Puppies Can Turn Into Great Dogs
Aren't we lucky, those select few of us who had a childhood friend willingto be our everlasting, faithful companion? I can still remember the day Imet my special buddy.
My mother and I patiently waited one spring evening for my father to comehome. His appearance in the doorway made no distinct impression in mymind. A pair of worn, tattered jeans clung loosely to his hips, accompaniedby his favorite, well used Chuckie's and a work stained T-Shirt. Thewallet mark on the back of his pants attested to their age and the pack of Koolshe carried in his shirt pocket only completed the picture. The blandness ofthe day seemed to want to mingle with the night. Suddenly, I heard asmall, feeble "Yip."
"Did I hear something? Daddy, please tell me. What was that? Where diditcome from? Tell me, please? Where? DAD!"
As he reached into his shirt pocket he replied, "It was only my pocket."
The look on my face must have displayed some portion of my disappointmentfor I heard a soft "Amy."
I slowly turned around to look at my daddy's outstretched hand. There,curled tightly in his palm was my best friend. She was a runt, small andpuny. Several brown splotches marred her white fur, reminding me of abeginning seamstress who had yet to learn the proper way to patch upclothes. Hence, her name, "Patches."
Just as small acorns become grand oaks, tiny puppies become great dogs.AndPatches was the best of them. She was a friend, confidant, baby-sitter andblame taker. If I was troubled, I could depend on her two ears, one brown,the other white, to listen attentively to everything I had to say. Herusual sparkling eyes glowed at the sound of my voice. When my sister wasborn, who else but Patches protected her from the bullies. If my somemisfortune I broke a glass, my trusting companion would willing assumeresponsibility. her obvious dedication only made parting with her hardertobear.
When I was about 10, my family moved into a house whose backyard wasn'tnearly large enough to contain a boisterous, frolicking dog. Sadly, we hadto get rid of her. My cousin seemed like the best candidate because heowned a house by the lake with vast pieces of land that should be heavenforan energetic dog to romp in.
I can still remember her sad, multicolored face staring at me forlornly asshe disappeared around the corner. The anguish in her eyes will be with meforever.
Since her new owner was my cousin, I saw her once or twice before shevanished. Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.
Until my dying day I shall always expect to see her splotchy face cometrotting up my drive. I believe that, to this very day, she is stilltryingto find her way back to her true home. Because I have no proof she died, Icontinue to have faith. The picture is vivid in my mind: A gangly whitedog, whose body attests to the long journey she has made, comes boundingup,bathing me in loving dog kisses.
Copyright © 1998 Amy Yates