Just a Boy and His Dog
As the years fast did roll
“Just a boy and his dog
We were both full of fun
We grew up together that way”
HE SMALL white house beside the road bobbed like a cork in a sea of swaying branches and green leaves. Oak trees filled the front yard, covering everything in a canopy of shade. Often the wind would nudge the trees just enough so that passers-by could catch a glimpse of a house, and at times, of a boy and his dog at play.
Sometimes the boy and dog scampered through leaves and dove into freshly raked piles. The sounds of laughing and barking rang through the yard like a well-rehearsed song.
It was always the same. The dog would leap high into the air, gallop furiously around the trunk of one of the oak trees, and then, charge full-speed for the pile of leaves. And the boy would always wrap his small arms around the dog’s neck and pull him close. Somehow, the dog would wiggle free and once more more run around the tree and once more dive into the pile of leaves.
The leaves in that yard were never completely raked, but I doubt if that mattered, mattered at all.
Written on a sleepy afternoon, February 6, 1989.
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