The Day My Pet Rock Attacked My Dad

Some of you may remember the pet rock craze from the 70s. The small pet rocks were sold in little cardboard boxes, with instructions for care and training. Perhaps the rocks sold through the stores were specially bred to be pets. I attempted to tame a wild rock and it ended tragically.

I don’t remember how old I was, probably 11 to 13. While out exploring near the woods I found a beautiful pink granite rock weighing about five pounds. It was very dirty but I knew I could wash it and give it a good home.

After carefully bathing my rock in the bathroom sink, I wrapped it in a towel to dry and left it on the bathroom counter. A couple of hours later, my dad went to wash his hands in the bathroom sink. Seeing a towel on the counter, my dad picked it up. The rock, seeing its chance to escape, unfurled from the towel and launched itself with great force at my dad’s foot. My dad yelled and fell into the bathtub. Fortunately, he was not injured, except for his big toe which was so painful he couldn’t work the next day. And my dad limped for awhile.

He wasn’t angry at me, but he did want to know why the towel had contained a rock. My dad then repeated the story for the next several months. He has always loved telling stories, and was not about to let this one go.

My pet rock was subdued by the experience, and served the family faithfully for years as a doorstop. I have not seen it in decades and I suspect it finally escaped back to the woods.

Recently, my brother reminded me of the incident saying, “Only you would wash a five-pound rock, wrap it in a towel, and leave it on the bathroom counter.”

So on this Father’s Day, I pay tribute to my good-humored and patient dad. (I also apologize again for the rock incident.)