Bobby

by Glenn R. Short

His name was Bobby. I loved Bobby, as did my mother and father. He was a much cherished mid-sized, black water spaniel who delighted in chasing sticks just so long as anyone would throw them.

Otherwise he would find stones which he would bring to any person to have them thrown (very bad for his teeth, Dad said).

Bobby was a teaser. When he had retrieved a large stick he would eagerly bring it back to the thrower and then refuse to release it.

Often the unwary thrower would pull on the stick in order to throw it again, while Bobby would almost gleefully pull back. A tug of war would then ensue. However, if the thrower, wise to the game, turned his back on Bobby, the dog would reluctantly drop the stick at the person's feet, as if asking repentantly for another throw.

Before we had Bobby, in those early dreary, dogless days, a neighborhood mutt, Pal, a large old black and brown moocher, used to visit, begging for scraps of food we saved for him. But once Bobby joined us, Pal acknowledged Bobby's territory. Thereafter, we rarely saw Pal, and only at a distance when he begged from neighbors.

One day we all noticed that Bobby was walking strangely. Little by little he slowed and then stopped running. In a short time he began dragging his hind legs. The vet said he had distemper, a dog disease which causes paralysis in the hind legs.

Bobby took his pills concealed in balls of hamburger which Mother prepared, but they didn't seem to help. He ate less and was completely lethargic. Five weeks passed as Bobby deteriorated.

Then Dad decided, after conferring with the vet, that there was no hope for Bobby. He told us that the best thing was to have Bobby put down. I was crying. Then Dad picked up Bobby in his arms and carried him lovingly through the snow out into the garage, where he laid him down on the floor while opening the car door.

At this moment, no one knows why, Pal appeared in the driveway. Bobby saw him and bristled. Furious at this interloper, Bobby made a tremendous effort to try and raise himself. He got up on his hind legs and took a step, the first in weeks.

My father was amazed. After shooing Pal out of the yard, he picked up Bobby and brought him back into the house. I had never seen tears in Dad's eyes before.

"There's life in this old dog yet," Dad declared. "Let's give him another chance." I concurred through little boy tears.

Well, slowly Bobby recovered, to the point where he was chasing sticks again and teasing throwers.

In retrospect, perhaps a small boy's prayers, on a snowy afternoon, had been answered.

Oh, yes, afterward our dog-worthy leftovers were given to a neighbor to pass on to Pal.

©Copyright 2002 Blenn R. Short