THANK YOU, WALPOLE

THANK YOU, WALPOLE

I am not a man, although I have a broad chest and manly shoulders. I am not a woman, although I have soft lustrous brown hair. I am not a little boy or girl (although I am only two feet tall).

I am a dog. And not any dog. I am an English Springer Spaniel. A Springer Spaniel with special skills!

I was born talking ….not barking.

Don’t laugh. This is no joke. Especially for me. Life as a dog who can talk is not easy, even if he (or she) still can (or will) sit, speak and fetch. Some of my kind might even sit and beg, for godssake. Not me!

Not that I am opposed to dog-ish activities. Or barking, as crude a form of communication as it is. I like a good frolic at the beach and a leisurely walk in the park (preferably not the dog park) as much as any poodle, bulldog or mutt, with reservations. I don’t go to meet other canines. No dog’s dog wants to run around with another dog who can talk like his owner, Not just conversation but I am a dog who can read (if you put the book in front of me. Paws are a problem) and it is not just dog food labels or street signs, but I can read books, newspapers, and blogs. Even sign language.

My name is Walpole. Because that’s the name I gave myself. I don’t know where I came from or why I can talk and read). I just know I woke all alone one chilly winter morning in an alley outside a lumber supply outlet that said WALPOLE on the sign outside. I guess someone had abandoned me there. I had a nasty bump on my head and I was wearing a collar with lots of little jingly metals hanging off of it. But my license( if I ever had one) was missing! The metals were all for awards, for races and contests that I had won. I was a winner even if I was on my own now and had forgotten my past. Maybe it was best forgotten. Underneath my front paw that day was a note that said:

Dear Pooch ((Didn’t I ever have a name of my own?) Goodbye. And good luck! It is just too much having a dog that can talk (and Mr. Standish really didn't like your reading the morning paper before he did). We hope you can see the problem from our viewpoint. Here’s a little kibble. The pet store down the street will probably feed you when you get hungry. You’ll figure it out. The Standish Family.

Would I figure it out?

Whoever I was, I was smart. And my name wasn’t “Pooch”. But if I wanted to eat and survive, I would need a new family or a job. But who would adopt or hire a talking springer spaniel? If I kept my mouth shut I could get fed by someone, but it was lonely not having a family.

I sat down under a park bench across from a grade school to’ figure it out’. It was lunchtime and I was hungry. Maybe someone would sit down and share some of their lunch with me. As long as I didn’t speak up, I might get a sliver of salami or a chicken wing. if I begged (silently). If I even asked politely out loud for a bit of that muffin, they would get up and run away.

Before long, a little girl with blonde hair and big sad eyes clutching a lunch box to her chest ---with a princess in a pink ball gown on the lid—sat down on the bench. She was watching a group of girls her size in the playground across the street playing tag and pushing each other on the swings. There were tears in her eyes as she bent down to pat my head.

She turned my medals over one by one, as tears slid down her cheek to her lips. She moved her mouth like she was trying to say something, but no words came out. She made some gestures with her hands as though she was making little pictures, pointing to her mouth. Then she patted my head and opened the lunchbox taking out a sandwich and broke it in half, and patted the spot next to her on the bench. I jumped up and sat beside her. She held my paw in her hand and gave me half of the sandwich. I bit my lip. I had just barely stopped myself from saying “thank you” out loud.

Using her forefinger, she pointed to her chest and in the air traced the word "Liz." It must have been her name. A name she couldn’t speak. I wanted so badly to say her name aloud and tell her my name, but I didn’t want her to run away like the others.

Maybe we could be quiet friends. Liz patted my head again and smoothed the fur on my neck and back. She reached in the box and took out a big raisin cookie and broke it and put the other half in my mouth.

I was saying all the things in my head I wanted to say to Liz out loud. We can be best friends, we can play together, you can push me down the slide, I can walk you home….

But I couldn’t be a human friend, one that she could talk to, because Liz couldn’t talk, and I could but shouldn’t. But doggone, I could be her voice!

Liz wiped the tear away closed the lunch box gave me a hug and started slowly walking towards the playground. Recess was over. Maybe I would never see her again. At least I could walk her back to school.

“Hey there, little girl. What are you doing with that mutt? Would you like a big, strong man to walk you to school? What’s the matter, honey, cat got your tongue? Or rather, I should say, dog? Give me your hand, girlie. I’ll carry your lunchbox. I will get you safely back to school. Go away, you fleabag.”

Who was calling who a Fleabag? Who was this creepy stranger in the long overcoat with the hobo shoes? This was time for something scarier than a bark or a growl. This was time for a talking dog.

“Take your hands off her. Or I will bite you,” I shouted and growled at the man in my loudest spaniel voice as he reached for Liz’ little hand.

“Police, police help!!!! "I shouted even louder.

The stranger who looked like he had seen a ghost jumped backwards and scrambled away from us, throwing his hands in the air.

And Liz didn’t run away. Instead, she threw her arms around me and hugged me and kissed my head.

“Thank you”, I said. Not in my head this time, but out loud!

Liz and I, we have been sharing cookies and hugs, and Liz’s family is my family now. Now, I fetch the morning paper, and sometimes when they are tired, I read the nightly news off the TV screen for them. Out loud.

And they say, “Thank you, Walpole.”