What’s the Statute of Limitations on a Sibling Lie?

30 Years Later, I Still Believed the Dog Was Taken To a Farm

One of my brothers is an epic bullshitter. He can light up a room and make everybody laugh. His stories are rousing and rude, full of color commentary people typically don’t say aloud, especially in public. But I have to admit, they’re entertaining and so is he.

As a kid he was my source of all things “real.” If this brother said it, by god, it was gospel. I had better have believed it. He’d shake the truth into me if need be. From what happens to kids who don’t behave — to pieces of Halloween candy “only boys can eat” — I took everything he said as fact. He was older and wiser because of course, he told me that.

So of course I believed him at 12 years old when he, 18, reported solemnly, that Mom and Dad took our St. Bernard to a farm in Conroe, a town outside of Houston.

BJ attacked me one summer morning when my parents were working. He was a beast, so big he could drape his paws with plenty of clearance over our back fence. He bit me- a warning bite- and scared me to death.

The beast had bitten a friend of Dad’s. That guy didn’t fare so well, needing stitches and an ER visit. We were walking on eggshells. This was the same time Steven King’s Cujo was releasing in movie theaters. Who would have thunk it? Evil St. Bernard’s — terror dogs. Laughable, right? Not back then.

After the incident with the dog, he disappeared one day. Clueless about the workings of the world and never the wiser, I had no idea BJ wasn’t “re-homed.”

My family reassured me he was going to be happier at another place. They guaranteed he’d play with other dogs. Tons of dog pals were there and copious amounts of space to roam. He was going to be on a farm! A farm in Conroe. I believed it lock, stock and dumb as a wooden barrel.

There aren’t farms in Conroe. It has a lake. That’s about it.

I was 43, enjoying dinner out with my husband, brother and sister-in-law. No idea how the dog’s fate came up but somehow the topic circled to previous pets. I said, “Yeah, like the farm BJ went to in Conroe. I wonder how long he lived there.”

My brother lost his bite, practically spat the potatoes in his mouth across the table. Then he burst into laughter, dropping his fork.

Smacking the tabletop, his laugh was a sound I’ll never forget. I think it’s called hilarity, if not ephemeral glee. The sound of “I-fooled-you-all-these-years-you-dumbass)” glee. His “HA- HA!” was robust, like the peeling back of ceiling tiles.

“What?” I didn’t get it. No idea why he was carrying on. Didn’t we all know BJ lived to a ripe old dog age?

“You seriously thought we moved that dog?” His eyes shone. His mouth curled like the Mad Hatter high on spiked tea. His fuzzy, black caterpillar mustache smiled at my naive belief.

“Of course. What do you mean? You didn’t?” What was he trying to say? When my husband put his hand on my elbow, it struck me that he knew what I did not. Duped. In the dark. But for 30+ years?

“Hon, he’s saying they put the dog down back then. Probably had to if he’d bitten a few people.” My husband squeezed my arm, a little show of support. In 30 seconds he connected the dots on something I couldn’t in 30 years. BJ bit the dust way back.

“Seriously?” My brother asked. “You had no idea?”

Hands out, palms up, I was defensive. “What? NO. I was 12. YOU told me he was happy.”

“You’re an idiot. I also told you he was biting everything. Do you think the folks could keep him? We would have lost the house if he bit one more person. Haaaaaaaa. Sucker.”

More laughing. This time he pointed.

I sighed.

“Frickin’ dog.” I didn’t know what else to say.

I’m really sensitive about death. I’m the girl that when the cat brings me gifts of dead animals, I bury them. It’s a weird, return the body to Earth practice. Every pot has a rotting bird carcass buried inside. I don’t know, for the bird’s dignity?

“But we didn’t bury him.” Fork down, I pouted, petulant. I felt terrible.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Now you know why we didn’t.” He laughed again, grabbed his fork, and settled to finish eating. Avoiding a possible sibling implosion, my husband followed suit.

Nobody looked my direction in case princess Susan blew a gasket and a tantrum would ensue. Or tears. Then I was mad.

“HEY — anything else you might want to tell me?”