Saving Linda

I wrote this story for a contest. The objective was to write a “short short” with a focus on humor. It didn’t win anything, but every time I read the story, I smile or laugh. Of course, I remember the entire incident. I don’t know if others would find it humorous, or not.
However, I described some of the story to my Jazzercise teacher one day, and she wanted to read it. So, Carole, I’m dedicating this story to you –

SAVING LINDA
Cheryl Shore
I came from a family of gloom and doom. My parents, particularly my father, were always making dire predictions. He advised my sister and me that there was enough poison in a lipstick to kill a rabbit. I don’t know why he felt compelled to tell us about the dangers of cosmetics when we were still shy of our teenage years. Maybe he wanted to discourage us from ever wearing makeup. The warning came back to my consciousness with alarm bells ringing when I saw my toy French poodle running around the house with greasy pink goo smeared around her mouth. I found an old purse on the floor, with an open tube of lipstick lying beside it. Most of the lipstick was missing, and there were teeth marks on the stub left behind.
My dog was about the size of a rabbit. I was convinced that my pet was dead meat.
Her name was Linda. This name was selected by my mother, as she thought the label described her femininity. Linda had already given me a scare about a year earlier when she decided to go into labor the minute my parents left the house to see a movie. Cell phones were still decades away, and I realized that I was on my own. My sister was already asleep and I realized, at the age of 12, that I was called to service as a doggie midwife. I was convinced that an obstetrical disaster would occur, the puppies would die and it would be all my fault. This was in the era when info about the facts of life was kept under wraps tightly, especially at my house. I soon found out that puppies are born encased in slippery shrink wrapping that defied my efforts to cut it off.. Nature took its course and all of the puppies survived. My parents returned home just after the last one made her entrance into the world.
Now, it was déjà vu all over again. Linda was calling me to action to save her life. My parents were gone and my sister was useless as far as a source of information or as an assistant. It was up to me to save Linda.
Fortunately, I knew where my mother kept the Red Cross First Aid Manual. With shaking fingers I found the section on poisoning. They talked about a universal remedy: burnt toast and milk of magnesia. I was reassured, if the remedy was universal, wouldn’t it work for anything? The idea was to mix the toast and milk of magnesia in equal parts and have the victim eat it. I knew we had bread in the house. I was less sure about the milk of magnesia, or even where I could find it if we had some. But first things first, I told myself. I put two slices of bread in the toaster and turned the dial to the highest setting. After popping the slices down, I went to look in my Dad’s medicine cabinet.
Shaving cream, razor, aftershave. On the top shelf I saw a blue bottle: Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia! I guessed it was beneficial to have a father who experienced frequent indigestion. And fortunately, the bottle was almost half full.
Back to the kitchen where the toast had popped up. It was dark, but not burnt. I fanned the top of the toaster and put the brown slices down for the second time. I assessed my patient’s condition. So far, so good. Linda was in her favorite spot in the window, checking out the action on the suburban street. I was a little annoyed; didn’t she appreciate the inevitable consequence of what she had done? Her pink muzzle mocked me as she shot me a fleeting glance before returning her attention outside.
Black fumes were coming from the toaster. No smoke alarms in those days, thank goodness. I gingerly put the pieces in a bowl, broke them up, and covered them with the milk of magnesia. I used the back of a spoon to crunch and mix the concoction.
It was ready. I called my dog’s name and put the universal remedy on the mat with her food and water dishes. She came over obediently, sniffed once, and walked away.
I panicked. I thought dogs would eat anything. After all, she just ate a lipstick! I tried to think of ways to entice her, to make the gray mixture more appetizing. My mind was blank.
I went back to the first aid manual. The second piece of advice regarding poisoning: tickle the throat. In retrospect, I guess this advice meant tickling the inside of the throat on order to produce vomiting, but the mental picture in my mind at the time was different. Since my mother was into hat making in those days, it was easy enough for me to find a feather. I started to tickle Linda’s neck in the vicinity of her collar when my parents arrived home.
“What are you doing?” my mother asked at the same time my Dad charged into the kitchen.
“Where’s the fire?” he wanted to know.
When I explained what happened, neither of them were too excited. My dad had no memory of making the lethal lipstick comment. No one panicked, no one talked about calling the vet.
I kept a wary eye on Linda for the remainder of the afternoon. Her condition remained stable.
I decided that wearing makeup wasn’t going to kill me.