The Black Dog Shall Have His Day

Delivered as a Toastmasters speech

You may be familiar with the phrase: ‘Every Dog Has His Day.’ The true origin of that phrase is different than what you might expect. The original phrase is: ‘The Black Dog Shall Have His Day,’ and originates in the Scottish Highlands where Celtic clans clashed on a regular basis. The clan chieftains were in the habit of keeping black dogs, whose ferocity was meant to intimidate the other clans. When a chieftain was defeated in a tribal skirmish, if he was not killed on the field, he would frequently say, ‘The black dog shall have his day,’ intending to overcome their opponent at another time. The victory was sealed when the rival chieftain was killed, and the victor’s black dog would feast on the entrails of the vanquished.

When I was in Kindergarten, I had a two main problems: first of all, I cried at the slightest provocation. I cried if I colored outside of the lines; I cried if I dropped my cookie at snack time, and I cried if I couldn't fall asleep during nap. I cried so much that the teacher, Mrs. Dale, thought I might have emotional problems. The girl who lived next door to me, Laura, one day asked me why I cried so much. I didn't have an answer for her. I still don't.

My other problem was a boy named Harold Dent. He tormented me throughout that Kindergarten year. When I wanted to ride the scooter during play time, Harold would push me off and take it away. When I would build a wall with the cardboard bricks, Harold would knock it down while riding the scooter. When I wanted to sit next to Laura, he'd push me away. Harold Dent made me cry.

In fourth grade, Harold discovered that I had a strange compulsion to collect straws from the lunch room. I had hundreds of straws in my school desk, arranged in packs of twenty-five. Harold took most of them from me, and used them to fire spit balls at the other students. When he got in trouble for this, he ratted me out to the teacher, and we had to server detention for a week together. As I suffered the shame and humiliation, he laughed at me.

By the time we were in the sixth grade, I had become chubby and clumsy. He was tiny, but fast and athletic. One day at a high school football game, he went out of his way to torment me, and spit on me as I stood watching the game. I was infuriated, and chased all around the stadium. But I couldn't catch him. I was humiliated, and my father pulled me away as I burst into tears.

Later in the game, I noticed that Harold was not paying attention to me. I was able to run at him and tackled him. It was the most violence I had ever perpetrated. My father pulled me away before Harold started pounding on me, which he no doubt would have. My victory was short lived, as I began to cry. The emotion of the attack overwhelmed me, and Harold laughed at me and mocked me at school.

I managed to avoid Harold for the remainder of school; Harold helped in this by flunking enough classes to be held back and, finally, dropping out. But at our class's tenth reunion, Harold crashed the party. Arriving uninvited, without a ticket, and woefully underdressed, he and a few of his hoodlum friends from school drank at the bar without paying. I was expected to ask him to leave because I was class President. How could I make my classmates understand why I couldn't confront the hoodlums? How could anyone understand my fear, and how could I explain my tears? Of course I ran to my car to hide my shame. I was told later on that Laura, the girl who lived next door to me growing up, forced Harold to leave.

When I heard that Harold was incarcerated, for armed robbery and aggravated assault. I thought that I might have a chance to live in peace. But no: Harold, apparently, was rehabilitated enough to be released. I was sure, then, that I'd have to confront him one more time.

I began to prepare myself both mentally and physically. I began to eat right and to exercise. I learned kickboxing and tai chi chuan, the ancient art of combat. I trained myself to perform at peak physical condition. I ran a six minute mile, and I could do 100 pushups while running.

I did not know when my test would come, but I was certain that it would. In fact, I actually began to look forward to the battle. For I knew that this time, it would be the final battle.

It came just last week. I was in my home, on my computer, when Harold came to call. It came in the form of an e-mail. I was using Facebook at the time, and Harold, searching through the internet using the skills he had learned in prison, asked me to be his friend. I am proud to tell you that I moved my mouse swiftly and decisively, and I clicked ignore. I am sure, now, that I'll never hear from Harold again.

Yes my friends, the black dog has had his day.

September, 2009