Our new neighbor has turned out to be quite the socialite. I am not surprised, though, at how much of a pet-person she really is. I met Mr. Good Cat during his neighborhood investigation (and trespassing) and the young bunny-eared pup, whose name I can never remember (but whose scent a dog never forgets). But there is still one who remains even more of a mystery than a forgotten name.
I hopped around excitedly while the old man gathered up a few things for walkies. A small bag of treats went into coat pockets, and then the leash clipped on. I love that sound.
Outside, we strolled down the walk and met Debbie along the way. Izzy was just as excited as I was. We don’t usually go for walks on this day of the week, so it must be special. Down the way, Izzy and I stop to check messages and leave a few of our own. Then I smell the scent of familiarity. It was Mr. Good Cat. He was perched up on the fence, studying us with those weird eyes.
“Cat!” Izzy cried and jumped up to sniff.
Mr. Good Cat let him sniff. He’s such a strange cat. I’ve never seen one that acted like that. But, Christy does have a raccoon for a companion. So, I guess we all fit in great together. The old man opens up the gate to the yard, allowing Debbie and Izzy to go in first. Then the old man and I stroll through.
In a flash of fur, Mr. Good Cat was in front of me, using his tail to tickle my nose. “Don’t bother Sampson,” he warned me. Then he dashed into the bushes and spooked out some birds.
I looked at the old man, wondering who Samson was. He just shrugged and led me inside. The inside was littered with different smells of all kinds. I could hear birds chirping in one room, a dangling cage apparently kept them from flying all over the place and driving everyone bonkers. Izzy and I spent a good while examining the cage, trying to see if there was some way we could let them out and play chase. But it wasn’t working out the way we planned.
Then our companions found us and told us not to bother the birds. The birds must be what Mr. Good Cat was talking about. Promptly, we were scooted out of the room and into another, where inspections would surely continue. Here, the bunny-eared pup finally made an appearance.
“Rocky! Lizzy!” the pup cried out excitedly. One for two, he’s still doing better than I am.
“Izzy,” my friend corrected with an embarrassed expression. “I’m a boy.”
“Oh, hellllooo….” I paused, hoping that the pup would fill in his own name.
“Marty! Members me?” His nubby tail shook back and forth.
“Of course, I remember you. How could anyone forget?” I somewhat lied. It was the truth. I do remember him, just not his name.
“What goes on here?” A deep voice bellowed from somewhere above us.
Izzy barked and bounded out the door. A few seconds later, his nose peeked in and checked the surroundings. None of us could see anything, but there was definitely someone else in here besides the three of us. While I checked under the bed, Izzy coached me at a safe distance.
“Under the desk; then under that chair; don’t forget to check under the rug.” Izzy directed spastically.
“Under the rug?” I gave him the “that’s ridiculous” look.
“That’s where I’d hide if I was in the business of hiding.”
Strangely, it made sense. I’ve seen him do stranger. But under isn’t where it’s coming from. It was on top. I leapt up onto the bed and found him. The dog was huge and droopy all over. Like a hound dog it seems. He reminded me of those old picture-box stories where the policemen and their dog companions chase down an escaped criminal (bone thieves, Izzy had confirmed).
“You should leave,” the old dog bellowed. “Go, play, have fun.”
“Well, come with us.” I invited.
“He doesn’t play anymore.” Marty whispered to me.
“I’m too old to play with young pups like you. Go and enjoy youth,” the old dog bellowed and drooped his head back down on the pillows.
“I’m not young,” I said, slightly offended. “I’ve been around the block a whole lot of times.”
“Pup, I’m eight years old,” the dog argued. “You can’t be a day over four.”
“I’m seven, but I do feel four-ish,” I affirmed. “You want to know why? Because I feel young in my heart.”
We were interrupted when Mr. Good Cat jumped on the bed and plopped down next to the old dog. “I told you to leave Sampson alone. He’s too old to play with young puppies.”
“Nonsense, you’re never too old to play with puppies,” I leapt off the bed and joined my playmates. “My friends and I are going to go play like puppies so we can feel like puppies. Act old or act young. It’s just a matter of what you feel inside that really counts.”
Jason Duron is a short story writer and author of several fiction stories. Curious and lovable as dogs can be, the Adventures of Rocky give you a chance to see daily life from a “dog’s eye view” and share in their thoughts. Please enjoy, and we hope that you’ll feel free to comment and give us insight into your dog’s very own “rocky” adventures.