Freddy was a good boy.
He’s the first dog I remember.
Mostly spaniel, a little beagle
maybe,
all black and white,
with spots.
He didn’t have a collar
or a leash.
Dad had a hank
of white nylon
rope
and he’d tie it
loosely
around patient
Freddy’s neck
and we’d go hunting,
Freddy, Dad, and
three-year-old me
in my denim
farm tuxedo
and
those pointy-toed
little cowboy
boots.
I don’t think
my Fred
ever flushed a quail
or retrieved a goose.
I’m not sure Dad
ever pulled the trigger
and my cap rifle
wouldn’t bring down
a damned thing.
But we’d go home,
tired and exhausted.
Muddy and happy.
Ma would toss Dad and I
in the tub,
and Freddy would wait
beside to
follow me to bed.

I used to lick
my lollipops and
stick them to him
while he napped in the shade.
I’d come back
and retrieve them later.

He’d watch me to the gate
when I went to school.
He’d be there waiting
when I came home.

After Dad passed away,
Mom brought home a collie,
a big, gorgeous collie named
Champ.
But I never took to him,
I had Fred.
Fred was my dog.
He was a good boy.
And I was his,
his good boy.

He’s been gone a long time
now.
Close to forty years.
I miss him still.
I’ve never had another dog
They say you get just one,
that one special dog that
no other measures up to.
I had mine already.
I had my Fred.
And Freddy’s dead.
I’ll never get over that.