Read Online Call Me Anna: The Autobiography of Patty Duke by Patty Duke - Free Book Online
Authors: Patty Duke
Ads: Link
age” young actors do. His presence was very comforting, one of the rare confirmations I got that I wasn’t crazy. Before his arrival I sometimes felt like a movie heroine pleading with the psychiatrist, “Doctor, someone is chasing me.”
Because the Rosses watched me so closely, one of the most difficult things I’ve had to learn later in life is how to be alone. During my first marriage I would take a bath with the door open, and just being by myself in any room was almostimpossible for me until quite recently. When you’ve been watched and monitored for all your formative years, it’s very hard to get used to not being watched and monitored, very hard to be without the background noise of chatter. If you’re alone, then you must have thoughts of your own. And those were not permitted when I was growing up.
Though I was the principal earner in the Ross household, I was hardly the center of attention: that honor went to Bambi. Bambi was a light fawn-colored chihuahua that was made, I swear, out of toothpicks and papier-mâché. Bambi would stare at you from her big wet weepy brown eyes and ooze from every orifice. I don’t remember a time when this dog wasn’t frail and ailing, but she went everyplace with the Rosses, even, eventually, to the Oscars. If the dog couldn’t go, we didn’t go. Whenever we’d go shopping for anything and happen to notice a purse that Bambi might fit into, Ethel bought it. And when we went traveling, Bambi had her own wardrobe: a dress, a mink stole, a hat.
Bambi rarely walked anyplace, she was carried in her daytime bed: a wicker basket covered by, depending on the temperature, two or three little infant receiving blankets. Bambi had practically no teeth and her tongue hung permanently outside her mouth. I mean, she never even brought it in to get it wet. So when the time came to feed her, which was quite some ritual in itself, the first thing you had to do was get a glass of water and dip Bambi’s tongue in it so she could eat at all!
Now, it was a great honor to be among the chosen few who could feed Bambi, who, of course, ate only a special diet. With God as my judge, feeding her was an hour-and-a-half event. First you opened the can at both ends and squished all the food onto wax paper, because Bambi could eat only a can a week and the rest had to be carefully saved. Then you sliced off just the right amount and put it into a special little frying pan that was only for Bambi’s food; nothing else could be cooked in this pan. You’d add a tiny bit of water and mush up the food, but not too much, because Bambi didn’t like it if it had been mushed up too much. Then you would heat it, but very carefully, becauseshe couldn’t feel anything on her tongue, which was like plaster of Paris, and you might bum her.
When the heating was finished, you poured this gray gruel onto a paper plate. Then you took Bambi out of her bed and put her not on the kitchen floor—too slippery!—but into the foyer, which doubled as my bedroom. You held the plate out and you said in a high voice, presumably at a pitch that dogs could hear, “Does Bambi want her dinner?” At which point, this poor decrepit thing jumped up, danced around in a circle, and begged.
Now, you kept saying this until someone threatened to murder you because of the screeching. Then you put down the plate and everybody had to stand there and watch her eat. When about a third of the stuff was gone, which was about all Bambi could handle, there was a serious discussion about whether or not she’d eaten less than usual and questions like, “Is she getting enough nutrition?” were asked.
Now came the pièce de résistance, asking Bambi, in that same high-pitched screechy voice, if she wanted to “make a river.” You cannot believe the instructions I used to get about this. One of my mother’s jobs was very neatly cutting up the newspapers used to line Bambi’s cat litter box, which was also kept in the foyer where I
Because the Rosses watched me so closely, one of the most difficult things I’ve had to learn later in life is how to be alone. During my first marriage I would take a bath with the door open, and just being by myself in any room was almostimpossible for me until quite recently. When you’ve been watched and monitored for all your formative years, it’s very hard to get used to not being watched and monitored, very hard to be without the background noise of chatter. If you’re alone, then you must have thoughts of your own. And those were not permitted when I was growing up.
Though I was the principal earner in the Ross household, I was hardly the center of attention: that honor went to Bambi. Bambi was a light fawn-colored chihuahua that was made, I swear, out of toothpicks and papier-mâché. Bambi would stare at you from her big wet weepy brown eyes and ooze from every orifice. I don’t remember a time when this dog wasn’t frail and ailing, but she went everyplace with the Rosses, even, eventually, to the Oscars. If the dog couldn’t go, we didn’t go. Whenever we’d go shopping for anything and happen to notice a purse that Bambi might fit into, Ethel bought it. And when we went traveling, Bambi had her own wardrobe: a dress, a mink stole, a hat.
Bambi rarely walked anyplace, she was carried in her daytime bed: a wicker basket covered by, depending on the temperature, two or three little infant receiving blankets. Bambi had practically no teeth and her tongue hung permanently outside her mouth. I mean, she never even brought it in to get it wet. So when the time came to feed her, which was quite some ritual in itself, the first thing you had to do was get a glass of water and dip Bambi’s tongue in it so she could eat at all!
Now, it was a great honor to be among the chosen few who could feed Bambi, who, of course, ate only a special diet. With God as my judge, feeding her was an hour-and-a-half event. First you opened the can at both ends and squished all the food onto wax paper, because Bambi could eat only a can a week and the rest had to be carefully saved. Then you sliced off just the right amount and put it into a special little frying pan that was only for Bambi’s food; nothing else could be cooked in this pan. You’d add a tiny bit of water and mush up the food, but not too much, because Bambi didn’t like it if it had been mushed up too much. Then you would heat it, but very carefully, becauseshe couldn’t feel anything on her tongue, which was like plaster of Paris, and you might bum her.
When the heating was finished, you poured this gray gruel onto a paper plate. Then you took Bambi out of her bed and put her not on the kitchen floor—too slippery!—but into the foyer, which doubled as my bedroom. You held the plate out and you said in a high voice, presumably at a pitch that dogs could hear, “Does Bambi want her dinner?” At which point, this poor decrepit thing jumped up, danced around in a circle, and begged.
Now, you kept saying this until someone threatened to murder you because of the screeching. Then you put down the plate and everybody had to stand there and watch her eat. When about a third of the stuff was gone, which was about all Bambi could handle, there was a serious discussion about whether or not she’d eaten less than usual and questions like, “Is she getting enough nutrition?” were asked.
Now came the pièce de résistance, asking Bambi, in that same high-pitched screechy voice, if she wanted to “make a river.” You cannot believe the instructions I used to get about this. One of my mother’s jobs was very neatly cutting up the newspapers used to line Bambi’s cat litter box, which was also kept in the foyer where I
Similar Books
