Man's Best Friend
By Timbo Fisch © 2006
Jack and his beloved Delia took their usual sunset walk in the woods. She walked off-leash now. For years, she had pulled for the woods when they reached the forest edge. Jack always tugged her back to the path, with a firm, "No." After a time, a pro-active "no" kept her on the path. One proud day, he let her off the leash. She always walked quietly by his side. And every day, Jack overcame his urge to put her back on leash.Today, as they followed the path, Jack turned to tell her what a good dog she was. Delia heard something and took off on a tangent. Jack, who heard nothing, said a baffled, "What the--" and bolted after. But he couldn't catch her.
Hours passed. Desultory he dashed, desperately shouting her name. "Delia!" But he never caught sight nor sound. Dusk drooped, night gnashed, he quailed, but he did not quit. Deeper into the woods he pressed without flashlight, compass, or stellar guide, accepting every rude poke and laceration.
Then he heard a growl. He waded carefully through a bramble and found her. She bared her teeth, her tapetum glaring ghastly. Where was her collar? That familiar jingle? Jack paused, then spoke her special name, "Deli-lu-lu." She growled all the same. He held out his hand. She backed away, hackles rising like quills. He playfully pitched his voice, whistled, sang, tried other nicknames. "Deli dog. Dilly-dally. Delilly-Delilly-Delo. Why, why, why, Delila." She slavered and snarled. He inched closer, knelt to let her see him better. She crouched and coiled.
Fear finally struck. Jack reconsidered. Slowly he rose and retreated, his eyes locked on hers, until he backed through the bramble. The growling stopped. He stumbled forward to find her, but she was gone, swift and silent. He was lost, weary, wondering, feeling for the path. Why didn't she recognize him? What on earth had happened out there? Where was her collar? He slumped against a tree and warily waited for dawn.
Dawn fell. Jack trekked back to the trail and walked slowly home, occasionally trying her name. "Deli-lu-lu!" No response. He called authorities, posted signs, worked as required and perched on the porch, staring down the forest road.
Jack waited a respectful time for Delia to return--like in the movies, limping loyally over the horizon. He puzzled over every step of their final foray. And he blamed himself for not putting her back on leash. No one called. She did not return. He gave up.
One day, the newscaster quoted Groucho Marx: "Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." With a pensive grin, Jack put down his dictionary and put on his jacket.
Lonely, grieving, he turned the key and headed hopefully for the shelters.
The End
Fisch, like Geoffrey Chaucer before him, is a former
political bureaucrat working on a collection of short stories.