By Anne Sullivan
After the catastrophe of the unsaved computer manuscript of her autobiography, Sylvia moped as only a dog can mope for ten solid days. She ate little, eschewing dog biscuits for an occasional bite of unadorned kibble.
I tried to interest her in the arrival of the summer rains, the tall colorful wildflowers sprouting up in Swingle Canyon and the calm beauty of a starry night with just a wisp of a breeze. Sylvia reacted not at all, so occupied was she with mourning the death of her manuscript.
Gordo, on the other hand, raced about leaping at the tall fairy trumpets and dashing up the oak trees. Sylvia told me he’d mumbled a short apology consisting of ‘oops, sorry’ and raced off, keeping well out of her sight.
Sylvia was so traumatized that she didn’t even deign to chase Gordo which was just as well since if she’d caught him that might have been the end of Gordo.
So that’s how life was when I exited my happy home on a sunny breezy morning with the hint of possible rain clouds in the west.
“Come on, Sylvia, let’s go for a walk,” I urged.
No response. Nothing. Only her nose stuck out of her doghouse on the porch.
“Sylvia, walkies. It’ll do you good. It’s a beautiful day. You might see a rabbit to chase.”
“No, thank you,” she muttered.
Reaching into the doghouse, I grabbed her collar and pulled. “We’re going for a walk whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t want to. Can’t you understand?” Sylvia’s voice was full of silent rage as her head and shoulders now emerged from the doghouse.
“You can’t spend your whole life moping,” I yelled at her as I pulled her collar with all my might. “You’ve mourned your autobiography for ten solid days.”
“It’s not long enough. I want to spend my whole life this way,” she said as the rest of her 79-pound body down to her dejected tail squeezed out of her house and onto the porch. “My life is ruined.”
“Come on, Sylvia, buck up. It’s not that bad.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Many people…er…and dogs, too, I’m sure, have overcome adversity and been all the better for it.”
“The only thing I’d like to overcome is Gordo.”
“It may not be all his fault. Did you spend much time teaching him how to save on The Computer?”
Sylvia’s lip trembled. “I don’t remember how much time exactly but I know we went over it. He should have said something if he didn’t understand.”
“Perhaps he wanted to please you so much he was afraid to.”
“Afraid of me?” she cried. “No one is afraid of me. I only wish they were.”
“I must say he doesn’t look afraid,” I said as I watched Gordo jump between the red fairy trumpet and some purple flower of unknown parentage. “Have you paid Gordo yet for all the typing?”
“No and I shouldn’t have to pay him since he didn’t save any of the typing.”
“Nonetheless, he did do the typing.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. I have no money. Nothing matters.”
“Perhaps you could pay him in some other fashion. In kind.”
“I’m kind enough to let him live,” she growled.
Suddenly Sylvia roused herself to bark. Loud, quick, important barks. I looked where her nose was pointing and saw – a bear. A largish black bear headed straight for the frolicking Gordo.
In less than an instant Gordo stood stock still, well aware than he was in danger of devourment
Still barking, Sylvia charged toward the bear who turned to look at her, at which point Gordo bolted away to climb up a very tall tree.
The bear, obviously annoyed, glared at Sylvia who stood her ground, growling deeply between stanzas of barking. As I picked up the one weapon on the porch, a shovel, Sylvia inhaled deeply and charged. The bear groaned, turned and fled up canyon.
“Good for you, Sylvia,” I said, petting her head.
Gordo came down from his tree, ran over to Sylvia and rubbed himself against her ample stomach.
And so peace came to Swingle Canyon.
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