part0039

Shortly after I started writing “Urban Legends,” I received a query from a California reader about a story I call “The Crushed Dog.” Feeling sure I would see the story again, I filed the letter under “Animals—Miscellaneous.”

But it wasn’t until fifteen months later that I found two similar stories. I still can’t say for sure whether “The Crushed Dog” is a legend, but I’m beginning to believe it is.

The Californian remembered hearing the story told about a friend of a friend ten or fifteen years ago. Its plot is an unusual one for a legend: instead of a single memorable incident, there are two episodes separated by a time gap.

The first episode describes a young man, new in town, who is invited to a party at an expensive home. He falls asleep after drinking heavily and awakens in a dark room. While fumbling for the light switch, he accidentally sticks his fingers into an open ink well and leaves stains and fingerprints all over the room.

Embarrassed by the damage he has done, the young man slips away unnoticed. The next day he decides to return and apologize.

The conclusion of the Californian’s story is what sounds like a legend to me: “He was admitted by a servant, who led him to a dim library to await his host or hostess. He entered the library, and sank into the nearest comfortable chair, only to hear and feel a mind-boggling CRUNCH! The young man leapt to his feet to discover that he had crushed a delicate Chihuahua to death. He fled again, and never returned. ”

Sometimes a story like this haunts me for months—even years—before I discover whether it is an urban legend, a true incident, or a literary invention. I usually assume that such a bizarre but believable story just has to be a legend, but I need some evidence—other versions that reveal an oral tradition and plot variations. And although I have lots of suffering-pet legends on file, I lacked another version of this one.

Then, a few weeks ago, I read Tom Robbins’s novel Still Life with Woodpecker (New York: Bantam, 1980), and there I found my story!

Early in Robbins’s book there’s a scene in which a nervous suitor calls on his beloved’s parents. The young woman’s mother has a cherished pet Chihuahua. Here’s what happens to the suitor:

“He went into the music room and took a seat on the couch. As he sat, he felt something warm and heard a soft dry snap/crackle/pop, like a singular oversized Rice Krispy being bitten into by a crocodile. He stood up slowly…. Beneath him was the beloved Chihuahua. He had sat on it. And broken its neck.”

The young man put the dog into the piano, placed the roses he had brought on top, and left quickly.

Robbins must have heard a version of “The Crushed Dog” and adapted it for his novel. And the book, which was a best seller, helped to spread the story to a large audience. But does the story really have an oral tradition?

As I pondered this question, an English acquaintance of mine who now lives in the States called to ask me about a story concerning a Scottish lad.

It seems that the lad was invited somewhere and accidentally sat on the host’s Pekingese. Embarrassed, he hid the dog’s body in a coal scuttle and fled.

I asked my acquaintance to repeat the story so I could take notes, she said, “Wait, there’s more.” She wasn’t absolutely sure about the details, but she remembered something about his coming back to apologize and accidentally upsetting an open inkwell.