Misty

Warmth and a faint musky scent of vanilla that came from old paper surround me. Smooth gray-brown bark blended into rougher sections of a split-trunk tree against my back. Splotches of summer sunlight danced through the leaves. I am leaning against the left trunk with my feet braced against the right. At the base of the tree is a plastic igloo once white is now more of a dusty gray. Next to it lays a husky, my husky. She has pale red fur mixing with creamy white and stormy-blue eyes. Mom had shaved her fur at the beginning of summer but it’s grown back some. Around her neck hangs a teal collar with a name tag reading Misty.

“The tiger's roar filled the cave with thunder. Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan.

"And it is I, Raksha (The Demon), who answer. The man's cub is mine, Lungri—mine to me! He shall not be killed. He shall live to run with the Pack and to hunt with the Pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs—frog-eater—fish-killer—he shall hunt thee! Now get hence, or by the Sambhur that I killed (I eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world! Go!" I read aloud from the book I held in my hands, one of my favorites at the time: Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book. Misty’s ears twitched as she listened to me, pink tongue lolling out and soft pants filling the spaces between my words.

It was just me and Misty out here right now. My brother Ricky was at his friend's house and Nakoma, my little sister was inside watching a movie. Stormy and Lightning, Misty’s brothers were out in the fenced-in area of our backyard with Mom and Dad getting baths. This was our time. Mine and Misty’s. Every day during the summer I would read to her. Some days lying on the ground next to her, others were spent in her igloo sitting Indian style, and sometimes like today sitting in the V-shaped tree that stood next to her igloo.

I slid a bookmark between the pages, closed the book, and then I jumped down from the tree and landed beside Misty. She nudged my hand with her nose and I laughed before kneeling down to pet and cuddle with her. Misty knocked me over and started licking my face. When my mom came to call me in for a snack she found us tussling on the ground with grass and dirt in her fur and my hair. I remember she took a picture of me and Misty equally dirty that day. I had one arm slung around her neck, in the other, I held the book I had been reading to her, and Misty had turned to give me another kiss.

I believe it was from moments like that, of me and her on those warm summer afternoons, that my love of reading grew. Every time I pick up a book I think back to Misty ever close by my side during our reading time. And I miss her all the more for it. She was my first friend, my closest companion back then. The one to whom I trusted all my secrets. The one who I ran to when I wanted space from my siblings. The one I cried on when I was sad or upset. She was always there through my joy, my hurts, and those quiet moments of reflection. No matter what Misty was there.

She died when I was nine years old. And for the next year, I refused to read anything (the only time I did read during that year was for school) because I couldn’t share them with Misty anymore. At first, it hurt to read but nowadays I am reminded of her constant presence, her love, and her loyalty when I find a new book to dive into. And sometimes I’ll catch myself reading out loud even to this day; I like to imagine that when I do she is still listening.

I believe one day we’ll meet each other again perhaps under a warm sun and a shady tree. I’ll be sitting beside her with a book in one hand and the other on her head. Her ears will twitch at my voice as I read to her once more. Though hopefully that is still a long time from now and I’ll have a few stories of my own that do not come from a book to tell her by then.