Good Dog

I’m standing at the sink, industriously scrubbing

a potato preparatory to nuking it. I’ve discovered

the new microwave does a bang-up job of turning

out ‘baked’ potatoes in five minutes.

The doorbell chimes once – probably another

pesky squirrel setting off its motion detector.

As I glance toward the sound, my peripheral

vision seems to pick up a familiar gold and

white figure watching silently from the dining

room doorway.

Of course, I know it’s impossible that she could

be there, and at first, I refuse to look. Finally, I

reluctantly turn far enough to see clearly into

the dining room. The figure loses its gold and

white tones and turns into a light grey DeLonghi

space heater my brother has brought in from the

back porch. It had been keeping the washer

hoses from freezing up during the recent cold

snap.

I turn back to my potato scrubbing with less

anticipation and enthusiasm. Miko had been a

good dog. No, she had been a great dog – ‘The

Silent Assassin’ – who guarded us all with quiet

efficiency and unflagging loyalty. She has been

gone for years, now. I seem to see her in lots of

places, here lately. Perhaps she’s trying to tell

me it’s time for her replacement. She has other

interests of a more celestial nature to pursue. Of

course, I can get another dog, but I'll never find

a real replacement.

©Thurman P. Woodfork