Buddy

Ross still rides his Harley, if the weather's good. Can't get away much, like he used to. Thursday morning breakfast with the airplane guys, Talking farm prices; what the dog's been doing. He can't stay long; she can't be alone. "She's been fading lately. Sixty years together and she doesn't know who I am sometimes." But the dog does. He'll leave early, be home to fix her breakfast when she wakes. She'll not be appreciative. Doesn't think about the cost anymore, to bent, arthritic body parts. Sometimes she won't eat what he prepares. But the dog will. Ross doesn't hear the banter; he's staring through his oatmeal bowl, counting fearful minutes. "How's Buddy," I ask? Ross comes slowly back, eyes refocused. He smiles. "I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for that dog."