I imagine I was ten to twelve years old when we got a dog named Sporty.
We may have had other pets, other dogs; but I don’t remember them.
I do remember Sporty. He had a shiny, black coat. He always looked wet.
We could not tell if he had just been in the dugout or not. He’d get up beside us and then do the almighty shake. Everything surrounding would be soaking wet.
He was fast. Sleek like a racing machine. He liked to chase cars. He loved when we played tag. He ran from one to the other kicking up the dust as he’d come to a screeching halt.
One thing he hated was thunder. We knew a storm was coming as Sporty would be skulking and whining at our heels .He was begging to be let in the house. It was the only time Mom relented.
We’d open the screen door and Sporty would be under the bed before the door closed. We’d never be able to coax her out. Mom was a firm believer in holy water and she’d be a sprinkling holy water all over the house. Sporty was in hiding.
And then one day she disappeared. We never did find her. I’d walk the ditches as Dad always said “A car’s going to get her one of these days.”
I walked for miles in every direction hoping against hope I’d find her or she’d come running. It was not to be. The mystery remains.
January 2, 2012 10 minute writing
ellensagh 