The paperboy was my savior when I was about four years old. We lived on Punta Alley in the north end of Columbus, Ohio. An empty used car lot anchored one end and the railroad tracks anchored the other end of the street. A row of attached houses (nowadays called by the prettied-up name of four-plexes or condos) lined the south side and a brick wall lined the north side.
Back in those days kids played outside – a lot – especially when moms and dads were having “discussionsâ€. You know the saying that “little pitchers have big earsâ€.
I did not have a puppy of my own, so I played with the ones in the alley. The day I was saved by the paperboy one of the puppies had cornered me and was attacking me, not allowing me to get back to my house. The paperboy came along at just the right time to ward off the attack with large rocks and pieces of bricks.
My mother came out about that time to see what the ruckus was all about. It was not until then that I realized my puppy was really a large rat. I had been in serious danger.
I received a few swats that night, but they were generously interspersed with grateful, teary hugs as well. The paperboy was rewarded with thanks and hugs, and likely a plate of cookies.
To this day I do not like rodents of any kind. (I didn’t care for the movie or the song Ben, either) I am also not a dog person. Funny how such things color our lives.
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This week our trusty Trifecta twosome (miss you, David) have challenged us with the third definition of alley.