Travel Tale: My Holland Holiday—from Pacific Palisades

By PEPPER SALTER EDMISTON | Contributing Writer

I ran into Brendon in my kitchen. Brendon is a friend of my son, Charlie, who was in Amsterdam, so I wasn’t clear why Brendon was standing in front of me.

“Oh, I’ve been staying here for the week,” he said. “Didn’t Charlie tell you?”

I mumbled a fake, “Welcome,” and hobbled away.

Charlie—along with three of my other children, plus spouses, plus six grandkids—were all together in Europe. Without me.

Months earlier, I’d realized that my teenage grandson Gabriel needed exposure to another culture, any culture. We discussed Canada, Costa Rica, Japan. Since half our family was visiting Paris and Charlie wanted to show us Amsterdam, that became our trip.

All was well until I fractured my toe as I was lunging into my closet to tear open a new outfit for the trip. I couldn’t manage the cobblestones, as I could barely keep up with the grandkids on the uneven Palisadian sidewalks, so I had to remain home. Poor me.

Our house was so quiet it looked abandoned. I smelled the flowers in our front garden. Hmmm. We opened the front door, stepped inside and, for the first time in decades, faced an empty nest. A new experience awaited us—solitude.

Or not. Within minutes, an unexpected knock on the door and the entry of two vicious yet playful hounds broke our revere.

Surprise! Will, the original “ask for forgiveness rather than permission” kid, had not arranged placement for his rescued pitbull/Doberman/shepherd mixed mutts. They were ours, for 15 bitter days.

Since their adoption six months ago, the girls, Patty and Moo, have doubled in heft every two months. By the time of their surprise visit, they were the size of a 3-year-old “miniature” pig. We have two pet hogs ourselves, so they are our point of reference.

The first night wasn’t bad because the dogs were as terrified of us as we were of them. We have a small room off the back porch that leads into the yard, so we put blankets on the floor, food and water right outside, and left the door open to the elements.

The first few days, the dogs spent hidden in our patio bushes. Although the girls have shiny, black coats, because of the thickness of the hedges and the shadows from the trees, Patty and Moo were perfectly camouflaged. They were literally invisible, so, shattered toe and all (fear, old age), I forged my way into the brush, throwing shredded cheese and kibble everywhere, praying each pup got enough to eat.

Early on, Patty and Moo discovered screens covering glass doors. Quickly doing away with the screens, they used their snouts to open the doors and get inside the house. I believe the correct term is “breaking and entering.”

Besides us elders, the house was empty—literally the first time since 1990. Somehow the mutts found our upstairs bedroom, sat down and began emitting earth-shattering howls.

“What howls?” asked my husband—Joe “Braveheart” Edmiston—the next morning. (If you sleep through an attack, are you still a warrior?)

Joe went to Gelson’s and bought some costly meat/veggie loaves for the dogs. Over the next few days, we scattered the food like Easter eggs, relieved to know the mutts were eating something healthy.

I knew Patty and Moo had not been eating healthy because they devoured my red wooden shoes from Holland, bought for me by my parents on a family holiday when I was 13. These clogs had survived everything—high school, Berkeley, many moves, wretched roommates, innumerable pets, two husbands, seven children, earthquakes, storms and Covid, only to be destroyed by dogs who preferred balsa wood.

It was the same scenario every night: I’d open the door, smile broadly and say, “Hi puppies!” and Patty and Moo would become terrified, as if seeing a monster. They’d run away from me, racing through the upstairs hall, down the back staircase and out into the safety of the night.

Joe and I saw that the dogs desperately needed to be walked every day. It’s just, we couldn’t do it. My toe—broken in three places!—prevented me from walking slower than both the tortoise and the hare. Joe’s right foot was a mess, causing so much pain when he walked, he appeared to be standing still.

Will’s girlfriend, Tina, and Gabriel’s mom, Briana, each came a few times to play with and walk the dogs. As soon as the pups saw these beautiful young women, they turned into different animals—elated, tail-wagging, bouncing beasts who were bursting with dog joy. However, once the visitors left, the girls returned to “sick dog” (Moo) and “dying dog” (Patty).

Time moved on and we entered week two in relative peace, other than the four patio chair cushions that were eaten and destroyed. But it wasn’t a disaster; the cushions were moldy and needed to be replaced.

One night, at the beginning of the second week, I heard quieter noises. I went downstairs to discover Moo alone in the house. This did not make sense. We had finally hammered shut the broken screen entry, so how was Moo inside? The only answer—a robber let her in.

I put Moo out in the patio, then hobbled through the entire house, fearlessly. Nobody there. Only then did I limp up the stairs, screaming to Joe that there was an intruder.

Joe searched the house fully and there was nobody, aside from the two ancient fools. Finally, Joe realized he must not have shut the door correctly, allowing Moo to enter before the door shut Patty out. Duh!

Soon Will and Gabriel arrived home: “We never did the time change!” Gabriel said. “Dad and me stayed up all night making music.”

Sounded like a perfect trip. Will, Gabriel, Patty and Moo rolled around on the ground for 15 minutes. The mutts were so happy they actually jumped on me, licking me and messaging, “Now that we know you’re not our forever placement, we think you’re OK.”

We were thrilled with Will and Gabriel’s arrival, and their pups’ soon-to-be departure. Later that night, daughter Susan, her husband Keith and their children also would return home from Europe. Our multi-generational household was coming together.

Charlie wouldn’t stay in Amsterdam forever and someday would come back, bringing his girlfriend with him. And, soon, sons Jon, Matt and Ben would visit, herding their families toward us. Our people were coming home.