CHARLIE’S PAL

He quietly moved into our neighborhood on the end of a leash which was attached to the hand of a nice-looking young woman. Charlie was enchanted as he struggled at the end of his own leash held by Dr. Advice. Introductions were in order for us and for the dogs. “What’s his name,” I asked. “Charlie”, his owner answered. I assured her that it couldn’t be possible, since the dancing bundle of energy on our leash was the real Charlie! Henceforth, this charming ball of snow white fur would be known as “Charlie 2”, and our joyous companion was “Charlie 1”.

Like some people, Charlie 2 developed some health problems which prevented him from enjoying his daily walks, so he “walked” in the arms of his owners. Not nearly as much fun as on his own 4 feet.

He was the very first dog the new neighbors had adopted, and was beloved as an additional child. After struggling for several years with ill health, Charlie 2 left as quietly as he arrived, leaving his human parents bereft.

I wanted to tell my neighbor to get a new dog right away, but I knew it was too soon. I remembered sitting in my car years ago in front of the vet’s, with tears streaming down my face when my precious Liza took her last sleep. A concerned woman leaned into the window of my car and told me to “get a new dog”. I’m sorry to say I rejected her well-intention suggestion by blurting out that “I already HAD” another dog and it isn’t the same. Our doberman Max, waited at home for his companion who would never come, while we adjusted to the unfamiliar life of caring for only one dog.

Each dog or cat as well have their own personality, and we humans are privileged to share it for an allotted time. At present I’m grateful to share the wild and happy personality of Charlie 1, who arrived after quiet and sublime Panda, and I wish the same for the neighbors. It just takes a little time.

DEAR MRS. JAQUISH

Dear Mrs. Jaquish,

I don’t know if this is the way your name was spelled when I knew you. It’s how it sounded to me anyhow. This is a note to apologize for all the rotten things we rowdy kids did to you so long ago before we knew better. We children were not good neighbors. I’m sure you did not plant your flower garden expressly for us to pick, nor your trees for us to climb.

I would have written an apology right after we left, but I got poison ivy as soon as we began settling into living in Connecticut and after that it was too late and you were gone when we came back home two years later. I still have the nice letter you wrote to me which shames me somehow now as not being particularly worthy of your friendship. It begins “Dear Katie Lou,” which was my childhood name, and gives me the news of the neighborhood. I disliked my name even then, and you will be pleased to know I tried out many new ones along the way before settling on the present one.

I can picture Long Beach even now after all these years; hopping the squares in the sidewalk, the wonderful old palm trees lining the streets which all had squiggly black patches on them. The truck which came around with hot melted tar to paste on the cracks in the pavement lives in my memory because we used to chase it down the block and grab a piece of hardened tar before the man could catch us. We thought it was good for our teeth.

Maybe that’s what Life is though, a series of patching things up. Streets, houses, relationships. Even trying to make amends for shortcomings suffered three-quarters of a century ago.

I don’t know how old you may have been in 1938, but I’m sure I am older now than you were then, and with a love of gardening equal I’m sure to yours.

There weren’t many of us children in our neighborhood. Two or three more girls and a boy or two who lived around the corner where I was not allowed to play. If you will remember, in Grandma’s rooming house where I lived, there were a number of people who kept track of me.

When we returned home in 1940, someone else lived in your old house, and one of the two little sisters, our playmate Jackie Glass, had passed away as well as yourself. She was the youngest one at eight. I have her picture at my 10th birthday party taken right before we moved away. I don’t have a photo of you, but you live in my memory. You were the first truly old person I knew.

Anyway Mrs. Jaquish, if you get this letter somewhere up on your cloud, I have learned that apologies are best given with some immediacy.

Very truly yours,