One Sunday Morning

This is a twist on a story my dad told me.

My wife was in the kitchen reading the paper and I was in the bedroom sorting socks when a Schipperke dashed down our front hall, nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

 

I did a double take and dropped the sock I was holding onto the bed. The dog rounded the corner into the kitchen and disappeared.

 

On my way to the kitchen I was greeted by a man in a short plaid bathrobe coming up the stairs from my basement. He had a glass of wine in his hand and he said, "Good morning!"

 

"Hi," I replied, more than a little puzzled about the nature of this invasion.

 

"My dog," he said with a pretentious-sounding chuckle, as if this explained everything. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't angry or even irritated, so much as amused and a little caught off guard.

 

The man explained that he was a neighbor, and that he was taking his dog for a walk when it discovered my open garage door and invited itself in.

 

As we entered the kitchen, the dog flew past us on his way out to the living room. He was galloping around the house, smelling everything in sight.

 

My wife stood frozen at the counter. To anyone else, her expression would have revealed nothing, but to me she looked shocked. She simply smiled at the man and acted as if nothing had happened.

 

"Well, I'll let you get on with your morning," the man said, heading for the foyer. "Nice to have met you."

 

"Nice to meet you too," I replied, opening the front door to see him out.

 

The man started down our walk in slippered feet, took a sip of wine, and turned back to look for his dog. The Schipperke bolted out the front door and ran ahead of his owner down the damp, mossy sidewalk.

 

"Bye," called the man, waving. He had no idea that he was the first one we'd ever let go.