NEW EXCUSE SAM

Los Angeles. 1985. The citizens of this metropolis peacefully slept in the middle of a typical southland evening. Some were awake attending peacefully to the business of the city’s night. Driver’s drove, bakers baked, muggers mugged, cops ate donuts and beat people up. Then, it happened.

Los Angeles jolted. Earthquake.

As the horror swept the city, guests at an obscure Motel 6 awoke astounded. They saw the water in the pool swish back and forth. Sixty-seven year old Betty Hornbecker awoke in astonishment, her face pasty and white with Ponds Cold Crème, and grabbed hold of the American Flag by her bedside under the misimpression that the Russians were finally invading.

But in room number five, the stunned tourists watched in living fear of death a truly unbelievable scene. “Mom. Oh my God. Is she…could she be…?”

“Yes, Cheryl. She’s sleeping. Can you believe this? Lurene’s sleeping.”


Okay, I admit. I was going to write this heavy philosophical piece for you, Victoria, about the real meaning of growing up, of graduating, of getting older, of getting yours in life before all those other vultures beat you to it and make off with your booty. But let’s face it, you have no chance of bulldozing your way to the summit if you can’t get up at the crack of dawn.

If I am ever rich enough to be able to afford you as a therapist, I would like to explore this issue. When did this sleeping problem start? What elements of my dysfunctional family, er, that is, typical American family helped contribute to this tragedy?


It all started with Sam. One of several puppies born in a run-down ghetto kennel in suburban Fremont, California, Sam was the offspring of an overprotective, anorexic Chiwawa and an emotionally unavailable mutt from Union City who eventually ran off, using the likely excuse that there was a Garbage Man in the neighborhood to be bit.

Thinking that they were providing for my “normal” childhood development, my parents brought Sam to me for my second Christmas. I must admit, I spent the best years of my childhood with Sam; we did everything together. He stood dutifully under the table at dinnertime, eating the shriveled up slabs of meatloaf I couldn’t tolerate. We watched “Lost in Space” and “Creature Features” together. He knew how to “sit”, “stay”, and bite the neighbor boy, Martin, when I told him to do so.


There was only one problem with Sam. He was an “enabler” and a “co-dependant.”

You see, Sam always slept at the foot of my pink canopy bed. When my mother entered the room at 7 a.m. to wake me for school, he growled menacingly, “enabling” me to sleep in. In this way, we became “co-dependents” – I depended on Sam for sleep. He learned over the years that all he needed to do was growl at my mother to get what he also wanted – even more sleep.

My parents tried everything. They tried bribing him with Mom’s leftovers, for example, which only made him growl more seriously.

I heard my parents talking late one evening in the den.

“Sam has problems, dear. He’s a Fox Terrier Who Loves Too Much,” said my mother.

“It’s just not healthy. He ought to be out chasing cats like a real dog, Dammit!” my father snapped.


Twelve years later, Sam died. As a Boobie Prize, my mother bought me an alarm clock which emitted a strange growling sound. I always resented that.

Anyway, I just slammed my fist down on the snooze button and said, “Thatta Boy.”


Ten years after Sam’s death, I found myself on the couch of a psychiatrist.

“Let’s see, Lurene, your file tells me you’re upset because you were fired last week from your job.”

“Yes. I slept too long and was fired.”

“Why didn’t you get up?”

“I was hoping to get a promotion.”

“How did you figure that?”

“Because the boss was sleeping with me.”

“What went wrong?”

“He didn’t like sleeping at the foot of the bed and being told to ‘go outside’ if he had to go to the bathroom”

“Well, Lurene, it seems you are trying to re-create the problems of your childhood by finding a substitute for Sam. Face reality; you are never going to find a friend as intelligent, committed and loving as your dog Sam was.”

“Oh, I see.”

So, here I am today, the healthy and happy woman with a balanced view of life. But to this day, I wake up in the morning, hear the distant yelp of a dog, and go back to sleep.