From 15 to 50 with Fast Eddie and Flash

It was the year of the doghouse, following the almost never ended year of the slugfish and the summer of gloom. Fast Eddie found trouble at every turn. His were not the best laid plans to begin with, but chucking them left him with no plans at all. Fifteen and no plans for the future. Woe is me. 

Fast had only recently taken to contemplating the future and reasoned that first there was high school in the fall, then the Olympics, and after that, the priesthood. He was serious about those objectives. As serious as fifteen gets. 

Fast admired those called to the cloth and also appreciated the art of public speaking and viewed the collar as the perfect career opportunity for a young man with his talents and interests. He'd thrill them with his oratory powers and then, at parish picnics, blind them with his speed. 

An important part of the dream folded when Fast learned that the fifty yard dash was not an Olympic event. The 50, in fact, was only popular at junior high and junior college track meets. Too bad! Fast figured the Jamaicans and the Soviets owned everything between 100 and 400 yards. The events beyond that were the exclusive domain of Jim Ryan and Glen Cunningham. He was not prepared to challenge those giants. Not for all the gold medals in the world. 

A long talk with his dad foiled another of his goals and left Fast Eddie sadly disappointed again. Eddie's dad was less than favorable about his son's plans for the priesthood. "There are other ways to contribute," dad told him. "Besides the desire for a captive audience for speechifying and sprinting isn't exactly what is meant by a religious calling." 

It seemed ridiculous allright, the way that dad explained things made most of Eddie's ideas appear slightly underthought. 

"Just give it some time son, there's no sense overplanning things cause I'll tell you one thing you can count on. Things change," he told the boy. 

For the better sometimes, Eddie discovered when the Swedish looking neighbor girl stopped one day to talk as he was sunning in a lawn chair in the yard. 

"I've see you race your dog at night," she said. "I'm Arla, It looks like you're having fun." 

"Just coping some rays, but I'll ne-ne-never get a tan like yours," Eddie stuttered back. Fast was truly flattered by her sudden attention. More than flattered really, he was flattened and he was staring. 

She was just standing there next to him with her blue eyes and white hair reflecting what sun her bronzed skin could not trap.

"Racing Flash? It's fun when I win. But I'll tell you one thing. That dog is fast." 

As fast as Eddie. Flash could fly through the 50. He was of mixed Belgian Shepherd and Wolfhound persuasion. His heritage gave him a thick black coat, a winning disposition and a bark with a noticeable continental accent. Until recently Flash had been the ladies man of their duo. He'd also been quicker out of the blocks. 

Lately though, Fast Eddie had been beating his hairy buddy through the gears. As long as they were accelerating, the boy could best the beast. 

They ran late at night. Dad's regular reminders to walk the dog lead to their duels and both looked forward to them. Flash always took care of business first. He sniffed out and lifted his mongrel leg wherever the scent of neighborhood pedigrees required an answer. With their mission behind them the kid and his friend were then free to amuse themselves. 

Eddie was sprinting just to relieve fifteen years of built up tension the first time that Flash came roaring up on him. Drool clinging to his tongue, he smiled back at the master he was outrunning. But when Eddie bolted away in the opposite direction, Flash could not seem to catch him. 

Eddie darted in another direction and again Flash responded but failed to match Eddie's blazing speed. They walked home on six legs, each in their own world. The boy, flush with his accomplishment sensed that the moping around days were over. Flash felt pretty good, too, after finding several rival scents and answering them with his own. 

The races became a nightly ritual with a telephone pole marking the starting line and a thin hand-painted yellow stripe the width of their cul-de-sac announcing the finish line exactly fifty yards away. After a couple of warm-ups, always claimed by Flash, Eddie was ready to smoke his furry friend. In two of every three wind sprints the kid could conquer the canine. Then with pounding hearts, it was home to bed where they often dreamed deeply of adult fame and fortune and "Fifi" the neighbors poodle. 

On a hotter than normal Texas summer night, Fast whipped Flash four times running. As they walked home, Flash stumbled twice and then collapsed with just a little whimper. He pictured himself a greyhound as he closed his eyes forever. 

In the moonlight, Fast Eddie held Flash close and wailed. What else could go wrong? No Olympics, no job, and now, now Flash calls it quits.