I cherish the soft times with you Holding your paw in the park Holding your body at night Those wonder filled soft times with you
The park was filled with people, it being an exceptionally bright summer’s day. Boats of all description roared through the lakes clear liquid as children yelled and giggled in their confined antics at the waters shallow edge, and the tourist village felt its coffers happily fill. Folks of all description, rich and poor alike, crowded the small Victorian bandstand where the local symphony entertained a further understanding of Ireland, prompting the specialty shop owners to unburden their imported stock along the cobblestone sidewalks. At the far end of the park, just beyond the crowd though still reached loudly by the band, stood a fountain. Five ornate tiers of cement down which a thin sheen of water cascaded surrounded by a marble wall on three sides denoting the varied heroes of wars forgotten though better remembered that called this timeless hamlet home, it was not old as the shops and bandstand were. Here the youth, growing pains of the town, gathered. Here also there was entertainment, of sorts. Beneath the falling waters, spattered by its spray, an old soul canted around the fountain, his long forgotten jig followed and imitated by an even older looking dog. Both man and dog had once been white, though years and streets long ago disguised them with soot and sweat.
His old long coat, so out of place on such a hot day, flew behind him like the capes of the elves who invented the ancient dance his bowed legs fought to follow. The arthritic Shepard performed a halting spin, her tail fighting to keep time as the music lifted the the old mans feet, and neither seemed to notice the jeers of the ‘I’ll live forever” crowd. His crumpled hat lay on the hard concrete, upturned but empty after two wheeling jigs, but still he danced, his old friend and him.
On a bench a few yards away, holding my precious lady’s soft paw, I remembered an old song. Here before us danced ‘Mr. Bo jangles’ and his dog regardless what name they went by now, whether either even remembered such things as what their mothers called them in days gone by. Partners they surely were, in life and work, both barely surviving but staying together. As if sensing the comparison to us running through my mind, Tippy lifted her delicate nose for a tender kiss. Shy with her I could not be, and I passionately returned her gift for all who would stare to see. Hugging her tight to my side, I turned back to the hoofers by the fountain.
The music ended, the vaudevillian graciously bowed to the still mocking crowd, as the Shepard also by stretching one forepaw and folding the other bowed to him. The teenaged spectators spread away, to find more fun in age I supposed, leaving the old pair to the fountain. He returned the dog’s bright eyed smile and gently took her offered paw then as his angry back protested, stooped over the still empty fedora, and his eyes grew weary. Sitting roughly on the fountains edge, he glanced at Tippy and I, still embracing, and smiled again, tussling his dogs head as his other knarled hand pointed her toward us. She in turn barked a greeting that brought a smile to me.
They turned away, he tiredly gazing into the crowds and she settling stiffly at his feet, and I clumsily fumbled in my wallet ashamed that I’d not yet given them privacy from our eyes. Finding the right bill I whispered in Tippys little ear “Why don’t you go thank them for us Tip?”, and put the currency between her careful teeth. I kissed the top of her head and she leapt from the bench to make a hip swaying trot toward the fountain.
Ignoring the still empty hat, she approached the man without her usual fear of strangers, then, gracefully, she put her paw on his thin knee and with her tail swinging below her ass offered the money in her mouth. With the back of an age stained finger, he rubbed her little curly chest then carefully reached for the bill while whispering to her words lost to my ear. Hesitantly she reached and licked his wrinkled cheek before exchanging sniffs with his partner, who had reached to groom her side as the old man talked. His eyes never left her as she scurried back to me, nor did they rise to meet mine as she settled back on the bench. Again tussling the Shepard’s head, he stood, and they began slowly down the rough sidewalk, he stooped and she by his side. I pulled Tippy close, bowing my lips to her gentle head as the music again wafted along the water.
I miss the soft times with you And remember them most in my cold existence
Silverwolf