The boy with the faded, teal low-top Chuck Taylors leaned against the wall next to the back door of the Irish pub. His wavy, dark brown hair made contact with the damp brick behind his head and what was intended to be five minutes of leaning soon turned into a sliding down and slump onto the ground. He’d been walking for four hours off-and-on and only had a tuna sandwich and a couple bottles of water over the course of that time.
The boy wanted to rest, not just take a cat nap, but he had no place to stay, no home in this city. He shifted uncomfortably on the asphalt and covered his face with his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in that position when he felt moderate weight on his left thigh as though someone had set the Oxford Dictionary into his lap. He opened his eyes and was face-to-face with a pair of brown eyes, a round, wet nose, and a pink tongue.
The boy blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the furry pup was still there. The weight he felt was the dog’s front paws, and in his lap was a football. It was brand new, shiny, and smelled like bacon. The boy’s stomach groaned. The dog started licking him, then barked at him and trotted in the direction of the street. The dog waited by the post office box for the boy to stand up before proceeding a couple blocks to the right. The boy did his best to keep up with the sandy colored canine. He was so tired by the time he’d entered the purple door that he didn’t notice the corgi curled up on the sofa where the boy passed out.
When he woke up two hours later, the sandy dog was sitting by his feet and the corgi was in a sploot on his chest. The football was on the floor and still smelled like bacon.
The above story was inspired by an early evening rain shower.
