Yellow Submarine #2

A boy and his dog. Part 1.

An eight year old boy stands alone in the animal shelter. That morning a cold rain had swept through the town on its way to parts unknown. Inside the animal shelter the last vestiges of the morning's storm seem to have embedded themselves in the depression of the shelter. You can sense it in the form of a stiff chill, the thick aroma of urine and wet dog, and a lingering overcast in the already poorly lit shelter. You can almost see its grim countenance in the reflection of the two old pie tins standing awkwardly on the cold, stained cement floor. You could feel it watching perhaps thirty writhing little balls of black white and brown fur shivering and clustered together desperately trying to keep warm. The boy is not spared such observations, but his attention is fixed on the single emaciated mass of eyes, nose and tail shaking with incredible violence in its own darkened corner. What strikes the boy the most though is that in a pit of pitiful cries, it was the only animal that didn't seem to be making a sound.

A moment passes before he once again becomes aware of anything other than his own thoughts or even why he was standing in a cold cement building being assailed by the plaintive whimpers of its residents to begin with. It wasn't that he cared so much about having a dog. He didn't. It was more of his parent's idea. His mother wanted the children to have a dog, perhaps to atone for her obligatory hours of quality time with the Home Shopping Network when she wasn't working. His father wanted the children to have a dog perhaps to atone for his working his obligatory long hours as a CFO trying to pay for his mom's quality time with the Home Shopping Network, and the distance he maintained in his exhaustion when he got home.

Contributing to his ambivalence was the fact that he had already had a dog as recently as that very morning. Of Course, that was before it had ran out the door to play in the yard. Before the rain. Before it sought refuge from the rain under the car and in doing so obscured itself under the back tire. Before a mother, already late to work, tried to shave a couple seconds off her commute backing out of the drive way.

Afterwards he had seen the remains on the drive way, still steaming with the last remnants of its body heat against the cold air. He tried to convince himself that it was its soul rising to heaven. Deep down he wasn't entirely convinced. It was his the first vision of the frailty of life. So there he stood.

"Is that the one you want hon? We'll take that one.", echoed a deep baritone obviously accustomed to authority. It was his father's.

The boy turned to once again face his father and he saw his sister beaming as the man from the shelter placed a bundle of pure white fluff into her hands.

The boy found his voice, but only managed a weak," Whadabowdahun?"

"Huh? Speak up son." Said the man from the shelter.

"I said,'What about that one?'"

"Oh, you probably wouldn't want that one."

"Why not?" asked the Father.

"He's no good, the runt of the pack. He's been here about a week and you can see he's all about skin and bones by now."

"What's going to happen to him then? You're not going to put him to sleep are you?"

"Sorry to say so son, but I might not have to. Right now he's so weak he'd probably blow away in a slight breeze. He'll probably get sick if he's not already and then then it's only a matter of time. I give him three days. If that."

All that the boy could manage was a crestfallen,"Oh." despite an herculian effort. He turns his eyes again to the sad shrunken shell in the corner and lets his gave linger there.

"Tell you what I'll do." Said the man in a sympathetic undertone. " You're going to get the other one, I might as well give you that one too. It's pretty obvious he's not going anywhere else."

So they left the shelter with two puppies instead of one. His sister doted over the the white ball of fluff and promptly named it snowball. The boy clasped the runt in his palms with the care and diligence usually accorded a crown jewel. But this was much more precious to him. He was almost afraid to take his eyes from it, lest some terrible catastrophe befall it for his negligence. He held it like this the whole way home. Above him the sun was breaking through the clouds and the air held the faint scent of the wildflowers.