I was 18 going on 19. Our family was trekking across the Midwest in a tent camper to see our cousins in Kansas City, and we were already several days into it. I think we were in a campground somewhere in Missouri. Of course, once it happened, the death of Elvis dominated the radio waves.
18-19 is about as old as any kids go on family camping trips; I wouldn't have gone, but I didn't have a summer job and I sure as hell didn't have nuthin' else to do.
(I think also my parents did the mental math of:
1) me being alone in the house for two weeks (actually 16 days)
2) my HS GF being back in town for the summer but getting ready to take off for college in the fall
3) the then 18-year-old drinking age,
... and decided it was the best idea to get me out of town.)
The following Sunday my dad, uncle, cousin and I would see the Royals beat the Red Sox 6-4 in an absolutely blazing blistering hot afternoon game at Royals Stadium.
The next week we returned home to Michigan. My dad and I rode over to the veterinarian office to pick up our family dog, who we had boarded there for the vacation. He was old -- late teens and had had some health problems.
When we arrived, we were told that he had died the week before, of an abdominal obstruction, on the same day as Elvis. They had tried for a day or two to reach us, but in those days, no cell phones...
The vet said, given Friendly's age and pretty dubious overall condition, there wasn't much of anything they could have done about it; he was in pain and after a day of it, they did what had to be done.
Whether they had reached us or not wouldn't have changed anything, other than we would have made the next 10 days of the trip all depressed about it.
They had cremated him; of course, we hadn't left any instructions or anything to cover the situation. They gave us back his collar.
So that's how I remember that week in August 1977.
