CHAPTER ONE I was brought up by an Airedale. I won't deny it, 'tis the truth and nothing but, Your Honour--a bumbling, oversized shaggy great Airedale. The earliest memory I have of anything resembling a pater familia, bouncer, male-nurse or God is that dear slobbering old Airedale. My sword, my lance, my shield, he never failed to stand at the ready to rescue me from all my early Moriarties! Wherever I happened to be--on the floor, in my bath or on the potty, there-- looming above me, panting heavily, one large, drooling Airedale reporting for duty, sir! If I went for a ride in my little cart, I would look away and pretend there was no one there at all and then when I did look back, of course he was there. He was always there padding along beside me--how could I miss him? He was my only horizon-- he filled the sky. Like Romulus or Remus, I was his cub and he was my Wolf of Rome. His name was Byng. He was christened after another shaggy old Airedale, Field Marshal Lord Byng of Vimy, whom my grandparents had known when he was governor general; and also for the very good reason that if any of our household showed guts enough to sit down to tea or play a hand at bridge, the day's calm would invariably become a stormy séance as tables, taking on a life of their own, began to shake violently and with one quick loud explosion, Bing! they would catapult themselves ceiling-ward as teapots, cups, toast, crumpets, cards and markers flew madly across the room! My canine patron had, quite simply, decided to rise. But I like Byng, my dog, because He doesn't know how to behave So Byng's the same as the First Friend was And I am the Man in the Cave (Apologies to Kipling) Nothing ever came between us--Your Honour--nothing--he was my world; I knew no other. Until one day, one sobering day, the spell was broken when a meddling family friend pointed out to me that the nice tall lady pushing my pram was my mother. Mummies and dogs! You can beat 'em, kick 'em, treat 'em as shabbily as you like--they will eternally forgive you and still come back for more. Such degree of devotion is as hard to grasp as it is unshakable. Being a child, I had no comprehension of it. It embarrassed me. I regularly ran away from it; in fact, I still do. I didn't throw myself into the struggle for life-- I threw my mother into it. --g. b. shaw I came into the world that monster of infant monsters, who can clear a room more swiftly than a Sherman tank; that very monster which causes fear, dread, revulsion to seal the lips of those that dare to speak its name--The Only Child! And being an only child I was more than frequently left on my own. Can you blame 'em?! A little boy's mind can play some pretty macabre tricks on itself. I was so damned terrified of the dark that Mother had to sing me to sleep, snatches of old French songs she particularly loved. Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais, je ne t'oublierai. But the terror never left. It stayed through all the early years. Because of books, which Mother insisted I read, my imagination began to take over, and the long winters gave one so much time to dream up horrors. My grandparents' tall, forbidding house in the city could be pretty ominous, full of dark corners to jump out of and scare yourself to death. Every time I tried to rob my grandfather's overcoat pocket of change so I could sneak downtown to Ben's delicatessen for a smoked-meat sandwich and a Coke, some sudden sound would force me to drop everything and run like hell. My room was on the very top floor and in the middle of the night I would steal from my bed a Excerpted from In Spite of Myself: A Memoir by Christopher Plummer All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
