John Steinbeck’s dog ate the first version of Of Mice and Men
Every teacher has rolled their eyes at the “my dog ate my homework” excuse, but it really happened to one of America’s most revered authors. In 1936, John Steinbeck’s dog Toby, an Irish setter, turned the first draft of Of Mice and Men into a snack. In a letter dated May 27 of that year, the future Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winner wrote that he “was pretty mad, but the poor little fellow may have been acting critically.”
Steinbeck estimated that Toby making “confetti” of the manuscript would set him back by about two months, but it may have been worth it: Steinbeck’s short, tragic tale of two migrant workers eking out a humble existence in California during the Depression is among the author’s most moving and accomplished works, which is saying something for the man responsible for both East of Eden and The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck, a lifelong dog-lover, later wrote a travelogue featuring his poodle called Travels with Charley.
I forget sometimes how new you are. We’ve learned each other’s’ rhythms so well that it feels like we’ve been together for years. But we’ve been a trio for only nine months, and this is our first summer.
So I didn’t think much of the invitation, Jadie, to try out your webbed paws (which all Labs have) at a friend’s pool. I had a pool at my previous house, and your ancestors, Teddy and Esme, LOVED it. We spent an entire summer at that flat chlorine altar, and your dad had quite the tan.
But this was the first time either of you had seen a pool deeper than six inches. And you turned THAT into a plastic rawhide. I still don’t know if that was a sign of love or repulsion.
Regardless, you were as curious as Yogi at a picnic basket when we arrived at the crystal blue wonder. You both sniffed the edges, peered your reflections, smelled Dodger’s ass. But you never went in.
As you surveyed, I ducked into the bathroom and stripped to a suit. Then I walked to the edge, asked Jaime if he was filming, and feigned falling into the water. That’s how Teddy learned to swim, and I’d seen footage of new mothers chucking their infants in pools to teach them aquatics.
I promise you: I will never feign mishap again. What could be more terrifying for a youngling than to see their oldling in peril? At least the babies can think, ‘Oh well, guess mom didn’t want me. Was nicer back there, anyway.’
I will never know what you thought, but I will never forget how you responded. Jadie, I’ve watched that video like the Zapruder tape, and you were in within three Mississippis of splashdown.
And baby, I’ll be honest: You ain’t Michael Phelps. You swim as much vertically as horizontally, which has gotta be scary, especially when you can’t see the exit. But once you learned the terrain, you wouldn’t stay out, so maybe we’ll do that again.
And Charlie. Bud, you were heroism incarnate. When I “fell” and Jadie dove, you and Dodger sensed something was amiss. And while Dodger began what his dad would later call “rescue barks,” you began what I call rescue action.
You came to the edge of the pool where we submerged. When Jadie’s panicked paddling sent her to the other side of the pool, you and Dodger ran there. Then you dove headfirst into the deep end. And you don’t even like baths.
What were you thinking, I wonder. That you could save us both? That, ‘If dad and sis are going down, I’m going with them’?
You took a literal leap of faith. I don’t know if I’ve ever jumped without knowing the depth. What is that? Innate courage? Instinctive love?
By the end of lunch, you were running through the place like an off-leash park, playing keepaway with mini float noodles and blatantly violating Mrs. Rovero’s no-poolside-running policy.
And I have to admit: I was a initially a little nervous for you both. I guess that’s to be expected: Somehow, it feels more important this time around.
What I didn’t expect was that you would be nervous for me. And then I realized what you were getting at: It matters every time around.
About 200 feral cats roam Disneyland, where they help control rodents.
Spend enough time at Disneyland and you’ll see them. Maybe you’ll spot one snoozing in the bushes near the Jungle Cruise or observing you warily as you ride the tram, but one thing is certain: However many cats you see, there are more out of sight.
About 200 feral cats roam the Happiest Place on Earth, where they earn their keep by helping to control the rodent population. The felines were first seen not long after Disneyland opened in 1955, when they took up residence in Sleeping Beauty Castle, and it soon became evident that keeping them around had more advantages than trying to escort them off the premises.
The mutually beneficial alliance even includes permanent feeding stations for the cats, as well as spaying or neutering and vaccinations. Though not official cast members, these adept hunters — who mostly come out at night — have earned a devoted following of their own. There are websites, Instagram feeds, and YouTube videos devoted to them. They’re not quite as popular as the actual rides at Disneyland, obviously, but for cat-lovers, they’re an attraction all their own.
Of course, cat-lovers are an attraction unto themselves.
