Stonington

Stonington didn’t come with much. He didn’t even have a name. He only had a box, just the size of a pair of sneakers, with a scuffed-up red ball, a grass-stained bandana, a small black blank notebook, and a barely surviving, badly chewed stuffed animal—though kingdom, phylum, class and such were no longer discernable, it made a bird-like sound when I poked it where the stomach would have once been.

But he was mine now and we were starting fresh. The old toys and whatever his old name was, belonged to the past, to someone who gave up on him and left him at a shelter. We all know that elderly dogs don’t fare well in such cases, and I couldn’t forgive people who would let this sweet terrier fall into terrible health and desert him in a sea of cages of crying dogs. The box promptly went to the top shelf of the closet and I took him on a shopping spree to Doggie Delight, where he picked out a newfound lifetime of toys, treats, and kerchiefs for himself.

Winter rolled into spring and he was as good as new—at least as far as a sleepy senior boy was concerned. His broken leg was healed, his skin allergies a distant memory, and his heartworm eradicated. But what of his broken heart? We were best of friends. He was my one-and-only and I was his…except when lone tall men would pass us as we strolled through Bailey Park. One look at them and his tail would wag until it almost came off and his gaze would follow them until they were just dots. He seemed to search crowds for someone he knew, and this saddened me. Had I had been cruel to make a clean break with his past?

I took his box down from the closet and pulled out his worn red ball. He saw it in my hand and flew across the room to my side, barking and wagging his tail. I tossed it down the hall and he disappeared into a delighted cloud of barks, chomping, and flying fur. He was back at my side instantly, trying to play again and again his custom mix of fetch, keep away, and show-and-tell.

In one particularly athletic leap, he knocked into the table and the box spilled onto the ground. He saw the kerchief and ran off with it in his mouth, all while kicking the ball with his paw. This left me to pick up the notebook, which to my surprise was not empty, rather the writing started a few pages in. The letters were tightly but neatly formed.

As Stonington slept off his cardio intervals on top of the crumpled kerchief, I began to read.

“January 3, 2004: It’s a boy! The breeder says we can have him in April.”

“April 17, 2004: We’re home with the little guy. The house seemed empty so I bought him a shiny red ball. He hasn’t stopped chasing it all afternoon. Marjorie thinks he needs a bandana so he looks sharp.”

All night I read the history my best friend could never tell me. I cheered for his triumph over the scary stone staircase and giggled at his misadventures with Ginger, the tiny lioness from across the street. His first birthday brought him a toy owl and birthday cake made with real strawberries, his favorite.

I guffawed over the elaborate description of when little Abbie from next door brought him to church as a sheep for her pageant, and he got loose, ran rampant, and hid behind the altar, snoring loudly throughout the sermon.

The stories and memories were precious and sometimes heartbreaking. Marjorie’s heart attack and funeral were devastating to come upon, and I read that he didn’t adjust well to her departure. He sat in her chair every night for six months and whined. But the bulk of the notebook, which seemed to grow bigger and bigger the more I read, was just the small details of life.

“December 14, 2011: Walked around the block and played in the snow.”

“June 3, 2015: Napped in the sun.”

One constant was the religious adherence to baseball season. Nary a game was missed on TV and little league games were attended whenever possible. I started putting the games on TV at night, and Stonington would sit at attention and watch unblinkingly all 9 innings or more.

Later in the diary, I started to see a shift in the handwriting. What had once been tidy had become messier and more difficult to read. I started to think of a story a friend told me about a loved one’s brain tumor, and what the initial symptom had been. As I had feared, the terrible entry came about a month later.

“December 3, 2019: Radiation has not worked and I took out an ad to find my boy a good home. No takers yet.”

It was hard to read more.

The rest of the writing was less frequent, less coherent, and much sadder. The last entry indicated that the man’s death was imminent. He had one last request. He asked that the reader would please take his buddy’s favorite toy owl, restuff it, sew it up, and let another carefree play session happen. He knew it couldn’t last long because the toy was so beloved that it had already died too many deaths and wouldn’t last many more days of play.

Shellshocked over all I had read, I closed the little black notebook and realized that the favorite toy was that one shapeless piece of fabric in Stonington’s box. I gathered my sewing supplies.

As I started to stuff Mr. Owl, a piece of paper fell out.

“Thank you for loving Yastrzemski.” the note said, “This is for you.” Folded beside it was a postal money order in the amount of twenty thousand dollars, with the name field left blank.

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I think I found his old place. Not far from my house sits an empty home, with an inviting stone staircase and what seems to be a rambunctious cat across the street, although she always disappears in a flash of orange before I can be sure. Friendly neighbors tell me Hank had been very sick and had lost his dog several times when letting him out leashless, when they were both too sick to go for a proper walk. This may be when a leg was broken, when cuts and scratches were endured, and when the infected mosquitoes bit. It is said that a former neighbor, Mrs. McSweeney, took them both on the fateful day, first to the animal shelter and then to the hospice.

The only mystery is Abbie, the young neighbor next door. Dozens of families each insist that only boys have lived on the lane for as long as anyone can remember, and all agree that no pageants ever happened at any local church. I don’t mind. I am happy to allow Hank his work of fiction. If I experienced it as I read along, who I am to say it didn’t happen?

Yaz and I often stand out front there and think about his past. He eventually nudges me and we return to our home.