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Just got back from a two-week shift on the oil rigs — got a week to myself lounging around my house, lazy and bored and mind endlessly wandering — when I noticed the kid. I was rolling out that ugly brown garbage bin to the street when I'd seen him moving from house to house; he had a mop of brown hair, clothes a little too loose for him, and a Labrador on a make-shift leash created from heavy rope. I didn't really pay any attention other than a passing and curious look (and a little concern, because it was getting darker and this neighborhood wasn't exactly one Mr. Roger's would live in). Didn't much think of it again 'til someone knocked on the front door and I swung it open to see the boy (ten? eleven?) standing there looking up at me with big dewy eyes that'd give my kindergartner a run for his money.
"H-hi," he started. I could tell off the bat he was a sorta' meek, quiet one, summoning all his energy to interact with the outside world. Maybe because he didn't get out much, or maybe because he didn't usually have much to say, or maybe because nobody let him have much to say. The dog was still on the old rope, sitting on my welcome mat and panting happily; looked like he was the only happy one between the two. The kid's gray-green eyes were red around the edges, and the wetness had only just started to dry on his face. Crying. He'd been crying. "I — Do you have any room for a dog? As a pet? I... I need to find someone to take care of him; I don't wanna let him run off, and my dad said I had to hurry or — "
"He's your dog, or didja' just find him?"
"He's mine," the kid said quickly, running his fingers over the creature's soft tuft of hair at his neck. "I'm... moving, so he can't come with us. I've been asking, but nobody can..." He trailed off, looking distraught. I rubbed the back of my neck and told him with a wince, "I don't know, sorry. We've got cats..." And my wife would've nuked me on the doorstep if she came in to find a random dog; he sure was a pretty one, though. Golden, wavy fur. Real sweet, it seemed.
The kid's frown deepened as his eyes pleaded with mine. End of his rope, looked like. He was desperate, hands gesturing, voice pinched and just a little higher, frayed at the ends of his sentences like he can barely contain it. "If you can, please — he won't cause you any trouble! He's such a good dog, I promise; he's so good, he even knows how to sit. And I... please, if you can. He's my best friend. I can't leave him alone."
Was hard to argue with that, right? My wife was gonna kill me.
(Would she kill me if I also adopted a new kid?)
I aimed to placate, hands up.
"Okay, okay. Okay. Hey, it's fine. I'll... We'll see how he does. I won't let your dog go to the pound or anything. It'd be good to have a guard dog. And I think I could convince the others, since your friend is such an awesome guy." Of course I couldn't help it, and of course it made me feel like a bad-ass dog hero warrior. Marcelo, Savior of Dogs. The boy's shoulders melted in relief and he rubbed the lab's head happily, which kinda' made me sad to think there was happiness in giving away his best friend. The kid looked at the shaggy lab and said, "You got it, Bones? You're gonna be okay. You'll have a home here, 'kay? Like, with a backyard and a place you get to sleep every night. Nobody's gonna move you around."
"And a few kids," I added, and the boy smiled wetly.
"And kids," the boy corrected, speaking down at Bones' level, "You get a home, okay? You'll be okay, boy."
I felt like an intruder, watching him coax the animal. He was extremely gentle with him. He was a good boy.
The dog surprised the kid by slapping a wet tongue across his cheek, and the boy smiled before he finally offered me the old rope leash. I took it gingerly, like I was in the midst of being judged for the state of my very soul. It was gonna be hell trying to get those sassy, shit-talking cats to appreciate a dog. Still had to try to figure out a way to get the wife's approval. The kid took a step back, just stood there for a moment to watch the dog and I, his hands hovering like he wanted to keep stroking its fur. "Can — he still be Bones?"
My heart dropped into my gut. "... I, uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, kid. Bones is a bad-ass name."
A real damn nice car — old-school, black and sleek (Impala, my mind supplied) — honked its horn down the block. I bent forward to stare at it and realized it was the kid's ride, the kid who was already backing up down the sidewalk, his eyes glued to Bones. I wondered with some concern if I was making the right choice, not questioning the boy more on where he came from, where he's going — if he's going there safely, with people who loved 'im. I might regret it, but I kept my mouth shut, even as the boy looked at the dog with desperate longing for a better solution in his eyes.
"Goodbye," he breathed out, and his face crumpled a little before he turned and ran off in sneakers that were a size too big. Me and Bones, we watched the scrawny, nameless boy get into the back seat of the car. The Impala flipped a bitch and started away from my neighborhood. That was the only time I'd ever see that kid, which I guess made sense, since he was probably going somewhere far, far away. Somewhere the dog couldn't follow, even if the tug at the leash I had in my hands suggested the dog woulda' ran obediently after the kid.
Fifteen years later, Bones' head had laid weakly on my lap while the vet administered something strong to help him — drift away. Wasn't anything anyone did. Wasn't some sickness that claimed him too early. He was just old and tired, and he was ready to take the ol' staircase up before us. Dogs get that kinda luxury, I guess. Outliving everyone they love. My kids choked on tears and snot and huddled around their mama; even as teenagers, she's their life raft, or the sun in the middle of their orbit. They said their goodbyes. Bones didn't say goodbye. He just closed his eyes to nap, and maybe even expected to see them again when he roused. But then he was gone, and I was there to see it through when the others couldn't stomach it. I felt the breath trapped between his ribs flush out of his lungs, and that was that.
Part of life, this here. Animals, friends, family, they come and go. You learn to live with it. I learned a long, long time ago, when my old man died before I was old enough to vote.
Petting Bones' still head, I wondered what had ever happened to the kid who gave me this damn good dog; hadn't really thought much about the boy in years, but fetching the old makeshift rope from the closet to bring the dog to the vet had jarred the memory loose. I stroked my old pup's fur and blinked hot tears, and wondered absently if there had been any other dogs in need of rescue, wherever that kid had been heading. He needed a good guard dog like this one. Good friend like this one. And I think there must've been a dog out there who could have used a good friend like that kid.
I couldn't help but wonder if that kid ever got another best friend.
Or sneakers that would finally fit his feet.