Monday, February 2, 2015
A Boy and His Dog
I was forty-five. I had two dogs, two cats, four kids, and a house full of neighbor children. I was operating on too many pizzas, too little sleep, and not nearly enough caffeine. I enjoyed my days, yes, but they passed in such a blur that I struggle to pull up facts in order to share a tale. Much of my children’s past may just as well be falsity as it is the truth. I pull up what I can. I fill in the rest.
One truth, however, is that one of those children had energy to spare. And one of those dogs was a newly rescued pup, also with energy to spare. I had neither the time nor the desire to leash the dog for a daily walk. Clever mother that I was, I sent said son out into the backyard with said pup. “Run him around a little. Throw a stick or something.” Finishing up the dishes, I watched as my little towhead wore that dog out. “Thanks, Johnny, for making him happy. I think he likes you, you know.” And, so the two formed a bond.
Six years later, we find ourselves snowed in. It has been a lazy day. We read. We napped. We watched a movie or two. I threw a pot of chili on. Said boy and said dog are still living under the same roof. Murphy, the beloved rescue, was finding himself with a bit of excess energy. I looked at my son. “Take him out and run him around. Throw a stick or something.” From the window I watched as the two flew through snow, as they deepened a bond that has been years in the making. They are one, really. Master and his pup. That dog lives for that boy. And the boy? Murphy is his world. “Thanks, Johnny, for making him happy. He loves you, you know.”