KING STEALS THE PARADE

One morning at breakfast, Mom read aloud from the local paper:

“There’s going to be a Fourth of July parade in Detroit Lakes. According to this article, kids and dogs can walk in the parade behind the floats.”

“What are floats?” I asked.

“They’re decorated trailers,” she said. “Groups like the Elks or the Chamber of Commerce use them. The Masonic Temple motorcycle brigade will be there too, you know, the guys who practice in the high school parking lot, weaving around like they’re about to crash?”

Dad perked up instantly. “Come on, son, we’ll build a real wagon. One King can pull. I’ve got just the plans.”

We got to work. Using soapbox derby blueprints Dad found in Popular Mechanics, we built a streamlined wagon with steering that turned the front wheels, but not enough to jackknife. We added safety handholds and a rear platform so I could sit on the back if an adult was inside.

“Little Man,” Dad said proudly, “you and Cathie can ride inside behind King.”

I turned to her. “Want to ride along?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I might want to be with my friends.”

That was Cathie, always keeping her options open. Which was fine. The wagon would’ve been a tight fit anyway.

Parade day arrived. We loaded King, the wagon, and my sisters into the Plymouth. The wagon barely fit in the trunk, sticking out a few feet. Mom had sewn red, white, and blue outfits for Cathie and me, and tied a giant matching bow around King’s chest, with streamers fluttering proudly.

I was bursting with pride. We’d be parading two miles down Washington Avenue, all the way to Detroit Lake. I brought a jug of water for King, just in case.

At the staging area, we waited on a side street packed with floats and participants: a high school marching band, horseback riders, and kids with dogs on leashes. Someone had a raccoon. Another led a goat. One girl rode a pony.

Then I spotted her.

A brown-haired girl about my age sat in a red wagon hitched to a black Labrador. I studied the setup. No reins. No steering. Just a wagon handle tied to her dog.

I had a bad feeling.

Cathie decided not to ride after all and joined her friends along the route. Meanwhile, King had spotted the Lab and kept pulling toward her. He was getting strong, and it took everything I had to hold him back.

You ever get that sudden flash of dread, when you just know something’s about to go wrong?

That was me.

* * *

The parade started.

We rolled out behind the band. Kids and animals fanned out behind us. I was relieved to be on the edge of the street, less dodging that way.

At first, everything went fine.

Then the girl’s Lab veered toward the curb to greet her family.

I stopped.

King did not.

Ignoring every command I shouted, he lunged, and mounted her.

The patriotic bow on his back began bouncing with an enthusiastic, unmistakable rhythm. The parade behind us stalled. Onlookers stared.

“Stop, King! Get off her!” I yelled.

King glanced back at me with a look I can only describe as smug, tongue out, jaw open, practically grinning.

The girl screamed, “He’s killing my dog!”

Cathie appeared out of nowhere, horrified. “Stop him, Jerre!”

I tried. I really did.

A man, probably the girl’s dad, stepped out of the crowd and tried to separate them. King growled low and deep. The man wisely stepped back.

King was not to be interrupted.

Eventually, he finished. But when he tried to walk away, the dogs stayed… connected.

Dad later explained, in terms he thought I’d understand, that male dogs have a certain… swelling… that prevents them from disengaging during mating.

They just have to wait.

Wait we did.

At last, the dogs separated. King, cheerful and proud, turned back to rejoin the parade like nothing unusual had happened.

Cathie climbed into the wagon beside me. I gave the mush command, and King pulled us forward, hustling to catch up with the now-distant marching band.

I didn’t look back.

King must have still been energized from his recent conquest, because the moment we caught up to the marching band, he lost his mind again.

He zigzagged straight through the musicians, forgetting entirely about Cathie and me bouncing wildly behind him in the wagon. We slammed into the trombone section, knocked over two band members, and blew past the baton twirlers at the front of the parade.

Next came the horseback riders.

We swerved dangerously around them, careened onto the curb, and nearly plowed into a row of onlookers who leapt out of the way just in time.

We didn’t stop.

We shot past the Chamber of Commerce float, the high school football team, the Knights of Columbus, then tore right by the mayor’s car. My vision blurred into nothing but color, motion, and chaos.

Cathie was screaming bloody murder. “King! Slow down!”

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy trying, and failing, to control our runaway dog. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hoped this wouldn’t traumatize her for life.

At last, we cleared the final float and rocketed down the open stretch of Washington Avenue toward the lake. People lined both sides of the street, shouting, laughing, pointing. Whether they were cheering or warning us, I had no idea.

Mom and Dad threw their arms up in horror as we streaked past. Dad took off running, but King left him in the dust.

Near the park by the lakeside pavilion, King finally seemed to come to his senses.

Sort of.

We hit the sidewalk curb hard. The wagon’s back wheels snapped clean off, but King didn’t care. He kept running, dragging the broken wagon, with both of us still inside, straight toward a family enjoying a quiet picnic in the shade.

Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, King stopped.

He flopped onto his back, belly exposed, tail thumping, politely requesting tummy rubs from the stunned strangers.

Cathie kept screaming, “Bad dog! Bad dog!” while I sat in shocked silence, trying to understand how our lives had just gone completely off the rails in under two minutes.

A few moments later, Cathie’s friends arrived, breathless from chasing us down the street. Mom and Dad weren’t far behind.

Cathie spun on me. “Jerbear, I’m so mad at you, and that damnable dog. We’re going to be the talk of the whole town. It’s humiliating!” She crossed her arms. “You’d better learn how to control that crazy beast.”

I told her I was sorry. And I meant it.

But I also knew, somewhere deep down, that this was one of those moments you never forget. The kind so outrageous it hardens into family legend.

For a few days, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Eventually, I laughed.

I still do.

Dad just rolled his eyes and went to get the car.

Mom shook her head. “Never again, son. We need training, for both you and the dog.”

Later, when we told Nanna the story, she giggled and said, “Life is full of extraordinary memories. You’ll never forget this one.”

She was right.

I never have.