges as you fully articulate the yawn cycle. As my eyes lazily opened and Toby was frenetically slurping my face, I witnessed something no human being should ever have to see. Evidently that little Yorkshire Terrorist Toby, had just eaten his Alpo prior to my arrival and as he stood on my chest joyfully licking his master’s face it happened. Without any indication something wretched was about to occur, he forcefully jettisoned a freshly digested arc of slimy dog vomit into my gaping mouth, past my retracted tongue, off my dangling uvula and into the back of my throat where it rebounded forward until the offending chunks rested on my taste buds.

This got my attention. It was a million to one swish from 3-point range. I was helpless as the putrid steamy lumps passed unscathed right past my teeth and rained down into the inner recesses of my now violated pie hole. I know that Einstein was correct in his theories of time dilation because as I jetted to the bathroom at the speed of light to wash out my mouth, time actually did slow down and I was able to experience the event in slow motion. Now if there’s one thing to be learned from all this it’s that you’ve never really experienced life until you’ve felt hot chunky dog puke ricochet off the back of your throat and onto your tongue. To this day I cannot yawn without sealing both hands over my mouth.

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