the days of the dog ate my homework are well behind us

Where Did The Phrase “The Dog Ate My Homework” Come From?

Dogs are known as man’s best friend. Dogs keep us safe, are hard workers … and can provide a handy excuse in a pinch. Maybe that’s why versions of the classic expression the dog ate my homework have been around for hundreds of years.

Today, the dog ate my homework is used as a stock example of the kind of silly excuses schoolchildren give for why their work isn’t finished. Very rarely do people say, “the dog ate my homework” and expect it to be taken literally; they use the expression as an example of a typically flimsy excuse.

So where did the phrase come from?

Forrest Wickman, a writer for Slate , describes the legend of the 6th-century Saint Ciarán of Clonmacnoise as the alleged first recorded “the dog ate my homework” story. According to the tale, Saint Ciarán had a tame young fox that would take his writings to his master for him. One day, the fox grew up and decided to eat the leather strap binding the writings together instead. Still, this tale is more Garden-of-Eden parable and less terrible schoolchild excuse.

The notion that dogs will eat just about anything, including paper, turns up in lots of stories over the centuries. An example comes from The Humors of Whist , published in 1808 in Sporting Magazine . In the story, the players are sitting around playing cards when one of them remarks that their companion would have lost the game had the dog not eaten the losing card. Good boy.

Some attribute the creation of the dog ate my homework to a joke that was going around at the beginning of the 20th century. In a tale found as far back as an 1894 memoir by Anglican priest Samuel Reynolds Hole, a preacher gives a shortened version of a sermon because a dog got into his study and ate some of the pages he had written. However, the clerk loved it because they had been wanting the preacher to shorten his sermons for years.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary , the first example of the dog ate my homework excuse in print can be found in a speech given by retiring headmaster James Bewsher in 1929 and published in the Manchester Guardian : “It is a long time since I have had the excuse about the dog tearing up the arithmetic homework.” The way this comment is phrased suggests that the whole dog ate my homework story had been around for some time before it was put in print.

When was the word homework created?

But in order for a dog to eat homework specifically, homework had to be invented (oh, and how we wish it hadn’t been). True, the word homework , as in what we call today housework , appears as early as 1653. But homework , as in school exercises to be done at home, isn’t found until 1852. Once we had homework , it was only a matter of time before the dog was accused of eating it.

How we use this phrase now

No matter the origin, sometime in the 1950s, the expression became set as the dog ate my homework . This inspired any number of riffs on the theme, like my cow ate my homework or my brother ate my homework . In the 1960s, the dog ate my homework continued to gain popularity. The expression popped up a couple times in politics over the years, like when President Reagan said to reporters in 1988, “I had hoped that we had marked the end of the ‘dog-ate-my-homework’ era of Congressional budgetry … but it was not to be.”

It seems unlikely that the dog ate my homework was ever used consistently or frequently by actual schoolchildren. In fact, it’s the unlikeliness of the story that makes it so funny and absurd as a joke. Instead, teachers and authority figures appear to have cited the dog ate my homework many times over the years as such a bad excuse they can’t believe students are really using it.

In the 21st century, students don’t spend as much time working with physical pen and paper as they once did. That may contribute to the decline in the use of the phrase. So, maybe soon we’ll see a new equally absurd phrase pop up. Come on Zoomers, you’ve got this.

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The Truth Behind the “Dog Ate My Homework” Excuse: Exploring Its Effectiveness and Psychological Implications

By Happy Sharer

Introduction

The “dog ate my homework” excuse has been around for decades and is one of the most popular reasons students give for not completing their assignments on time. It’s used as both an excuse and a joke, but what does it really mean? This article will explore the truth behind the “dog ate my homework” excuse, examining its effectiveness and psychological implications.

An Examination of the Effectiveness of Using the “Dog Ate My Homework” Excuse

It may seem like an obvious answer to the question of whether or not a dog actually ate your homework, but there are some important factors to consider. First, it is important to look at why students use this excuse more than others. According to a study by the University of Michigan, students who use the “dog ate my homework” excuse are often trying to avoid being held accountable for their actions. They are also more likely to be struggling academically and trying to find a way out of doing the work.

Another factor to consider is whether or not this excuse is actually effective. While it may sound like a good idea in theory, the truth is that it rarely works. In fact, research shows that teachers are more likely to believe other excuses such as forgetting or running out of time. Furthermore, using the “dog ate my homework” excuse could backfire and make the teacher less likely to believe any future excuses.

Interviewing Dog Owners on the Truth Behind This Excuse

In order to get a better understanding of the “dog ate my homework” excuse, I interviewed several dog owners to get their perspectives. One dog owner, Mary, believes that the excuse is rooted in cultural history. She says, “I think the excuse comes from a long-standing belief that dogs have a tendency to get into things they shouldn’t. So, when a student can’t do their assignment, they might just blame it on the dog to avoid getting in trouble.”

Another dog owner, John, sees the “dog ate my homework” excuse as a way to shift the blame away from the student. He explains, “It’s human nature to want to avoid being held accountable for our actions. So, if a student can’t do their assignment, they might try to blame it on the dog to avoid taking responsibility.”

Finally, I spoke with a third dog owner, Susan, who believes that the “dog ate my homework” excuse can have a negative impact on student-teacher relationships. She notes, “If a teacher hears this excuse too often, it can erode their trust in the student. And, even if the excuse is true, the teacher may become less likely to believe future excuses from that student.”

Exploring the Psychological Implications of Using This Excuse

In addition to examining the effectiveness of the “dog ate my homework” excuse, it is also important to look at its psychological implications. Lying is never a good thing and can have serious consequences, both in the short and long term. According to a study by the American Psychological Association, lying can lead to feelings of guilt, anxiety, and depression.

Furthermore, claiming a dog ate your homework can also have a negative impact on your relationship with your teacher. If the teacher finds out you lied, they may be less likely to trust you in the future. This can lead to a strained relationship and make it difficult to ask for help when you need it.

The “dog ate my homework” excuse is a popular one, but it is rarely effective and can have serious psychological implications. Not only is it unlikely to convince a teacher that you haven’t done your assignment, but it can also lead to feelings of guilt and anxiety. Furthermore, it can damage your relationship with your teacher and make it harder to ask for help in the future. Ultimately, it is best to avoid using this excuse and take responsibility for your actions.

In conclusion, the “dog ate my homework” excuse has been around for decades and is often used as a joke or an excuse. However, this article has shown that it is rarely effective and can have serious psychological implications. Therefore, it is best to avoid using this excuse and take responsibility for your actions.

Call to Action

If you are in a situation where you need to come up with an excuse for not completing your homework, try to be honest and take responsibility for your actions. Lying is never a good idea and can lead to feelings of guilt and anxiety. Furthermore, it can damage your relationships with your teachers and make it harder to ask for help in the future. So, the next time you need to come up with an excuse, be honest and take responsibility.

(Note: Is this article not meeting your expectations? Do you have knowledge or insights to share? Unlock new opportunities and expand your reach by joining our authors team. Click Registration to join us and share your expertise with our readers.)

Hi, I'm Happy Sharer and I love sharing interesting and useful knowledge with others. I have a passion for learning and enjoy explaining complex concepts in a simple way.

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Strange News

Can the dog still eat your homework.

It may be the best known bad excuse for being unprepared: "The Dog Ate My Homework." But where does the phrase come from and how has it changed over the years? Weekend Edition host Scott Simon talks with Forrest Wickman, a reporter with Slate Magazine , who has the answers.

(SOUNDBITE OF PAPER RUSTLING)

SCOTT SIMON, HOST:

(SOUNDBITE OF DOG GROWLING)

SIMON: I don't know what to say. The dog ate my script.

(SOUNDBITE OF DOG BARKING)

SIMON: You know that old excuse that makes people groan, palpably ridiculous, right? But was it always so? This week Forrest Wickman of Slate magazine traced the origin of that phrase school kids have used for decades to explain why they don't have their homework and adults have cited as what amounts to an exemplar of absurdity.

Forrest Wickman joins us from Slate in New York. Thanks so much for being with us.

FORREST WICKMAN: Thanks for having me.

SIMON: So, near as you can tell, who was the first person to say something like, the dog ate my homework?

WICKMAN: It's hard to point to anyone in particular. One can make the argument that one of the first examples is this guy Saint Tyron(ph) who around the fifth century had this fox that he found and he started taking the fox around. And at some point the fox ate his psalms.

SIMON: So the fox ate my scripture?

WICKMAN: Right.

SIMON: OK. So that's the 5th century. We've got some time to account for. Yes. And?

WICKMAN: It really starts picking up in the 20th century. One of the earliest really popular stories that's told often around 1905, 1910 - this priest who finishes his sermon and then he pulls his clerk aside and he asks his clerk: What did you think of the sermon? He's a little worried. And the clerk says: Oh, I think it was a fine sermon. And the priest says: Oh, I'm so glad because the dog just ate the last several pages of my sermon.

SIMON: What other kind of permutations were you able to find over the years?

WICKMAN: Yeah, so even through the '60s people - it's still juts one of many excuses. People might say my dog ate my homework. My dog went on my homework is one excuse that's used in a popular book from 1965 that's called "Up the Down Staircase."

SIMON: This is Bel Kaufman's novel about a New York City high school. Right. Yeah.

WICKMAN: Right. And it was turned into a movie in 1967. And then in the 1970s, it finally really becomes a think, a stock excuse that was well known as perhaps the most popular excuse.

SIMON: Is it an excuse that's running out of steam in the digital age when it might make more logical sense to say the dog drooled on my hard drive?

WICKMAN: Right. There has been some speculation about this. Google has these things called engrams, which track the appearance of a phrase over time. And pretty much any permutation of my dog ate my homework, all of those phrases, have been declining over the last decade or so.

SIMON: Anything to replace it?

WICKMAN: I don't know. In the '90s, there were all these children's books that started to really play with the phrase once it was so well known. So, "Godzilla Ate My Homework," "A Dinosaur Ate My Homework," "Aliens Ate My Homework," "My Teacher Ate My Homework." But I don't see any of those taking over anytime soon.

SIMON: I like the aliens ate my homework. I mean, perhaps that's their way of learning about our world.

WICKMAN: That could be how it works.

SIMON: Forrest Wickman of Slate magazine. Thanks so much for being with us.

WICKMAN: Thanks very much.

(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)

SIMON: This is NPR News,

Copyright © 2012 NPR. All rights reserved. Visit our website terms of use and permissions pages at www.npr.org for further information.

NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by an NPR contractor. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.

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Why Do We Say “The Dog Ate My Homework”?

The history of the delinquent schoolchild’s favorite excuse..

Did this sad Lab eat your homework?

iStockphoto.

Viacom announced on Monday that Mitt Romney had declined to appear on Nickelodeon’s Kids Pick the President special this year, citing time constraints. President Obama’s camp pounced on Romney’s decision, saying, “Kids demand details … ‘The dog ate my homework’ just doesn’t cut it when you’re running for president. ” When did “my dog ate my homework” become known as schoolchildren’s favorite excuse?

The 1970s. Delinquent schoolchildren and adults have been blaming their shortcomings on their pets for more than a century, but it wasn’t until the 1970s that “my dog ate my homework” came to be considered the No. 1 likely story. One of the first sad sacks who was said to blame his dog for his own ill-preparedness was a priest. In this anecdote, which appeared as early as 1905, a clergyman pulls his clerk aside after a service to ask him whether his sermon seemed long enough. The clerk assures him that it was very nice, “just the right length,” and the priest is relieved. “I am very glad to hear you say that,” he says, “because just before I started to come here my dog got hold of my sermon and ate some of the leaves .” The story was repeated again and again . The first citation of the excuse in the Oxford English Dictionary is a 1929 article from the Manchester Guardian , which reads, “It is a long time since I have had the excuse about the dog tearing up the arithmetic homework.” In Bel Kaufman’s best-selling 1965 novel Up the Down Staircase , a list of students’ excuses for not having their homework includes “ My dog went on my homework ” and “ My dog chewed it up .” Even in 1965, however, it was still just another excuse.

“My dog ate my homework” became known as the quintessential far-fetched excuse in the next decade, when the phrase was used over and over . In a 1976 account of the Watergate tapes, E.C. Kennedy describes listening to President Nixon “ working on the greatest American excuse since the dog ate my homework .” A 1977 article from Alaska’s Daily News-Miner describes the difficulty students faced in coming up with a new excuse since “ ‘My dog ate my term paper’ is no longer acceptable .”

The excuse was alluded to more and more throughout the 1980s. A 1982 Time magazine column on excuses suggested that “The dog ate my homework is a favorite with schoolchildren,” while a 1987 New York Times column about how students were starting to blame malfunctioning computers and printers quoted one teacher as saying she recently received “ a note from a student’s mother saying the dog ate his homework .” Even the president picked up on the trend: When Congress pushed spending approval to the last minute in 1988, Ronald Reagan complained to reporters, “ I had hoped that we had marked the end of the ‘dog-ate-my-homework’ era of Congressional budgetry … but it was not to be .” It was all over television, with references to the excuse on shows like The Simpsons and Full House . By 1989, the narrator of Saved by the Bell theme was singing, “ And the dog ate all my homework last night .”

The phrase continued to grow more popular. Between 1990 and 2000, the New York Times wrote articles with headlines such as “ Beyond ‘Dog Ate My Homework’ ” and “ Homework Help Sites (Or, the Dog Ate My U.R.L.) ,” while The New Yorker described one criminal’s accounts of his wrongdoings as having “a decided my-dog-ate-my-homework quality.” Children’s books tried to capitalize on the trend with titles like A Dinosaur Ate My Homework , Aliens Ate My Homework , Godzilla Ate My Homework , and My Teacher Ate My Homework , daring to use the term to promote reading and education. Such titles have continued into the 2000s, but in recent years the phrase seems to finally be losing steam .

Bonus Explainer: An Obama spokesperson also said, “ It’s no surprise Romney decided to play hookey .” Why do we call cutting school “playing hookey”? To play hookey began as an Americanism in the 19 th century. The earliest known citation comes from 1848, from John Russell Bartlett’s Dictionary of Americanisms , where it was said to mean “to play truant” and noted to be “ a term used among schoolboys, chiefly in the State of New York .” Word historians usually suggest that it’s from to hook it meaning to run away , a term as old as the Revolutionary War. However, others have proposed that it might derive from the Dutch expression hoekje spelen , the Dutch expression for “hide and seek”—especially since playing hooky emerged in New York during a time when it had a larger Dutch population.

Got a question about today’s news?  Ask the Explainer .

Explainer thanks Barry Popik, Jesse Sheidlower of the Oxford English Dictionary, and Ben Zimmer of the Visual Thesaurus and Vocabulary.com .

The Dog Ate My Homework

The first known time that anyone used the “dog ate my homework” excuse was, according to writing expert and educationist, Christoper Simpson, in 1835. The student who was said to have uttered the now famous explanation for the absence of homework was Henry Pennywhistle, but other sources attribute the words to a story about a Welsh minister in 1905, and yet another source points to Saint Tyron who in the fifth century found a fox with whom he made friends. At some point, the fox ate his psalms, but “the fox ate my scriptures,” doesn’t quite have the same ring. Whatever. The quote spawned a cottage industry of creative excuses, many of which became children’s books (“Godzilla Ate My Homework,” “A Dinosaur Ate My Homework,” “Aliens Ate My Homework,” “My Teacher Ate My Homework,” and so on).

We know that dogs sometimes do eat things they ought not to, something the author, John Steinbeck” found out when he reportedly found the first draft of his novel, Of Mice and Men , chewed up by his dog.  Steinbeck was known, of course, for his Poodle, “Charley,” who accompanied him on a criss-cross journey “in search of America.”  The book resulted in  Travels with Charley: In Search of America,  though the journey was in the 1960s, and  Of Mice and Men  was published in 1937, so we think the Poodle was innocent. In fact, it was Steinbeck’s dog, Max, who chomped on the first draft of the classic.  Steinbeck owned many dogs in his life, including an Airedale Terrier, but Max’s breed remains a mystery to us.

Image: “Dog Ate my Homework” is available on a t-shirt and hoodie here. 

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the dog ate my homework

English [ edit ]

Phrase [ edit ].

• 2011 May 6, Damian Carrington, “Environment action delays blamed on 'dog ate my homework' excuses”, in The Guardian ‎ [1] , archived from the original on 2022-08-24 : Their reasons for missed deadlines are mostly of the " dog ate my homework variety" including such easily foreseeable events as yesterday's elections and that the badger culling policy is "difficult and sensitive".
• 2014 September 12, Oscar Webb, quoting Donald Campbell, “UK Government Changes Its Line On Diego Garcia Flight Logs Sought in Rendition Row - Again”, in VICE ‎ [2] , archived from the original on 2022-12-05 : The government's excuses for Diego Garcia's missing records are getting increasingly confused and desperate. Ministers could hardly be less credible if they simply said ' the dog ate my homework .'
• 2017 February 18, Mia Berman, “Go West-minster, Young Mastiff”, in HuffPost ‎ [3] , archived from the original on 2019-04-09 : Our immune system's weak; we've been sick as a dog, missing work and school, resorting to " the dog ate my homework " excuses amidst these frigid dog days of winter.

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GREG BUSTIN’S

Executive leadership blog.

My Dog Ate My Homework… and Other Excuses

September 1st, 2015  | 

It’s back to school season.

Whether you’re a student or a business executive, the back-to-school vibe is noticeable in classrooms, cubicles and conference rooms as calendars fill more quickly, cooler weather energizes behavior, and new assignments adopt an increasing sense of urgency.

The period between Labor Day and Thanksgiving is my busiest time of year as I work with leadership teams in strategic planning sessions to help colleagues agree on priorities, responsibilities, and action items for the coming year and beyond.

Last year in Forbes Leadership Forum, I discussed why most company strategic plans fail . One reason is lack of accountability.

Talk is Cheap

Part of what makes accountability difficult is that when you work with smart people and things don’t get done well or on time, you often are handed excuses.

No organization—not even high-performing organizations— is immune from the well-crafted excuse. What separates high-performing organizations from all the others is the way in which excuses are handled.

“My dog ate my homework” is an excuse that sprang from a 1905 anecdote about a minister temporarily filling in for another minister.

At the time, William ApMadoc, a contributor to the Welsh journal The Cambrian , indicated the initial punchline had more to do with brevity than an excuse for non-performance.

In ApMadoc’s telling, a visiting minister asked a clerk how his sermon had been received, and, in particular, whether it had been long enough. Upon hearing from the clerk the length was sufficient, the minister replied that just before the service his dog had eaten some of the paper on which the sermon was written. “Well,” replied the clerk, who felt his regular preacher’s sermons could be shorter, “couldn’t you give our vicar a pup from your dog?”

It was not until 1965 in Bel Kaufman’s best-selling novel Up the Down Staircase that students blamed their failure to complete an assignment on their dogs.

Since then, “My dog ate my homework” has become code in and out of classrooms for a lame excuse.

In the workplace, time, talent and treasure (money) are the three commodities every organization has in common, and here’s what lack of accountability sounds like:

Time I put out fires all day, so there’s no time to work on my stuff. Our deadlines are unrealistic. The deadline was unclear. I spend my time doing my boss’s work. I spend my time doing work my staff should be doing. I spend my time on tactical—not strategic—work. We can’t always get it right the first time but we can make time to fix it. There’s no sense of urgency around here. I ran out of time. His performance will improve with time.

Talent We don’t have the right people. We don’t have enough people. We don’t have enough of the right people. The people on our team can’t think for themselves. He let me down. These people don’t report to me, so their work is not my fault. I didn’t know I was allowed to make that decision. I didn’t understand the assignment. It wasn’t my job. The changes we made are preventing me from getting things done. My team won’t like me if I confront their performance issues. People here are not team players. That person is a family member and the rules don’t apply to her. We can’t keep our best people so we are not very effective.

Treasure We underprice what we sell so we can’t staff properly. We can’t agree on priorities so our budgets are spread too thin. Our customers beat us up on price so we can’t charge more. We are constantly being asked to do more with less, including more work for the same salary. Money is tight so we can’t hire the people we need.

It’s a vicious circle, and the excuses are infinite.

Talk is cheap so we often buy it. When we do, accountability suffers.

Moving from Excuses to Accountability

As leaders, we get the behavior we tolerate. So when it comes to holding people accountable, we are often our own worst enemy.

That was my story.

Despite achieving record financial results year over year, the firm I founded and led could have accomplished more. There would have been more fun and less drama if I knew then what I know now about accountability.

At the time, I accepted excuses that sounded logical even when I knew better. I allowed emotions to cloud my decision making. I delayed having a conversation with my underperforming partner because it was easier to avoid a difficult conversation than having one. Instead of practicing accountability, I practiced avoidance.

By the time I asked my partner to leave, I had learned three valuable lessons:

• Clear expectations must be established. I assumed my partner and I both had the same definition of success. We didn’t. My failure to set clear expectations meant evaluating his performance was subjective. Excuses were plentiful, performance was lacking and accountability was non-existent. When your purpose, expectations, and rewards are crystal clear, your employees will embrace accountability as a way to become even more successful. The opposite is also true: If you are not clear about everything—vision, values, objectives, strategy, rewards, and, yes, penalties—the likelihood of achieving your vision is slim.
• Bad news does not improve with age. I avoided discussing my partner’s performance issues for too long because I assumed his performance would improve. Now I know that as soon as you see a problem, it’s best to address it immediately. Failure to speak frankly with the person about his or her performance means nothing will change.
• It’s not personal. Yes, you’re talking with a person, but leave excuses, emotions, and opinions behind. Stick to the facts, set a plan to get performance back on track, and communicate specific consequences for underperformance. If underperformers require termination, do it professionally and move on.

The day after we separated, my partner called to say he appre­ciated the straightforward, professional, and respectful manner in which I had handled our final meeting.

Even though these com­ments reflected well on his gracious acceptance of tough news, they reminded me that everyone feels better when accountability issues are addressed.

Excuses are substitutes for effort.

As a leader, be careful you’re not creating excuses for yourself over a difficult decision that is yours alone to make.

Download my Free eBooks on Accountability

About the Author: Greg Bustin advises some of the world’s most admired companies and leaders, and he’s dedicated a career to working with CEOs and the leadership teams of hundreds of companies in a range of industries. He’s facilitated more than 250 strategic planning sessions, he’s delivered more than 600 keynotes and workshops on every continent except Antarctica, and he coaches leaders who are inspired to take their career to the next level. His fourth leadership book— Accountability: The Key to Driving a High-Performance Culture (McGraw-Hill) —is a Soundview Executive Best Business Book.

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The Dog Ate My Homework

It seemed like the most plausible excuse at the time: blame the new dog for eating up my now overdue essay. But then I just had to embellish...

Karen Donley-Hayes

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The fact of the matter was, I didn’t have anyone else to blame. So I blamed Roscoe–perhaps ill-advised, him being my father’s K-9 partner-in-waiting, but I had completely forgotten my homework. I wasn’t in the habit of lying or putting blame where it didn’t belong, but I was caught off guard–daydreaming about Roscoe, in fact. My third grade teacher now loomed over my desk, expectant, her hand outstretched, fingers wiggling. And in my deer-in-the-headlights stare, with Miss Underwood frowning down at me, the words blurted out all on their own.

“Roscoe ate it.”

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“What?” Miss Underwood scowled more, if that were possible. She planted her fists against her ample hips and leaned in, hovering over me.

I blinked, swallowed a spitless lump in my throat, and having already lied, promptly repeated myself. “Roscoe ate it,” I said with slightly more conviction.

Miss Underwood stood stiff, smack dab in front of my desk, so close I should have been able to smell the little flowers on her dress. I had an overpowering impulse to move away from her, but my chair shackled me to the spot. I stared at the vibrant gladiola sprouting out from beneath Miss Underwood’s belt, and felt the entire class’s attention span shake from all else and swoop down on me.

“Mister Pike. You are not lying to me, are you?” It was more a challenge than a question.

Miss Underwood absolutely terrified me–almost as much as did the prospect of acquiring the entire class’s ridicule or getting caught in a bald-faced lie–and such terror can be a remarkable survival mechanism, because my brain spun a web and my mouth spewed it out without so much as consulting with me. I sat, breathless and rapt with the rest of the class, listening to this story unfold.

“Oh, no ma’am,” a voice–my voice–poured out of me, my brain, frenetic, only barely keeping a syllable ahead of my mouth. “I wrote my report on the metamorphosis of tadpoles into frogs,” I heard. (It was a good thing I had recently become fascinated by this amphibious process and had not only been reading about it but observing it in the natural setting of our backyard.) “And I took the paper with me to the pond so that I could look at them and draw pictures to show the stages, and Roscoe came with me, and I had a tadpole on the top of the paper so I could trace it and Roscoe saw it and before I knew what happened he jumped on it and swallowed it whole, and the paper.”

I shifted my bug-eyed gaze up the floral landscape to the teacher’s face. Miss Underwood remained completely still.

“And the rock that I had holding the paper down,” my voice said. Her eye twitched, barely perceptible. “And the pencil I was using.” Her brows drew closer together. “And then it was dark, and I couldn’t draw them again, and then I had to do my chores and it was time for bed.”

Miss Underwood frowned, unwedged one hand from her hip and pointed at my chest. “You’d better be sure to get that dog to the vet, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded vigorously. “We’re taking him this afternoon.”

“Good,” she said. “And re-write your report and bring it in tomorrow. Along with a report on how Roscoe did at the vet’s.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and wondered if the pittance I had in the Mason jar under my bed could buy me a plane, train, or boat ticket anywhere else in the world.

That afternoon, when I slouched from the school bus, Roscoe careened down the driveway to meet me, his half-grown legs all knobs and paws flying indiscriminately; he seemed none the worse for wear for his “misadventure” of the day before. I trudged up the driveway, the pup orbiting around me, bounding and panting, pausing only to wolf down my mother’s lone remaining gladiola. While my reporting of late had been very light on honesty, there was truth to the fact that Roscoe was a one-canine mauling, gulping, devouring, completely-nondiscriminatory eating machine. The gladiolas, much to my mother’s dismay, had vanished into his maw during a single galumphing frenzy; this was shortly after Roscoe had discovered the infinite wonders that the frog pond in the backyard held. Mom had admonished my father to restrain the dog. Dad had testified that socialization was critical to Roscoe’s mental development and future as a police dog. Mom declared her flowers unfair casualties. Dad promised to build a fence for her gardens (a moot point, as Roscoe had already decimated them).

The sound of my mother’s footsteps on the porch drew my attention; I looked up to see Roscoe gleefully caprioling by her side. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and was staring at me with an expression that immediately made me slow my already lethargic trudge.

“I hear Roscoe ate your homework,” she said. There was no tone of accusation or belief–or even disbelief, for that matter–just a simple statement. I stopped and looked up at her, and for two ticks of a heartbeat I was on the verge of coming clean. I steeled myself to admit my lie, to face the consequences, and to be a better man for it. During those two ticks of a heartbeat, Roscoe splayed himself on the porch and latched onto one of the banister posts, gnawing and grunting.

“Yes ma’am,” I said, and felt the heat rise under my collar as I lied to my own mother. I looked intently at Roscoe (who supported my story with his every action) to avoid looking in my mother’s eyes. I heard her sigh.

“Well, alright then. I called Dr. Brown’s office as soon as Miss Underwood phoned me, so let’s get things together and get going. Hopefully, he’ll be fine; it’s that rock I’m worried about.”

I nodded and walked up the porch steps, head down and ashamed, and slipped past my mother, past the squirming, euphoric mass of German shepherd enthusiasm. My mother stayed on the porch while I dropped my book bag on the kitchen table. Roscoe leapt up, flung himself against her legs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her reach down idly and rub his head. He gazed up at her adoringly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, wood splinters flecking his lips; his tailed swished nonstop across the porch.

“Maybe the paper and rock and all just went right through him,” I said, and hoped that if a dog actually were to eat a paper and a rock, they might actually move right along. Otherwise, I was going to be busted when the vet checked the dog out and declared him devoid of foreign objects. Not that I wanted him to have a problem; I didn’t, but his clean bill of health was my sentence. Granted, it was of my own making.

“I hope so,” Mom’s voice came in from the porch. I heard her add, under her breath, “Roscoe, you’re going to be the death of me if you live long enough.”

In the vet’s waiting room, I studiously worked on my tadpole-to-frog report, shielding it from Roscoe, who my mother worked up a sweat restraining. And when it was finally his turn to go in and be examined, and I was left with silence and the weight of my own guilt, I could barely remember the details of amphibian metamorphosis, much less write about them. Mom, quiet, read a paperback. The clock on the wall ticked off five minutes, 10, 15; the smell of the waiting room mixed with the odor of wet dog, cat pee, and rodent cage litter, and I began to feel nauseous.

“How’s your paper coming?” Mom asked. I shrugged. I sweated.

I was nearly to the point of breaking down and admitting my guilt, or at least bolting from the waiting room and into the parking lot, when Dr. Brown summoned us. Mom clutched her purse, and I drooped behind her, a condemned man going to the gallows. The vet brought us into the execution chamber, and closed the door. The harsh florescent lights gleamed, ruthless and all-seeing. Roscoe was not in the room to witness my punishment.

Dr. Brown cleared his throat. I felt a prickling thrill of sweat, and stared fixedly at the poster of canine parasites on the wall. “Well, we took x-rays of Roscoe, and we don’t see your rock or your paper.”

I couldn’t help a fleeting glance at the vet; he met my eyes for a beat, then looked over at Mom. “But it’s a good thing you brought him in, because we did see something else.”

I blinked, confused.

“Oh?” my mother said.

Dr. Brown turned his back to us, popped a thick sheet of film against a panel, and turned on the light behind it. Ribs and spine and gray masses flickered to light. Dr. Brown glanced over his shoulder toward us. Both Mom and I leaned toward the glowing image. Dr. Brown cleared his throat again and pointed to something in the middle of the picture. I looked closer, squinted, and then with a sting of recognition, I understood the image on the screen. My mother realized at the same time, and she chuffed, glancing sidelong at me.

“This,” Dr. Brown said, tapping the image of my G.I. Joe, recently MIA, “needs to come out. And it won’t come out the easy way like that rock did,” he glanced down at me again. “It will snag other things he swallows, and you’re going to have a bad emergency situation, maybe a dead dog.”

My mother reached for the collar of her blouse, pressed her hand flat. “Oh, no. Oh, poor Roscoe!”

My skin prickled again, but I wasn’t worried about my guilt and punishment anymore. “Will he be okay?” My voice sounded tiny and tremulous. “He won’t really die, will he?”

Dr. Brown smiled then. “No, I think we got him in time. We’ll put him on the surgery schedule for the morning, and he should be right as rain in a month’s time.” He reached a hand out and ruffled my hair. I realized I was crying. “In a way, it’s a good thing he ate your homework, otherwise you might not have found out about this until it was too late.”

I looked up at him lamely.

That weekend, Dad fenced off what was left of Mom’s gardens, I patrolled the entire house and yard and commandeered all swallowable objects (and even some that didn’t seem swallowable), and my folks and I discussed the new obedience regimen for Roscoe. When he came home a few days later, belly shaved but none-the-worse for wear, I doted on him and chaperoned him vigilantly. After a short period of gorging withdrawal, Roscoe adjusted gleefully to his obedience training, and was already ahead of the learning curve when he officially entered his police-dog training.

I was too ashamed to ever admit to my parents my panic-induced homework fabrication. I like to think that the guilt and anxiety I experienced for that long afternoon was punishment enough, and sometimes, I also like to think that it was all part of the plan for Roscoe’s long and decorated life. I like to think that, but I don’t believe it much more than Miss Underwood believed me.

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I love reading K. Donley’s fiction & non fiction. There is always an element of curiosity and expectancy that keeps my attention and wanting to discover. Her sentences are like little paintings that color and shape the atmosphere and lend to the feeling of actually being “there.” Keep writing K. Donley!

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