His Name Was Poochy

His name was Poochy. Not only was that his name it's what he was. Spotted and slender. Droopy ears. A pointer, or so I was told. Was he my first dog?  Ming and Toy came before, but they were Mom's, from before. Poochy was mine and I was his. Toy had to go because he didn't like me. Crawling and taking what was his. Ming died, but only after the fence took her eye. I never knew Rudy.

We roamed the woods together. I was young and uncertain of my age or even what that meant. He was wise but would take a mile if you gave him an inch. At least that's what Mom said. He could come inside but only so far. An invisible line drawn by Mom held him back. "Don't give him an inch" she'd say.

He took my secrets and slowly leaked them to the woods. My steps would race and we were boundless. We knew magical places. Places only the cows could find and only if you followed them.  Clearings in woods of white barked birches. Shadows and light playing along side you.

The cows were wise and made roads throughout the woods. There was one place of jumbled boulders. I knew later that sheets of Northern ice had left them behind. The boulders were old and covered with moss. The trees were close and silent but the boulders spoke a soft language that you couldn't really hear.

One day, Poochy wasn't there. The road took him or he the road. He was a tramp, Dad always said.

I could still find him in the groves and on the cow paths and by the silent trees and among the murmuring boulders.