(Ninth
in a series of tales told out of school, both literally and
figuratively, how my Swiss Cheese brain remembers such events which may
or may not be accurate at all. Preface: I attended a girls' private prep
school in the 1960s with a student body who often mimicked the
creativity of that era with its own high spirits, a pendulum reaction to
the heavy course load and voluminous homework from which many of us
still haven't caught up on lost sleep some forty-plus years on and from
which many of us still retain permanently stooped posture via carrying
heavy textbooks. Well, it's not like there existed alternatives to those
heavy textbooks. We didn't have personal home computers because no one
on this particular planet in this galaxy had them yet. So let's roll
back the roiling mists of time to The Pleistocene of my youth.)
Tales told out of school: above, Orville the Westlake School for Girls goat mascot. Orville had been trailered from the ranch of Cindy C.'s family, and when mature enjoyed running through the halls and upstairs, plus butting his head against hapless students. He thrived until joined by other goats, which inevitably attracted the predator coyotes ensconced around the wilds of Holmby Hills and Bel Air, California.
Above, the new section I instituted in the school yearbook, "Kennel" for all the dogs on campus owned by the staff and on site headmaster's family. I was art director for the yearbook: imagine the surprise of the staff photographer (because she had the most sophisticated gear) when commanded to take portraits of all the resident dogs...
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