A Brisk Walk in February

A Writer's Cramp entry:

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The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

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February
pocket watch
coral bracelet
basset hound
scrapbook
anniversary

A Brisk Walk in February

February's the month of Valentines -- and LOVE. I know something else about it. The truth is that one should always take one’s basset hound for a walk in February. Here’s why:

The weather was clear, the sky a liquid blue. Clouds would roll in later that day, but when I set out, only an occasional bird sullied the perfect sky. (Although I have nothing against birds, except when they defile my car, flying over diaper-free, failing to use any kind of protection against fallout.)

But that day, I wasn’t thinking about the currently clean and shiny surface of my bright red Prius or about certain naughty birds. I was smiling, enjoying the sound of my Nikes padding along the concrete, the feel of the leash in my hand – smooth leather, old and warn soft, and delighted to be starting on my daily 10,000 steps while making my dog happy. I was feeling good.

I twisted at my new coral bracelet, the one with the strap that scratched, making me wonder if my older brother had bought the thing at a flea market instead of the place the elegant box said it came from. (A thing totally in character for the brother who’d bought me a pocket watch on the birthday before. The watch never kept time with any precision or consistency. I mean, it would have been fine if the watch had run slow by a certain amount. My brain would have figured out the math to accuracy, but the watch’s hands sped sometimes and slowed at others. How was that even possible?)

Anyway, so my basset hound, Charlie, and I were walking along the sidewalks of the housing development where we live, when I almost stepped on a fuzzy pink voluminous book -- a scrapbook, I later figured out. It contained numerous pictures of birthday parties, different years of Christmas trees with children surrounding them, each time, taller and longer limbed with increasing age. In fact, as I leafed through the book, I found photos of a great number of events. The first page with its baby christening of a big-eyed, chubby infant brought a smile to my face.

Of course, we humans are all programmed to smile at the sight of a baby. In the Twilight series, the vampire states that humans are automatically drawn by the smell, the sight, the touch, the very aura of the vampire. Exchange vampire for baby, and that’s a pretty good summation of the human instinct to grow teary-eyed at the sight of a baby.

But I digress. The scrapbook, bulging with memories, from that first baby picture of flowing whiteness -- including bonnet and booties to match -- was followed by forty or so pics of childhood cuteness. I flipped from page to page, admiring, envying, sighing. The last page (besides the empty ones at the back) showed a dinner party of about twenty adults with sparkling wine glasses, gold ringed dinner plates, and the usual over-abundance of silverware, as if the same fork or spoon wouldn’t think of touching more than one kind of food. Hanging down over the table was a sign with the proclamation: Congratulations on your 25th wedding anniversary.

Wow. I wondered what the couple's secret was. Twenty-five years together. A marriage like that deserved to have a celebration!

The sourness inside me, the regret, the loss for what should have been, what would have been if Danny hadn’t replaced me for someone younger, swelled and crawled up into my throat. For a moment I couldn’t swallow, almost couldn’t breathe.

Charlie broke through my agony. He whimpered. His tail wagged with the promise of eternal companionship. He turned and licked my hand.

“Okay, Charlie, I said, struggling up through my fog of despair. I patted his head, closed the scrapbook, and took a step forward.

As I said, the weather was superb. Solar warmth stroked my face. The air was cool enough not to force me to carry the sweatshirt I was wearing. Pleasant. Peaceful. Perfect day, except for a scrapbook, which I now had to carry, although I had no idea how I’d ever return it to its owner.

All possessions should have an address and phone number on them, everything that leaves the house, anyway. But why would someone take a scrapbook outside? Why had the thing just been lying on the sidewalk?

I continued walking, making Charlie extremely happy, especially when he saw a cat sitting on the porch of one of the houses. Charlie is a coward. He would no sooner chase a cat than fly, but he loves to see these furry, long-tailed wonders. The dog's little body vibrates with happiness as he twists himself inside my legs, hoping to hide, just in case the beloved animal should decide to attack him.

I detangled my basset hound, the cat fled, and once again Charlie and I resumed our walk. We had traveled a good mile and a half, when a strange car drove up behind us, pulled over, and parked. The neighborhood was safe. I had no cause for apprehension, until the six-footer, tall, dark, and scary yelled out, “Hey, What are you doing with that book?”

Doing? I was lugging it around and getting a backache from doing so. What was the guy's problem?

“Is the scrapbook yours?” I asked, wondering if the thing were heavy enough to do damage to the man’s face if needed.

Tall, dark, and scary told me that the thing belonged to his parents. He didn’t know how it ended up on the sidewalk, but he said he had suspicions about a certain mischievous nephew.

The man -- Gary -- was not only a dog enthusiast, but a daily walker, and turned out to be a really, REALLY nice guy. (In case you haven’t figured it out, things between us are progressing nicely. Dates, kisses . . .)

Anyway, our romance is all because of a brisk February dog walk and a lost family scrapbook.

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