Pet Attachment
I loved dogs since I was in high school. I loved my neighbor’s chained-up Belgian Shepherd so much that they gave it to me. He became my highly trained furry buddy who accompanied me where ever I rode my bike.
My love for dogs didn’t change until I retired and turned into an empty nester. Surprise! Spotting a mouse in the house meant a visit to the Humane Society. An ordinarily estranged five-year-old blond cat decided I was the person to adopt him. All I did was pet him.
My mouse catcher won my heart, not my wife’s heart. Not only would Mister Noodles purr when I petted him or picked him up, but he curled up at my feet or at least slept in the same room when I was working at my desk. If I was shoveling the snow or it was time for me to return home, he’d look out the window. He honored my every wish. He’d never go on the furniture, except a couple of times when I was sick and lying on the couch. Then he’d curl up to me. Soon after he died I found an abandoned eight-month mouse catcher. Noodles’ roots of affection sank so deep in me that for a year after his death I caught myself calling the kitten Mister Noodles. Noodles now graces the cover of my next novel, Helping Hands.
When you live alone, the death of a pet can be devasting. In my novel, Baggage burdens. twenty-somethingJoseph, suffers when his dog, Butch, dies in an accident. Originally Butch belonged to Joseph’s Uncle Mike who lived alone on a farm. Joseph frequently came and helped him on the farm. When Mike died, he left his farm and his dog to Joseph. For the next two years, Joseph lived a lonely life, not really part of the rural church community. He had no girlfriend, just Butch.
A truck carrying lumber spilled its load. Butch was found beneath it.
“You were devastated,” said Thomas, looking at Joseph.
He nodded momentarily, reliving the event.
“Two years earlier, I lost Uncle Mike. Then Butch. All I had left was you and Rebecca,” Joseph said, still sad.
Thomas had sat with Joseph while the other men picked up the lumber. Then Thomas and Joseph dug a shallow grave for Butch near the spot where he died. After temporarily marking the grave with a stick, Thomas sat with Joseph for the rest of the afternoon by the grave as Joseph talked about his lost friend.
After more than twenty years of living on the farm, Joseph prepares to move to the city. He walks around the farm reliving memories.
A small, white wooden cross greets Joseph at the end of the driveway. Two years ago, Joseph repainted the cross and tacked on two-inch, black metal letters spelling Butch. In two years, Butch had wagged his way into Joseph’s heart.
“Never needed a doorbell,” Joseph used to say. Butch always barked a welcome or goodbye as people drove on the driveway.
On the day that the men drove into his yard to build a new workshop, the lumber on the second truck flew off the deck. Whether the driver rounded the corner too fast or the rope just snapped was irrelevant. Butch lay beneath the load. Joseph accepted the men’s sympathy. He questioned how he could have become so attached to the dog.
What story can you tell about how a pet can steal a person’s heart?
haiku capsule:
my pet, my buddy
my purring, couch-cuddling cat
my heart stealer’s hooks
Next blog: Thrills of Creative Efforts
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