Press , the formerly preeminent Pittsburgh newspaper, now published only online.
Thurman wandered into the kitchen several times that morning, mumbling to himself, looking up at Wilson, tilting his head, snorting on occasion, all in an effort, Wilson surmised, to get his attention.
Up until now, Wilson had resisted the dog’s efforts.
The last time, Thurman walked away, back toward his bed in the den, mumbling Boring to himself over and over.
Thurman seemed to latch on to words, Wilson discovered, and repeat them over and over, as if in an effort to memorize them, or memorize how they sounded or how they were formed in a dog’s mouth.
Around 11:30, Wilson heard Thurman get up, stretch and yawn loudly, shake himself awake, his ears doing their usual flapping against the top of his head, then with methodic, careful steps amble back into the kitchen.
Wilson thought he saw a more resolute look on Thurman’s face, as if this would be the time he was successful in rousing the seated person to do…something. Go for a walk. Maybe make lunch. Maybe share his lunch.
Thurman seemed to stop at that idea—or at least Wilson thought he was stopping at that idea.
Hungry .
Wilson shook his head back at the dog.
“You had breakfast. The Internet says that dogs should only eat twice a day.”
Thurman appeared hurt.
Bunkum .
Wilson shrugged.
“Maybe so, but that’s the truth I’m going with.”
Thurman sat down, a little deflated. Perhaps a little peeved as well.
Then Wilson stood up, the chair squealing just a bit on the tile floor of the kitchen. Wilson had replaced the rose-motif linoleum decades ago with a very sturdy dark slate tile.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
At this, Thurman lit up, bounced to all fours, did his back-end-moving-first cha-cha dance, pranced, and jumped with the joyful enthusiasm of a newborn goat.
“Okay. Once around the block.”
They got to the front door.
“Leash or no leash?”
Thurman looked up, and appeared to give the options some thought.
No leash , he grumbled, grinning.
Since Wilson and Thurman had been going for walks, Thurman was nothing short of a miracle dog on a leash, never pulling, never straining, never trying to run ahead of Wilson’s pace. A few weeks prior, Wilson had experimented with Thurman off the leash, and he’d behaved the same as on it. Walking without a leash was easier for Wilson. He did not enjoy being tethered together, being tied to someone or something else. It felt so constricting.
“All right. No leash. But no chasing things. No running into the street. Okay?”
Thurman looked up, still grinning.
Okay , he growled. Walkie-walkie-walkie .
And they set off, Thurman all but prancing at Wilson’s side, head butting his leg every few paces, growling happily, not really saying anything, but Wilson could tell that the dog was in a good mood.
And Wilson was in a similar mood.
That doesn’t happen all that often. To have a living creature here with me, and for me to be evenly modulated and almost happy. It has been a long time .
Thurman bounced and sniffed and growled his greeting to a bevy of pigeons clutching onto a set of overhead wires.
They must not have understood “dog,” because instead of chirping back, they all turned their eyes to Thurman, making sure that this was not one of those dogs that could climb trees—or fly.
The two walked on to the end of the block and turned to the north.
Midway down the block, Thurman stopped and looked to his left. Actually it was more than a look. It was as if Thurman was pointing, ready to go retrieving, following the millennia-long instinctual path of all retrievers.
Wilson turned to look.
At the top of the driveway was a figure in a wheelchair.
Thurman barked, then turned back to Wilson.
Wilson did not want to stop, did not want to engage in any conversation, but Thurman appeared so earnest, so wanting.
“Go ahead,” Wilson said softly.
Then he looked up and waved.
“He wants to
Thurman wandered into the kitchen several times that morning, mumbling to himself, looking up at Wilson, tilting his head, snorting on occasion, all in an effort, Wilson surmised, to get his attention.
Up until now, Wilson had resisted the dog’s efforts.
The last time, Thurman walked away, back toward his bed in the den, mumbling Boring to himself over and over.
Thurman seemed to latch on to words, Wilson discovered, and repeat them over and over, as if in an effort to memorize them, or memorize how they sounded or how they were formed in a dog’s mouth.
Around 11:30, Wilson heard Thurman get up, stretch and yawn loudly, shake himself awake, his ears doing their usual flapping against the top of his head, then with methodic, careful steps amble back into the kitchen.
Wilson thought he saw a more resolute look on Thurman’s face, as if this would be the time he was successful in rousing the seated person to do…something. Go for a walk. Maybe make lunch. Maybe share his lunch.
Thurman seemed to stop at that idea—or at least Wilson thought he was stopping at that idea.
Hungry .
Wilson shook his head back at the dog.
“You had breakfast. The Internet says that dogs should only eat twice a day.”
Thurman appeared hurt.
Bunkum .
Wilson shrugged.
“Maybe so, but that’s the truth I’m going with.”
Thurman sat down, a little deflated. Perhaps a little peeved as well.
Then Wilson stood up, the chair squealing just a bit on the tile floor of the kitchen. Wilson had replaced the rose-motif linoleum decades ago with a very sturdy dark slate tile.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
At this, Thurman lit up, bounced to all fours, did his back-end-moving-first cha-cha dance, pranced, and jumped with the joyful enthusiasm of a newborn goat.
“Okay. Once around the block.”
They got to the front door.
“Leash or no leash?”
Thurman looked up, and appeared to give the options some thought.
No leash , he grumbled, grinning.
Since Wilson and Thurman had been going for walks, Thurman was nothing short of a miracle dog on a leash, never pulling, never straining, never trying to run ahead of Wilson’s pace. A few weeks prior, Wilson had experimented with Thurman off the leash, and he’d behaved the same as on it. Walking without a leash was easier for Wilson. He did not enjoy being tethered together, being tied to someone or something else. It felt so constricting.
“All right. No leash. But no chasing things. No running into the street. Okay?”
Thurman looked up, still grinning.
Okay , he growled. Walkie-walkie-walkie .
And they set off, Thurman all but prancing at Wilson’s side, head butting his leg every few paces, growling happily, not really saying anything, but Wilson could tell that the dog was in a good mood.
And Wilson was in a similar mood.
That doesn’t happen all that often. To have a living creature here with me, and for me to be evenly modulated and almost happy. It has been a long time .
Thurman bounced and sniffed and growled his greeting to a bevy of pigeons clutching onto a set of overhead wires.
They must not have understood “dog,” because instead of chirping back, they all turned their eyes to Thurman, making sure that this was not one of those dogs that could climb trees—or fly.
The two walked on to the end of the block and turned to the north.
Midway down the block, Thurman stopped and looked to his left. Actually it was more than a look. It was as if Thurman was pointing, ready to go retrieving, following the millennia-long instinctual path of all retrievers.
Wilson turned to look.
At the top of the driveway was a figure in a wheelchair.
Thurman barked, then turned back to Wilson.
Wilson did not want to stop, did not want to engage in any conversation, but Thurman appeared so earnest, so wanting.
“Go ahead,” Wilson said softly.
Then he looked up and waved.
“He wants to
Similar Books
