By Harley Hay
The true gift of friendship is the gift of yourself.
~Author Unknown
I walked to South School every day with Glen, who lived in a broken-down house — more of a shack really — down the street from me. We'd join up on our way to school, kicking rocks down the sidewalk in the fall, throwing the odd snowball in the winter, floating little matchstick boats down the gutter rivulets in the spring.
The true gift of friendship is the gift of yourself.
~Author Unknown
I walked to South School every day with Glen, who lived in a broken-down house — more of a shack really — down the street from me. We'd join up on our way to school, kicking rocks down the sidewalk in the fall, throwing the odd snowball in the winter, floating little matchstick boats down the gutter rivulets in the spring.
We never said much to each other. Glen wasn't much for words. He had been held back a grade or two in school, and he was much taller and bigger than the rest of the kids in our third grade class.
He always seemed to be a bit embarrassed, scrunching to fit into the little desk in Mrs. Lougheed's class. Or sad. Maybe he was just sad. All I know is sometimes when I'd look at him across the room, struggling with his reading or his arithmetic, my heart would hurt a bit.
Glen loved one thing more than anything else — his dog, Blackie. A big old black Lab, as quiet and gentle as Glen himself. Outside of school the two were never apart. Maybe that's why Glen seemed sad in school. He missed Blackie.
Often Blackie would walk Glen and me to school and then make his way back home by himself, and often Blackie would be there all by himself at the end of the school day, waiting to walk us home again. Those were Glen's favorite days. And mine too.
Blackie wasn't supposed to be at the school though. Glen's mom had been told that dogs weren't allowed on the school grounds, and Blackie didn't have a license or even a collar for that matter. I don't think Glen's mom could afford stuff like that, or if she could, she wasn't the kind of person who would worry about dog licenses and such.
One perfect spring Wednesday I looked out the classroom window to the playground when the school bell rang and saw Blackie sitting in the schoolyard, in the shade by the baseball diamond, thumping his tail in the cool grass. Like only elementary school children at recess can, we rode a wave of excitement out the classroom, floating through the boot room, a torrent of goofiness gushing out the school doors, barely touching the ground.
Glen made a beeline for Blackie, me right behind him. We were both instantly rewarded with a woof and a lick, but Glen was worried. He told Blackie to go home, that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he would get in trouble. But the big old black Lab wasn't going anywhere, and when he decided on something, there was no budging him.
By this time, most of our class had gravitated over to see Blackie, to pet him and rub his big old square head, kneeling down for a hug, hoping for a lick on the cheek. The most popular girl in the grade, Penny Bond, was on the receiving end of a mighty slurp when we heard it.
The gravel crunched as a van pulled up right beside us, near the baseball diamond on a narrow driveway behind the old school building. Nobody ever drove on that gravel — except the dogcatcher. He had a bright orange van, and pretty well every single kid at South School hated that van. To this day I don't like that shade of orange.
"I have to take the dog," said the dogcatcher as he got out of the van. "Move away now kids, go play over there."
He gestured with a big pole toward the playground equipment. The pole had a loop of rope on it. It looked like a noose to me.
"Come on now kids, I gotta take the dog. Go play now." He was still keeping his distance, but nobody moved. Blackie woofed. Glen kneeled beside Blackie, hugging him, blinking back tears.
"He's my dog," said Glen. "It's okay, he's my dog, Blackie."
But the dogcatcher just took a step toward us, slowly swinging the pole with the noose on the end. "I don't see a license on this animal. He doesn't even have a collar. I have to take him to the pound, kid. If he's your dog, you can claim him there and pay the fee. He ain't allowed on the school grounds."
"But, we don't even have a car," said Glen, trying really hard now not to cry in front of all of his friends. He didn't want to say that his mom didn't have the money to get Blackie out of the pound. He didn't want to say it, but we all knew what happened to dogs that nobody claimed from the pound.
The dogcatcher wasn't listening. He took another step toward Blackie, and Glen started to cry and suddenly, somehow, we all stood in front of Glen and Blackie. We stood between them and the dogcatcher.
And then Penny Bond grabbed my hand, and I grabbed someone else's hand, and somehow we all linked together, and we were forming a circle — a huge circle of gritty third grade kids, arms outstretched, building a human fence around our friend and his dog.
It was one of those moments. One of those moments you know you'll always remember, even when you're old. Especially when you're old.
We stood there in our circle, Glen and Blackie in the middle of that circle, the dogcatcher outside of the circle, not exactly sure what to do. Nobody said a word. All you could hear was that Glen had stopped crying.
We would have stood there forever if it weren't for Mrs. Lougheed. Somehow she was out the back door of the school and calling to the dogcatcher. They stood over by his ugly orange dogcatcher van, Mrs. Lougheed doing most of the talking.
We hung onto our circle even harder now, and then something amazing happened. The dogcatcher got into his van and drove off. He didn't say anything to us at all; he didn't even look over at us. He just drove away.
When all the cheering and hugging and crying died down, Mrs. Lougheed got us settled down back in our own classroom, Blackie sprawled in the corner at the back of the room, snoozing away contentedly for the rest of the afternoon. I think it was Glen's happiest time in school ever.
Glen and his dog and his mom moved away that summer, and I never saw them again. But if you look at our old black-and-white class picture, beyond all the silly smiles and goofy hairdos of proud and shiny eight-year-olds, if you could look beyond the frame, you'd see what I can see: an old black dog curled up just outside of the class picture not very far from the biggest kid in the class.
He always seemed to be a bit embarrassed, scrunching to fit into the little desk in Mrs. Lougheed's class. Or sad. Maybe he was just sad. All I know is sometimes when I'd look at him across the room, struggling with his reading or his arithmetic, my heart would hurt a bit.
Glen loved one thing more than anything else — his dog, Blackie. A big old black Lab, as quiet and gentle as Glen himself. Outside of school the two were never apart. Maybe that's why Glen seemed sad in school. He missed Blackie.
Often Blackie would walk Glen and me to school and then make his way back home by himself, and often Blackie would be there all by himself at the end of the school day, waiting to walk us home again. Those were Glen's favorite days. And mine too.
Blackie wasn't supposed to be at the school though. Glen's mom had been told that dogs weren't allowed on the school grounds, and Blackie didn't have a license or even a collar for that matter. I don't think Glen's mom could afford stuff like that, or if she could, she wasn't the kind of person who would worry about dog licenses and such.
One perfect spring Wednesday I looked out the classroom window to the playground when the school bell rang and saw Blackie sitting in the schoolyard, in the shade by the baseball diamond, thumping his tail in the cool grass. Like only elementary school children at recess can, we rode a wave of excitement out the classroom, floating through the boot room, a torrent of goofiness gushing out the school doors, barely touching the ground.
Glen made a beeline for Blackie, me right behind him. We were both instantly rewarded with a woof and a lick, but Glen was worried. He told Blackie to go home, that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he would get in trouble. But the big old black Lab wasn't going anywhere, and when he decided on something, there was no budging him.
By this time, most of our class had gravitated over to see Blackie, to pet him and rub his big old square head, kneeling down for a hug, hoping for a lick on the cheek. The most popular girl in the grade, Penny Bond, was on the receiving end of a mighty slurp when we heard it.
The gravel crunched as a van pulled up right beside us, near the baseball diamond on a narrow driveway behind the old school building. Nobody ever drove on that gravel — except the dogcatcher. He had a bright orange van, and pretty well every single kid at South School hated that van. To this day I don't like that shade of orange.
"I have to take the dog," said the dogcatcher as he got out of the van. "Move away now kids, go play over there."
He gestured with a big pole toward the playground equipment. The pole had a loop of rope on it. It looked like a noose to me.
"Come on now kids, I gotta take the dog. Go play now." He was still keeping his distance, but nobody moved. Blackie woofed. Glen kneeled beside Blackie, hugging him, blinking back tears.
"He's my dog," said Glen. "It's okay, he's my dog, Blackie."
But the dogcatcher just took a step toward us, slowly swinging the pole with the noose on the end. "I don't see a license on this animal. He doesn't even have a collar. I have to take him to the pound, kid. If he's your dog, you can claim him there and pay the fee. He ain't allowed on the school grounds."
"But, we don't even have a car," said Glen, trying really hard now not to cry in front of all of his friends. He didn't want to say that his mom didn't have the money to get Blackie out of the pound. He didn't want to say it, but we all knew what happened to dogs that nobody claimed from the pound.
The dogcatcher wasn't listening. He took another step toward Blackie, and Glen started to cry and suddenly, somehow, we all stood in front of Glen and Blackie. We stood between them and the dogcatcher.
And then Penny Bond grabbed my hand, and I grabbed someone else's hand, and somehow we all linked together, and we were forming a circle — a huge circle of gritty third grade kids, arms outstretched, building a human fence around our friend and his dog.
It was one of those moments. One of those moments you know you'll always remember, even when you're old. Especially when you're old.
We stood there in our circle, Glen and Blackie in the middle of that circle, the dogcatcher outside of the circle, not exactly sure what to do. Nobody said a word. All you could hear was that Glen had stopped crying.
We would have stood there forever if it weren't for Mrs. Lougheed. Somehow she was out the back door of the school and calling to the dogcatcher. They stood over by his ugly orange dogcatcher van, Mrs. Lougheed doing most of the talking.
We hung onto our circle even harder now, and then something amazing happened. The dogcatcher got into his van and drove off. He didn't say anything to us at all; he didn't even look over at us. He just drove away.
When all the cheering and hugging and crying died down, Mrs. Lougheed got us settled down back in our own classroom, Blackie sprawled in the corner at the back of the room, snoozing away contentedly for the rest of the afternoon. I think it was Glen's happiest time in school ever.
Glen and his dog and his mom moved away that summer, and I never saw them again. But if you look at our old black-and-white class picture, beyond all the silly smiles and goofy hairdos of proud and shiny eight-year-olds, if you could look beyond the frame, you'd see what I can see: an old black dog curled up just outside of the class picture not very far from the biggest kid in the class.
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