A Room Of Her Own
Forget the pile of gifts!
Never mind the work,
the struggle, the pain.
Ignore the love lavished on me by my mom and grandmother, who worked so hard in the hotels of New York City for so little. Pay no attention to the food and caring
and clothing and hard work.
That Christmas, it was all about…
the puppy. THE PUPPY!
My daddy bought me a puppy
who I named Gypsy
and became the love of my life!
My favorite stories about myself were usually composed when I was sitting on the toilet with the door locked, bouncing a rubber ball on the wall.
I was either a cowgirl—famous as the “Lone Ranger”—or a dog named “Yellow,” faithful and true that followed the “Lone Ranger” in her travels and helped her emerge victorious from her adventures.
This was my favorite place to hide out—free from disturbance unless somebody else really, REALLY had to use the toilet.
It was not a hide-out. Everybody knew where I was, but it was kind of a sanctum sanctorum, and my privacy was respected there.
It was here I was most likely to solve puzzling disappearances. (Being a dog, my nose helped enormously to sniff out clues.) I was also good at rescuing human beings from floods , fires, or other natural disasters.