Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Mr. Parker gave us Sadie. She was brown-red with white flecks. Her tail and tongue flapped when she ran. She followed me to school and slept with me every night.

One afternoon, Billy, the biggest kid around, threw a punch at me. Sadie lunged, pressing her teeth on his neck as a deep growl escaped her throat. Billy squirmed loose and took off. I ran home to Mom, bawling, gasping for words of explanation. Sadie was protecting me.

Mom was sitting on my bed, not Sadie, in the morning. “I’m sorry. Dad took her to the pound. She won’t be back.”

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

My Best Stuff

I’d always wanted to do stand-up. My family was funny. Dad was so quick; his words would be in the next county before the cousins got the joke.

This was my moment. I had an audience, the coveted captive kind.  They were laughing, crying and choking. Everything I said was killer, even the words that slurred worked.

I used my best stuff. The teenage couple “lost” in the woods. A priest, a pastor and  a rabbi go fishing.

Then she cut me off. “The anesthesia will wear off in a few minutes. You can have visitors in an hour or so.”