precise penmanship making it seem almost like a work of art. His note took up the entire page.
Dear Bryn, I wish I could open this letter by saying ‘I hope you are well,’ but it seems almost foolish to assume that this could be the case. If you are reading this, it is most likely because I have met my end and you are alone in this world without your father to care for you. I don’t know why God has seen fit to bring this disaster down upon the heads of our youth, but it is what it is and I can do nothing to stop it. It is my sincerest wish, however, that I could do even a little something to make your new life better for you. You and I never met or talked, but your loving father came to me before his death to ask that I watch over you and do what I could to help you. I have no children of my own, other than Buster, and my lovely wife died many years ago. I know that when I go, I will worry very much about Buster, maybe not as much as your father worries for you, but enough that it causes me sleepless nights. It is with this in mind that I leave for you this journal, filled with everything I could remember of my days in the army, serving in Europe during World War II. It would be foolish for us to believe that you will not need to know battle tactics in your new world. I know your father has prepared you as best he could, to fight and protect yourself. We’ve talked many times about you, he and I, and it is clear, he loves you more than life itself. In closing, I would ask that if my dear Buster is still alive, that you do what you can to care for him. He is a sweet soul and is generous with his love. And I think both you and he might end up needing each other. One can never have too many friends nor too many tail wags in her life. With kindest regards, your neighbor, George Winterstone.
I started crying halfway through the letter and had to turn away from Peter to read the rest. I walked over to the counter and put the letter and journal down when I was finished reading, trying to get myself together. But all I could think about was my dad and how he and this neighbor had worked together before they died to try and help me survive. I was overcome with emotion, lost in a dark and deep sea of memories that made me feel like I might drown in despair.
And then I felt something cold and tickly on my ankle. I looked down through my haze of tears and saw a gray mop on the floor with a pink tongue hanging out of it. Buster leaned in and licked my ankle again, looking up at me when he was done with his brown eyes, now much easier to see without the clumps of hair hanging in them.
I didn’t think about it, I just did it - I scooped him up and held him to my chest, burying my face in his fur for a few seconds while I cried a few more tears.
I abruptly stopped when I realized how awful he smelled, jerking my head back and grimacing while gasping for fresh air. My sadness had evaporated instantly to be replaced by disgust.
“Holy Jesus, what on earth do you smell like, Buster?”
Buster got excited about hearing his name and wiggled like mad, struggling to give me a lick on the face.
“Oh, God, no! No kisses to the face, Buster. Oh, please, help me, Peter … he stinks to high heaven!”
“I think it’s rotten snails,” offered Peter. “Dogs like to roll in decomposing things. He had access to his back porch.”
“Oh, gag,” I said, holding Buster away from me and putting him back on the ground. He was alternately dancing in circles and jumping up on my leg.
“I think he likes you,” said Peter, grinning stupidly.
“Stop smiling at me like that. He can’t stay.” I tried to sound all firm and angry, but it wasn’t working. Buster was a complete idiot. He would not quit spinning in circles. “Stop spinning, you jerk.”
Peter laughed. “You can’t call a dog a jerk.”
“Why not?
Dear Bryn, I wish I could open this letter by saying ‘I hope you are well,’ but it seems almost foolish to assume that this could be the case. If you are reading this, it is most likely because I have met my end and you are alone in this world without your father to care for you. I don’t know why God has seen fit to bring this disaster down upon the heads of our youth, but it is what it is and I can do nothing to stop it. It is my sincerest wish, however, that I could do even a little something to make your new life better for you. You and I never met or talked, but your loving father came to me before his death to ask that I watch over you and do what I could to help you. I have no children of my own, other than Buster, and my lovely wife died many years ago. I know that when I go, I will worry very much about Buster, maybe not as much as your father worries for you, but enough that it causes me sleepless nights. It is with this in mind that I leave for you this journal, filled with everything I could remember of my days in the army, serving in Europe during World War II. It would be foolish for us to believe that you will not need to know battle tactics in your new world. I know your father has prepared you as best he could, to fight and protect yourself. We’ve talked many times about you, he and I, and it is clear, he loves you more than life itself. In closing, I would ask that if my dear Buster is still alive, that you do what you can to care for him. He is a sweet soul and is generous with his love. And I think both you and he might end up needing each other. One can never have too many friends nor too many tail wags in her life. With kindest regards, your neighbor, George Winterstone.
I started crying halfway through the letter and had to turn away from Peter to read the rest. I walked over to the counter and put the letter and journal down when I was finished reading, trying to get myself together. But all I could think about was my dad and how he and this neighbor had worked together before they died to try and help me survive. I was overcome with emotion, lost in a dark and deep sea of memories that made me feel like I might drown in despair.
And then I felt something cold and tickly on my ankle. I looked down through my haze of tears and saw a gray mop on the floor with a pink tongue hanging out of it. Buster leaned in and licked my ankle again, looking up at me when he was done with his brown eyes, now much easier to see without the clumps of hair hanging in them.
I didn’t think about it, I just did it - I scooped him up and held him to my chest, burying my face in his fur for a few seconds while I cried a few more tears.
I abruptly stopped when I realized how awful he smelled, jerking my head back and grimacing while gasping for fresh air. My sadness had evaporated instantly to be replaced by disgust.
“Holy Jesus, what on earth do you smell like, Buster?”
Buster got excited about hearing his name and wiggled like mad, struggling to give me a lick on the face.
“Oh, God, no! No kisses to the face, Buster. Oh, please, help me, Peter … he stinks to high heaven!”
“I think it’s rotten snails,” offered Peter. “Dogs like to roll in decomposing things. He had access to his back porch.”
“Oh, gag,” I said, holding Buster away from me and putting him back on the ground. He was alternately dancing in circles and jumping up on my leg.
“I think he likes you,” said Peter, grinning stupidly.
“Stop smiling at me like that. He can’t stay.” I tried to sound all firm and angry, but it wasn’t working. Buster was a complete idiot. He would not quit spinning in circles. “Stop spinning, you jerk.”
Peter laughed. “You can’t call a dog a jerk.”
“Why not?
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