Smokey

 

 

I finally got around to asking my mom how I got that scar on my hand. She told me, "You were just a toddler and you were playing in the back yard when you fell and cut that skin between your thumb and first finger clean through. Your dog Smokey raised such a racket at the back door I had to go see what was going on."

Smokey. I had completely forgotten about Smokey. Smokey had been run over by a car when I was in kindergarten and had slipped from my memory and now that he had been mentioned the memories came flooding back.

Suddenly I could see Smokey sitting right there in front of me. He was a big grey and white shaggy sheep dog looking mutt. Tears formed in my eyes as he stared back at me.

"I've missed you Smokey," I said quietly.

"You look different," he said.

"I'm an old man now Smokey."

He examined me up and down, looking right into me.

"Well," he said, "you done good."

"Thanks Smokey"

I awoke with a ache. Oh, how I loved that dog. Then it hit me. I don't have a scar on my hand. There is no Smokey.

Still I have been sad all day. I miss Smokey. He was the best dog I never had.