I remember before I could walk and was still in Diapers how I crawled over to an aspirin someone dropped on the floor and popped it into my mouth. After tasting it, I spit it back out.

I remember my mother giving me whiskey to put me to sleep.

I remember in my preschool days when I was obsessed with dogs, but I didn't have one. I remember telling one of the preschool bullies that I had a Collie. She didn't believe me. That is my first memory of lying to someone.

It's the early 70's and I'm 5 years-old. My younger sister is playing with the neighbor's chihuahua, Taco (yes, the dog's name really was Taco, I shit you not) by pciking up the yappy little monster and promptly dropping him.

The AM radio is playing "Charlie Brown" by the Coasters on the all-50's-all-the-time station when it happens.

SNAP!

Taco has taken a bite out of my little sister.

Blood. Screaming. My dad scoops my sister into his arms, her nose dangles by the right nostril, flapping every time she shakes her head in pain. Shannon is only three. The family is in action.

We're in the station wagon. Mom Drives. Dad pulls off his ever-present white v-nick t-shirt (it was a Sunday, the old man still walks around in a white v-neck t-shirt on Sundays and Sundays only) because the shirt is no longer white. He presses the crimson rag to Shannon's gushing nose.

I stare at the old man's back. He has a large mole. I stare at it, focus on it, because the blood is freaking me out.

The old man's mole or the song "Charlie Brown"

That's all it takes to bring that moment racing back for me.

And yeah, she's fine. Her nose is more up-turned than the rest of the family, but she's still beautiful.