To the White Fence and Back

"I'm going to white fence and back," I call as I head out the door. My old black labrador, now ten years old and knotted with tumors, was one of my first missions of acquisition after leaving the military. I had wanted a dog for years, but with all the moving in the military, I was never able to have one. I was filled with the dire kind of "puppy love" that only fictional "Billy" from Where the Fern Grows was familiar. And when I finally picked out that pup up from that Athens, Georgia, pound, I could hold him up with just one hand.

Now he spends an ample amount of time just lying around in his memory foam bed built for old-timers, stirring only when the food bowl is filled or he hears the leash coming out of the armoire. Always up for a walk, but not being able to quite make it up the steep hills of my neighborhood, he's left with only one choice...the flat road to the white fence and back.