Nov. 11: The dog
So my dad asks his kids to come into the backyard. He has a cardboard box on the ground and he asks us to guess what's inside.
"A dog," I say.
"A puppy," says my sister.
"A treat," says my brother.
Dad opens the box and out comes a tiny St. Bernard. "I was right," says my sister. She claims that I'm wrong because the St. Bernard IS actually a puppy. In a rare fit of eight-year-old generosity, I allow it to slide.
The dog's name is Lobo. That means wolf.
Tell you what, folks - I was late for school a lot when we had Lobo. I'd start walking to school and I'd hear Lobo jump up and lean his paws over the fence so he could watch me go. Don't turn back, I would tell myself. If you look back, you'll see those sad puppy dog eyes looking at you and you'll just have to go back and comfort him once more.
Yeah. Always happened.
I don't think we had Lobo more than a couple of years before my parents decided that a small backyard in southwest Calgary wasn't a good home for a St. Bernard. Dad had a farmer friend west of Calgary who agreed to take the dog and I guess I was heartbroken but Lobo probably was happier out there.
My dad used to say that I was Lobo's favourite person. This might have been a lie. I loved my dog but my dad fed him and picked up after him. Lobo probably liked him more.
Farewell Lobo, wherever you are.
"A dog," I say.
"A puppy," says my sister.
"A treat," says my brother.
Dad opens the box and out comes a tiny St. Bernard. "I was right," says my sister. She claims that I'm wrong because the St. Bernard IS actually a puppy. In a rare fit of eight-year-old generosity, I allow it to slide.
The dog's name is Lobo. That means wolf.
Tell you what, folks - I was late for school a lot when we had Lobo. I'd start walking to school and I'd hear Lobo jump up and lean his paws over the fence so he could watch me go. Don't turn back, I would tell myself. If you look back, you'll see those sad puppy dog eyes looking at you and you'll just have to go back and comfort him once more.
Yeah. Always happened.
I don't think we had Lobo more than a couple of years before my parents decided that a small backyard in southwest Calgary wasn't a good home for a St. Bernard. Dad had a farmer friend west of Calgary who agreed to take the dog and I guess I was heartbroken but Lobo probably was happier out there.
My dad used to say that I was Lobo's favourite person. This might have been a lie. I loved my dog but my dad fed him and picked up after him. Lobo probably liked him more.
Farewell Lobo, wherever you are.
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