I'm only a dog; how will I ever be able to care for this little girl?
by Duncan Cary Palmer
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee ... - E.E. Cummings
Hi! My name is Charlie.
I'm what humans call a "silver labrador retriever." Margie is my little girl.
Well, I call her "my" little girl mostly because she says I'm "her" silver lab. We actually sort of belong to each other.
I'm worried about my little girl...
Image courtesy of Jonny Lindner and http://pixabay.com
Right now, though, I'm a little worried.
Dark clouds are forming on the horizon. I can smell the next spring rainstorm in the air, and, as far as I can tell, Margie is not prepared. She may even be lost. You see, we live with Margie's other humans — her mom and dad — in a cottage on the edge of a huge forest park. Margie and I often go for romps in the afternoon, but she usually doesn't wander this far. Maybe it's the music? And that darn bird she started chasing. I'm sure my girl has paid no attention to all the forks in the path...
"What's the matter, friend dog?" Now perched on a nearby lamppost, the bird seems to have noticed I'm distressed. Though usually glad for attention, meddling birds make me a little suspicious.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"I'm Arnold; who are you?"
"I'm Charlie." Somehow, and against my better judgement, I can't help but go on. "And that's Margie, my little girl. She worries me."
The bird cocks his head, looking Margie over. A small sack slung over her shoulder, she's in a carefree mood, sometimes walking, sometimes skipping. She sways to the music in her earbuds, deaf to all sound around her.
"I don't know why you're worried, Charlie. After all, there is a good author handling your story."
"Then why isn't he helping Margie? When that rain arrives, she'll get soaked."
"You needn't worry. I've never known this author to be anything but good and kind. He's a happy ending kind of fellow."
Hmmmph... So, I'm supposed to take the word of some flighty bird I just met? I don't think so! What the heck could he mean by "there is a good author?" And, why do I have this uncanny feeling that Arnold is somehow reading my mind?
I love my little girl, and Margie loves me...
Photo by cmcclave (Flickr) CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Suddenly, Arnold bursts into song.
Though not much for modern music, I find myself enthralled. Who would have thought an annoying little bird like Arnold could have such a powerful singing voice?
His song goes on for several minutes. I'm so engrossed that I fail to see what's happening behind me. Not until Arnold finishes do I notice the shadow.
Turning about, I'm startled to see a huge hot-air balloon towering overhead. Leaning over the edge of the basket, I see a little man hook an anchor rope around Arnold's lamppost. He then leaps out, but as he walks over to me, I notice he has a distinct limp.
"Hello, Charlie."
I'm puzzled. "How do you know my name?"
"Arnold told me who you are when he sang for me to come take you for a ride."
"Are you kidding?" I ask. "I'm terrified of heights. There's no way I'm ever getting in that contraption of yours."
"Ah, but I believe you love that little girl of yours, isn't that so?"
"Well... Well, yes, that is true."
"If you come for a ride with me, I'll show you just what you need to know to be able to help her."
"I don't like this one bit..." I equivocate. The balloonman continues:
"I promise, you won't ever regret it. And, know this: without your help, Margie will be in worse danger than you can imagine."
"the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee"...
Photo courtesy of Aaron Burden and http://unsplash.com
Now I'm really getting worried,
but what choice do I have? Margie's my whole world.
"What do you mean, danger?" I ask.
"Just get in the basket so I can show you."
I don't know what he means by "worse danger than you can imagine," but — when it comes to this particular little girl — I am not about to take any chances.
Somehow, between the two of us (I have no idea how; my eyes were closed the entire time!), we manage to get me into the balloon basket. Before I can bark, we are hundreds of feet in the air! I'm shaking uncontrollably.
"Doggie, you have to look over the edge."
I can't believe he's torturing me this way, but it's Margie at stake here.
Steeling my nerves, I reach up with one paw... then the next... and finally slide my head up and over the edge of the basket.
There's no doubt that a storm is on the way.
Photo courtesy of Karsten Würth and http://unsplash.com
The view is stunning.
I have never seen anything like it (and hope never to again). For the moment, I am so awe-struck that I forget to tremble. I can see the whole, beautiful forest laid out below me. Our ride is totally silent (except for moments when a roaring flame shoots up into the envelope overhead, keeping us aloft). Not only can I see for many miles, I can hear the varied and gentle sounds of nature, rising from the forest floor far below. I can even hear Margie's occasional giggle of glee as she joins in and drops out of the songs she's listening to.
There's no doubt that a storm is on the way. The dark clouds are much closer now. Rain is surely moving in. I hear occasional peals of thunder. Margie is bound to get soaked to the skin, but when I say so, the strange little balloonman just ignores me.
Despite my concerns, he's taking us higher still.
To Be Continued...
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