Old Dogs

• Jacqui Rosenberg, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2012

With tail between his arthritic legs, the German Shepard trailed at the feet of his equally crippled master, mustering a soft winge with each mournful limp. The leaves in the park were changing now. Crisp, golden and brown; each intricately carved liquid amber leaf would soon enough melt away. Such artistry, finesse, compassionate and careful delicacy with each quiet wave of God’s tender hands. Gone. Or had they simply moved on to their next purpose? To provide an orange-tinted sanctuary for those not fortunate enough to have a home? A job for the groundsman? A source of delight for the children visiting? Or a soft layer to aid arthritic joints? Soon the landscape would be sticks and snow. But would this not provide the same things, just in a carefully masked disguise?
With every movement, the man’s body crippled him, all except his heart. His mind was high above the flame-tinted leaves that seemed to envelope him from all corners; watching him and his loyal Shepard as they each fought their own struggles over the neatly cropped lawn. From his perch above the trees, the man could see the rusted park bench where he had once spent his days. He shuffled past it, dog at his heel. The next thing that caught his eye from above was the swing; broken from use and still seemingly swinging from the last time he had used it more than 60 years ago. After this was the fountain where he and his late wife had once come to reminisce and rejoice in the pure goodness of life. With high spirits, the man kept on shuffling. His face was old and sad, but even that failed to mask his pure delight. The dog could sense it too; they had been comrades for far too long for him not to sense a change in his master’s disposition.
Whilst passing the big pine tree that housed the old, cranky magpie that him and his brother had once found humour in provoking, the old man stopped. The dog sat obediently by his side and waited. With his heart heavy once again, the man gazed down, a tear in his downcast eyes, at the crushed body of the cranky magpie, stoned, or quite possibly ‘sticked’ to death by angry teenagers. He had passed through a lifetime of memories, mostly sad, in just half an hour. And here was the future; a gang of silly boys who could find enough utter cruelty in their hearts to murder God’s most beautiful creature in cold blood. A childhood of innocent, playful provocation had led to endearment to the old soul. No amount of irritation could have caused him ever to commit such a bloodthirsty crime. With his past still in his mind, he had been looking to the future. But was this it? Broken swings and dead magpies in parks? With a sudden feeling of dread and severe regret, all the man wanted to do was turn back.