It’s a tidal river. Twice a day, the current changes with the pull of the ocean tide. Around the bend, north of us, is Bath Iron Works. South, a ways downriver, is the Atlantic ocean.
Behind us, up the steep hill, is the house that A’s parents built.
It’s another dog day afternoon. August or October of 1985. Twenty-six years ago.
That’s A. Line in the water. Patiently waiting for a tug signaling he’s got a bite.
And, that’s Diamond. He was our first Great Dane. He might be two years old here.
I’m pregnant – just barely. This will be the first grandchild for A’s parents; the third for my side of the family with another sister also pregnant – due about a month after our baby’s expected delivery date.
A’s mom’s initial reaction was to wonder if A was prepared to be a dad.
My oldest sister’s immediate reaction was, “Well, of course, you’re going to get rid of the dog.”
I told A’s mom not to worry; that her son would be a really good father. And I continued to love my sister, but chose to ignore her advice.
Here we are 26 years later. Haven’t gone fishing in a while. Like lemmings, we head, not to Maine, but to the Adirondacks in August. We take ourselves and our son, who turned 25 last April.
We board two dogs and leave the third with a neighbor.
We lost Diamond to mouth cancer when he was 6 years old and it took 3 ex-racing greyhounds, two whippets and a shepherd-husky cross-breed before I could have another Great Dane.
Hearts can be funny that way. [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]