No one messed with Bud; therefore, no one messed with me.

My first memory…

We had a Doberman named Bud who was the best bodyguard in the world. Dad loves to talk about how when I was a baby, they would put me down to play on my blanket. If I started to venture off the blanket, Bud would just lay his massive self down in front of me and block that path.

Mom made me a hobby horse. He was cream canvas with a black yarn mane and forelock, and eyes with lashes embroidered with black floss. It was springtime, and I was playing outside the house on Croton Road. Bud and I were just wandering around outside and I was riding my Hobby Horse. His canvas head was still crisply new; the scent of the new material strong and almost intoxicating. His mane and forelock were untangled and the brand new yarn was so black it was almost shiny. I decided that he was thirsty and dunked his muzzle in the horse’s water trough. I remember looking around me. In front of me is the horse pasture, and the top row of wire is barbed and hot. The sky was a light powder blue with wispy clouds. I hear birds calling to each other, chattering furiously. Farther back I can barely see the pine tree forest where we chop down our Christmas tree. To my left is the barn, it is just weathered wood, with barely any paint on it. A little farther left is another horse pasture, separate from the one in front of me. A sorrel mare is grazing, twitching her hide to shoo the flies off her sides and swishing flies with her tail. Her colt is playing around in the grass, feeling all fruity and bucking just for the joy of it. Behind me is our house; my parents bought it as a fixer-upper and it is in progress with fresh plywood and black tar paper here and there. Farther back is the road, and a U-shaped gravel driveway around the house. Bud hears Mom calling before I do, and he nudges me toward the house. I lift Hobby Horse up out of the water trough, water with green slimies streaming from Hobby Horse’s soaked muzzle. I turn and head towards the house, trailing and flinging water as I make him canter. But Mom’s irritated because I dunked Hobby Horse into the trough. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips purse; now he’s going to have to come off the broomstick and go in the washer. Puzzled, I think, how else was I supposed to water him?

Hey, I said “My first memory” not “My first interesting memory.”

*sticks out tongue atcha*

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.

Author: Dory

Believer. Wife. Mom. Deaf chick. ADD-addled. Photographer. Graphic designer. Blogger. Guano whacknut. Not necessarily in that order.

1 thought on “No one messed with Bud; therefore, no one messed with me.”

  1. Very nice Dory. I too have memories like that. Makes ya wish you could step back in time and have things be so simple.
    Glad you can remember things that far back, since ya have trouble with yesterday. LOL. JK, you know i luvs ya!

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