Mr.and Mrs. Gordon and Buddy were the landlords in the first home I can remember. Mrs. Gordon was a tiny woman, not much bigger than me, or so it seemed. She had shiny black hair, dark eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across her small pointed nose. She wore dark rimmed glasses, tucked into her straight hair, and she had bangs too. I didn’t know any grownup ladies with bangs. She talked very little to us, our family of six, as we trooped in and out of the front door and up the stairs to make our family noises in the apartment over her head.
Mr.Gordon was a large, smiley
man with a rosy kind of complexion that reminded me of Santa, at the time. He
towered over Mrs. Gordon and smoked cigarettes with the tobacco spilling out of one end. And then there
was Buddy, and well, Buddy was the best part of our landlords. Buddy was an overweight, mild mannered
Dalmatian dog, with pale blue eyes, and large black spots across his
short-haired white coat. His black spots
stretched particularly wide across his middle. Buddy let me pet him on his
flattish, warm head for as long as Mr. Gordon would stand still with him. It was never long enough for me.
Having a dog live downstairs
was the highlight of my five year old life. For as long as I remembered, I had begged
for a dog, but “apartment life is not for
dogs” my mother told me time after time. While my friend Laura had a vast collection
of dolls that she displayed all over her bed, I preferred my collection of stuffed
dogs. There was a collie named Laddie with a long rubberized snout, in a lying
down position, a couple of mutts that my mother won at the church bazaar, and a
large floppy eared one who was blue with a top hat. I could hardly take him seriously, what with his color and all. My most favorite one was
a black poodle with rubbery kind of feet that actually walked along, when
pulled gently with his narrow red plastic leash, just like a real dog. I called him Fifi.
But I was most intrigued by
Buddy, since he was the real thing. I
was told constantly by my mother "not to “bother Mr.Gordon” (hang out on the steps with begging and
pleading in my eyes) every time he took Buddy for a walk. Buddy had no children in his house, and I had
no dog in mine. I thought we were a
perfect match for each other.
One day, as I sat hopefully
on the brick stoop, Mr.Gordon came out with Buddy to go for a walk, and as I
was petting him, his dog breath smelly against
my face, Mr. Gordon gestured with his big hand, and asked “You wanna
walk him for a bit?’
Oh boy! I was on my feet in an instant. I couldn’t believe I’d be allowed me to walk
Buddy up the block. The black leather
leash, worn brown in spots, felt just right in my hands. I was to use both hands to hold Buddy, Mr.Gordon said “now hold on tight”. Buddy stood by me, quietly panting and
waiting. As we started to walk, I was
stricken with an attack of giggling, it was just that exciting. I could be
walking in a dog show. I could be a
Princess walking my royal dog. I was the
new proud owner of this spotted, waddling beauty. I was so happy!
Mr.Gordon walked closely
behind, smoking his cigarette, but I paid him no attention. I was walking Buddy! We’d only gone maybe three houses up the
block, when Buddy spotted the Laffys’ cat Tommy sitting in the driveway. He gave a huge lunge, and splat, down I went,
the leash yanked out of my fingers as I hit the sidewalk on my knees, and cried
out.
Mr.Gordon lifted me up and
called to Buddy. He tried to brush me
off a bit, but my feelings were more scraped up than my skinned knees. The walk
was over. I had had my moment of fame
and it was glorious. I knew I would try
again, though it might take me a long while to talk Mr. Gordon into letting
me. But not too long afterward, we
moved. It was Buddy that I missed.
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