Flopper (Kid Stuff)

When I was a boy of about seven years old, we lived in Bremerton, Washington.  Our neighborhood was what I would describe as semi-suburbia - blocks of houses interspersed with heavily wooded areas.

It was gentler time – or maybe just more naïve.  We could roam for hours – especially during the summer months.  I’m sure Mom laid down rules but only one comes to mind and it was absolute – “Come a runnin’ when you here me whistle”.  And boy could she whistle.  Never once was I able to pull out the excuse that I couldn’t hear it.  Because I could – even when I tried not to.  It was always a huge inconvenience to be called in for supper.

If there was a ball to be found, we would chase.  Baseball, basketball, and football – never mind the season.  And some games that we invented on the fly.  “Battle Ball” was one of my favorites.  A combination of hide-and-seek, dodge-ball, tackle-football, and capture-the-flag.  Chaotic?  Perhaps – but too many rules spoiled the sport and no one ever wanted to referee anyway.  Memory can be fallible, but in this case I find it to be wonderfully convenient.  I could run like the wind, greyhound-like, with never a need to breathe.  And I refuse to let the grown-up in me question any part of that reality.

Another one of my favorite activities was "exploring" those wooded areas with my friends.  Always hopeful of finding that perfect spot for a secluded fort, impenetrable to passing marauders.  Ever on the lookout for that ultimate tree with just the right forks to build a camp.  And with a brief minute of logistics, construction would begin with a flair for the creative that any architect would envy and the workmanship that would confound any foreman.  Once built, our “secret-where” became the command center for bold conquests, the base camp for explorations into the unknown, and a stronghold for our ever-growing treasure trove.  A discarded bottle found along the road could be redeemed for a penny or two at the corner Mom and Pop grocery in those days.

During one of our many adventures, a stray German Shepherd joined us seemingly out of nowhere.  We called him Flopper because he had floppy ears.  For about a week, Flopper never left our sides and true to his breed, shepherd our small "band of brothers" wherever we went.  He was simply one of us.

“Can I keep him Mom?  Dad?  I’ll take care of him.  I promise.  I promise I will.  Please?!?!?”

Something almost instinctual told me that the answer would be “no”, so I dropped the matter without too much fuss.  At least I hope I did.  Because there lingers a fuzzy image of my parents faces, the look in their eyes – concern, sadness, something else?  Anyway, it made me uneasy.  So, that was that.  Besides, Flopper was staying with my buddy’s family that night.   

And then during one of our forays into the unknown, Flopper disappeared as quickly as he had come.  Boy, that hurt for days.

With the wisdom of years past, I wonder if my parents didn’t have some sort of instinctual understanding as well.  A comprehension that went beyond the budget of one more mouth to feed.  An appreciation for the deep impression that Flopper imprinted on my mind and the void in my heart that he briefly filled.  A notion of God moments. 

Link:  Rascal (God Moments)