Thoughts and Random Things

Whimsy

I paced down the sidewalk, standing tall, taking large, confident strides. To some, I came off as arrogant--I could see why. I was rather serious and straightforward when it came to most things--I liked to get to the point, no shenanigans. Call me empty, call me emotionless; I simply did not care.

I was walking home from a long day at work, although in reality it was shorter than average, because my boss Miles let me out at 2 o'clock rather than the usual 5. A gift from him to me, he said, because I was such a hard worker. I'd have preferred a raise, but  wasn't complaining about an early day, either. I had a bottle of red wine at home I was eager to try, and the extra hours may have just allowed me to taste it.

I was walking a dog, too. When I found it, it had a collar, and a leash, but no tags, and it was scampering around pretty aimlessly. Clearly it was lost and looking for its owner. Maybe it was tied to a sign or post, and the knot came loose. Either way, the dog needed someone to accompany it. So, I took it by the leash and started walking it. I let it lead me, down a road I'd been down a thousand times, around a bend I'd never been down once. I hoped the dog knew where we were heading--I sure didn't.

It was still light out, although the sky was gray with a layer of thundercloud. Under the tall oaks and maples that lined this particular lane, however, it was dark and shaded. Of course, it was still afternoon, so the streetlights were not yet turned on. The dog seemed to know exactly where it wanted to take me, and we coasted down the path pretty quickly, turning right and crossing a street at the corner.

"Where are you taking me, doggy?" I wondered aloud. There were fewer trees on this block, so the surroundings were brighter and I could make out the numbers on the houses. 3848... 3850... 3852... I didn't think 4-digit house numbers existed in this town, as the largest I'd known of was 850. The dog continued on its set route. I followed, trusting it.

It was not a small dog, but there were bigger breeds. It was a chocolate lab with a spot of white on its forehead, left hind paw, and the tip of its tail. It liked barking at red Toyotas specifically, and its woof was a deep but non-threatening one. Its tail wagged playfully as we walked, the speed of its movement matching that of the wind; the tail would flop faster when a gust of wind went by, and slower when the air was still. I thought the dog was a boy, based purely on observing its face and behavior, but I could've been wrong.

Suddenly, the dog stopped. I looked around. We were on a pretty standard-looking residential avenue, in front of a brick house identical to all those around it. 4102. Was this the place the dog was leading me to? Was the true owner inside?

I peered down at the dog. Oh. It had only stopped to pee on on a young, branchy maple. So it was a boy dog. I'd keep that in mind.

A high-pitched creaking noise caught my attention, and my head whipped to my right, where I heard the noise coming from. The front door of 4102 was open, and out of it rushed two little girls, around age 10, wearing purple and pink and glitter and light-up Twinkle Toes™ sneakers. They both giggled as the girl with mocha-colored skin lightly shoved her blond friend, proclaiming, "you so like him!"

As they reached the landing of the front steps of the house, they both stopped in their tracks upon seeing me and the dog; soon enough, though, they exchanged a glance and began to squeal and dance.

"O-M-G, a puppy!" yelled the blonde girl, jumping up and down in place. "Mister, can we pet it?"

I gave the girls a friendly smile as the dog's stream died down and he lowered his leg. "Okay," I told the kids, and before I even got to the second syllable they were all over him. The girl with darker skin scratched between his ears and the blonde and knelt to stroke his torso. He let out a low, satisfied growl--the dog equivalent of purring.

"What's your doggy's name?" asked the African girl as she flopped the dog's ear between her fingers. It was a good question, something I hadn't thought about. What was that dog's name? I was sure his original owner had named him, but the original owner was nowhere to be seen. He was a friendly yet take-charge dog, brown splashed with white... what was a good name for such a dog?

"Whimsy," I spoke, without my brain even registering what my mouth had just said. I liked it, though. Whimsy. It had a ring to it, and it fit the dog very nicely.

Whimsy. That was what had been missing from my life. That was what would make me less empty, less emotionless. That was what would make me care.

The girls continued to giggle and pet, and I simply stood, staring down at the dog, in a part of town that I was unfamiliar with, on a chilly afternoon in the incipient spring, letting into my heart for the first time in a decade the quality my maturity had blocked off from me: whimsy. Whimsy, and the promise that I would relearn it.