A Dog Does Not

Everyone wishes they were famous, or at least that they were a close relative of someone who was famous.

I don't mean in the 'My granddad was Charles Manson's best buddy' kind of way, but then again I think even that would be preferable to being the guy whose great-grandfather was highly acclaimed for writing a poem about dogs.

My family has lived in the same small town for at least four or five generations and we're pretty well-known, all because my great-grandfather wrote a poem and had it published in the local newspaper back in the day.

I have to admit that as a teenager I sort of enjoyed the popularity. As an adult, however, I find it more cringe-worthy than anything. I can't even go outside without having at least the first line of my great-grandfather's poem quoted at me, and trust me, A dog does not glide through the waves like a seal but will sit and beg during every meal gets pretty old after the twentieth time you've heard it. No, that's not true. It gets pretty old after the first time you've heard it.

It's not like he even made any money off the stupid rhyme, just the 'glory' of having it published in the paper. This is something that has always frustrated my grandfather, who has never been particularly proud of his father's 'accomplishment'. I tend to agree with him. I mean, if you're going to be remembered for something that's bound to embarrass multiple future generations you'd think it could at least come with some sort of monetary gain.

I've already stated that the town I grew up in is small. The few restaurants and shops are all family run, and everyone knows everyone else's life story. It's been that way as long as I can remember. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot for a young man to do for entertainment growing up here, and there was probably even less in Great-Grandfather's day. Maybe that's why everyone was so excited that they could at the very least claim it as the birthplace of a 'poet'.

You may wonder, then, why I haven't managed to get out by now. Trust me, that's something I've wondered myself every damn day of my adult life. I guess it's just because this is the kind of town no one ever gets out of, especially not a member of a well-established family like mine.

It's also the kind of town almost no one ever moves into either, which is why the U-Haul van that showed up yesterday has been creating such a stir.

The U-Haul just happens to be parked in the driveway two houses down from mine, it just happens to be my day off from work, and I just happen to be walking past the U-Haul at the very moment its renter walks out of the house.

She appears to be around twenty one or twenty two (a couple years younger than myself) with short black hair and a short black skirt.

She waves at me and I pause to wave back.

"Can you tell me where the Home Depot is? I need to hire a couple guys to help me unpack this thing."

"Nearest Home Depot's a couple counties over," I answer her. "About eighty-five miles or so."

"You're kidding!"

"Afraid not. But trust me, everyone around here would be happy to help you." Mainly so they can find out a little bit about her.

"Oh, I couldn't ask my neighbors to help me move in."

"Half of them would be offended if you didn't ask them to."

"Really? Are you messing with me?" Her head is tilted to one side. "Why would they do that for someone they don't even know?"

I lean against the fence and affect my best country drawl. "Y'all ain't from around here, are ya?" It would come off even better if I was wearing overalls and chewing on a stalk of hay.

She laughs and shakes her head. "San Francisco."

"Well then, this place is going to take some getting used to," I comment, dropping the affectation. "What brings you out here to Nowhere, USA anyway?"

"My granny left me her house in her will, and I figured it'd be better than trying to figure out how I was gonna make my rent and eat every month."

"You're Josie Blevins's granddaughter?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Well, that's her house." I nod my head toward the home. "And she's the only person in town who's passed away in the last couple months."

"How do you know that?"

"Trust me, everyone knows everything about everyone here."

"Really? It's really like that? I thought that was just a small town stereotype they used in movies and stuff."

"Like I said, living here is going to take some getting used to." I offer her my hand over the top of the fence. "I'm Kevin, by the way."

"Mia," she introduces herself, shaking my hand.

"Want me to show you around town? Trust me, it won't take long."

"Sure." She unlatches the gate and steps out to join me on the street.

We walk up Main Street past the Finer Diner, where I wait tables four days a week. (Hey, even the descendants of mediocre poets need to work for a living.)

"What's that?" Mia asks, pointing at the storefront with 'Wear & Share' painted on the awning.

"Secondhand store," I reply. "Kind of like a privately owned Goodwill."

"Can we go in?"

"Sure, I guess." I had kind of hoped we could avoid going into any of the local shops. Well, more accurately I had kind of hoped we could avoid running into any of the locals and thereby avoid Mia learning about my embarrassing lineage. I sigh to myself and follow her up the three concrete steps to the small shop.

"Welcome," we're hailed in near-unison by the identical twins who own and run Wear & Share. In the twenty five years I've known them I still haven't figured out how to tell Dawn and Joy apart. Neither have I figured out whether they were named after dish soap brands on purpose or whether it's an unfortunate coincidence.

"Hey Kevin," one of them greets me. They both turn to look at Mia, obviously expecting an introduction.

"This is Mia," I tell them. "She's moving into Josie Blevins's house. Mia, this is Dawn and Joy Stirling."

"And you've already met our town celebrity," one of the twins states.

shit.

"What does she mean by that?" Mia queries, giving me a quizzical glance.

"Nothing," I mumble.

"Oh, don't be modest," Dawn-or-Joy tells me.

"Kevin here is the great-grandson of Garfield Albright," Joy-or-Dawn informs Mia. The reverence in her inflection makes me cringe even harder, if that's possible.

"Who?" Mia questions.

"The Garfield Albright. The poet!" Scandalized by the absence of recognition in Mia's countenance, Joy-or-Dawn proceeds to recite, "A dog does not glide through the waves like a seal but will sit and beg during every meal."

Oh God.

"A dog does not soar through the clouds like a hawk but will gladly accompany you upon a long walk," her sister adds.

Kill me now.

"A dog does not..."

"We're going now," I interrupt whichever twin is speaking.

"It was nice meeting you," Mia calls to them over her shoulder as I drag her toward the door.

"What was that about?" She asks me once we're back out on the street. Her smile is curious and, I have to admit, very attractive.

"Embarrassing. That's what that was."

"Why?"

"It's stupid. My great-grandfather wrote a stupid poem that got published in the stupid newspaper years ago, and for some reason it was a big deal in town and he's still remembered for it. My whole family are kind of local celebrities."

"That's awesome."

I turn my head to look at Mia, expecting to catch a mocking glint in her eye. Yet neither her tone nor her expression indicates anything other then genuine interest and respect.

"No it's...it's really not," I mumble, not sure what else to say.

A small group of high school kids walks past us clutching ice cream cones.

"Hey Kevin," one of them addresses me with a grin. "A dog does not glide..."

"Yeah, hey, can we just skip to the third line?" I cut him off. "We've already heard the first two today."

"A dog does not scratch on a tree like a bear but will cover all of your clothes with its hair," he obliges, still grinning at me while his chocolate ice cream drips down his wrist.

"Why do you hate the recognition so much?" Mia asks me once the high scoolers have moved on.

"It's not really the recognition I hate, it's the reason for it," I explain. "I mean, it would be one thing if Great-Grandfather was remembered for something meaningful. Like if he saved someone's life or something. But it's just embarrassing that he's remembered for writing a poem that's not even good."

"It obviously is meaningful," Mia protests. "The people here wouldn't have remembered his poem for generations if it didn't mean something to them. You should be proud, not embarrassed. Back in San Francisco everyone was so wrapped up in their own lives they never even bothered to care what anyone else or their ancestors might have done with their lives. I think it's nice that they remember and honor your great-grandfather."

I've never thought about it that way before, and I don't like thinking about it now. It makes me feel like I've been selfish and ungrateful my whole life.

It is now two days away from the anniversary of Great-Grandfather Garfield's birthday.

I am not surprised when the mayor sits down at a table in the Finer Diner. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised by this anyway considering that he eats here two or three times every week, but I have the suspicion that today he is here with the specific purpose of talking to me.

Every year on Great-Grandfather's birthday the whole town gathers in the park to enjoy barbecued hamburgers and a dramatic reading of Garfield Albright's magnum opus. Every year our mayor approaches me (as the youngest direct descendant of Garfield Albright) with the request that I perform said reading, and every year since turning eighteen (when I realized I could start exercising free will) I have refused this request, saddling my cousin Judith with this dubious 'honor'.

"Kevin," Mayor Chadsburg greets me as I approach his table.

"Mister Chadsburg," I respond. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Yes, that would be great. But first I'd like a word with you."

"Sir, if this is about the poetry reading you know I'm going to say no."

The sigh that escapes him is heavy and theatrical. "Yes, that's what I'd thought." His expression is one of resigned disappointment rather than anger. An expression designed to instill me with a sense of guilt.

"I'll go get your coffee," I state, turning away from him.

As I walk back through the swinging kitchen door with a pot of coffee in my hand I catch sight of Mia seated alone at one of the tables.

Despite the fact that it's been two and a half weeks since she moved here it is still patently clear that she is an outsider. It is also patently clear (if only to me) that I am falling hard for her.

Every time I look into her clear brown eyes or see her sweet smile I find myself wishing I could bring myself to wholeheartedly embrace my great-grandfather's legacy, just because I know she wants me to.

Maybe I should agree to read the damn poem this year. Shit, if Mia wanted me to I'd even wear a dog costume for the occasion.

Forgetting about the mayor for the moment, I veer over to Mia's table to offer her a cup of coffee.

"I see your great-grandfather's birthday celebration's the day after tomorrow," she comments as I pour the coffee.

"You saw..."

"Yeah, I saw the banner stretched across Main Street," she cuts me off with a little laugh. "And all the flyers in the shop windows."

"Are you planning on going to the barbecue?" I ask her.

"Of course. If I'm going to live here I should embrace the town traditions, shouldn't I? You'll be there, won't you?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. I mean, I kind of have to show up. But I'm not going to read that stupid poem in front of everybody."

"I didn't ask you to." Mia glances askance at me with her head tilted to one side.

"No, I know. But Mayor Chadsburg asks, every damn year."

"And you always say no." This is phrased as a statement rather than a question. "You know what I think, Kevin?" She takes a sip of her coffee, eying me over the rim of the mug.

I think it's time to find out where I can rent a dog costume.

"What?" I ask her.

"I think you should read it. I'd like to hear you read it." That being said, she flips open the menu on the table in front of her. When she glances up at me again it is only to ask for my opinion about the hashbrowns.

"Depends on whether you like them burned or undercooked," I respond. "Those are the only ways the cook knows how to prepare them."

"I'll take them burned, then," Mia smiles. Her eyes, crinkled up at the corners, are the color of warm maple syrup.

I take down her order then return to the mayor's table with his coffee.

"There you are." He taps the side of his mug with a fingernail. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"Sorry," I apologize.

"It's quite all right. I can see you're busy today. I'm ready to order."

"I already put in an order for your usual, Sir."

"Good, good. Thank you, Kevin."

"One more thing, Mister Chadsburg." I take a deep breadth and swallow hard. "I...I've changed my mind. I'll do the reading at the barbecue this year."