When I was in Grade School a dog came to our house and sat outside our door. It came every day and slept through the night. We could not find the owner. My parents did not hold back too long, and agreed to give him some food. Then they allowed him into the house, but just the kitchen and laundry room. We played with him in the kitchen for long periods of time. We named this stray, black and white dog, “Flip,” since Sara was in 2nd grade and insisted that we name it after one of the dogs in her school books.
We loved to play outside with Flip as he was highly energetic. He would grab our gloves, tennis balls, or other loose objects. He was quite affectionate, and we attached to him strongly. He often disappeared during the day, and was likely somewhere in the neighborhood. But we called loudly for him at dinnertime, and he eventually showed up at the house, running madly toward the door.
If there was a thunderstorm he would rush into the living room and sit under mom’s chair, shaking in fear. We returned him to the kitchen following the thunder.
Late one afternoon Flip did not show up for dinner. Someone knocked on the door and told us that he had been hit by a car near Leland School, and killed. This man had recognized Flip and pulled his dead body to the side of the road. We went to the scene and took Flip home. We were at the dining room table, and I cannot remember a single time in my life in which all five of us cried together.
Sometime later we got another kind dog, Corky. We liked him, but he developed seizures, and mom and dad took him to a veterinarian. Our third dog was hyperactive and uncontrollable, so we gave him back to the owner. That was our last dog.