January, 1955
Pastor’s dog repeats her ways.
Another Sunday morning litter.
Two young boys pleading with their mother.
“Please. Pastor says we may if you permit.”
“But I don’t like dogs.”
“We’ll take care of him.”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll be good.”
“He’ll have to stay outside.”
“Oh, thank you, Mom! Thank you!”
Two boys walking home from school carrying a box.
Inside a puppy.
White with black and brown patches.
“Looks like big potato chips.”
“Chipper it is, then.”
A box in the garage his first home.
The garage is still outside, for there is yet no door.
A stray cat, then also a kitten.
Gray with white feet, like mittens.
Dogs and cats don’t get along.
Chipper and Mittens didn’t read the book.
Playmates.
Two boys and a dog.
What great adventures they had.
Chipper pulling at his leash; boys following through the woods.
Like Sergeant Preston and King.
At times Chipper would break free and go on his own.
“Don’t worry. He’ll come back,” assured the older.
Always did. Always happy.
Some years later, Indian Summer.
A stack of form frames weathered gray waiting to be stud walls.
Another stray cat finds in them a suitable place.
Five kittens venture forth toward Chipper.
The mother keeps her distance; the kittens do not.
Chipper lies contented, kittens playing around and atop him.
Does he remember Mittens?
Winter, 1968
Older boy in the Navy; younger in college.
Straw bales flank Chipper’s house.
A light inside provides a little heat.
The tree that holds his chain has no bark at its base nor promise of leaves above.
Chipper moves slowly.
He is not well.
One morning Chipper does not come out of his house.
A final resting place under the lilac where he was wont to lie.