In a little old house, down a little old street, there lived a little old man named Grover. Grover had a wrinkly face, dark gray eyes, and salt and pepper colored hair that was often covered up by his fisherman’s cap.
It was a sunny August morning. Grover woke up early to the quiet chirping of his alarm clock. He stood up, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and picked up his round framed glasses that sat folded on his bedside table.
Sunlight made a small pale square on the floor as the old man trudged across the hall into the kitchen. He pulled a small pan out of the cupboard, a small, cold carton of eggs out of the fridge, and proceeded to make breakfast. The eggs sizzled quietly on the stove.
When they were finished, Grover sat alone at the neat kitchen table, sipping his coffee and eating his breakfast. All was quiet, with the exception of a light breeze making the leaves flutter, a bluebird chirping, and the quiet clink of Grover’s fork. The old man stabbed a small piece of egg and lifted it to his mouth when -
BARK!
A high pitched howl from next door echoed across the quiet street.
“Darn dogs,” grumbled Grover as he retrieved his dropped fork. He tromped over to the sink and tossed in his plate, fork and cup with a clatter. He dried his hands on his pant legs as he headed back to his bedroom.
There he pulled on a pair of slightly torn denim jeans, a faded plaid shirt, and a tan colored fishing hat decorated with shiny fishing lures. Grover sat down on his bed and pulled on his green rubber fishing boots.
The old man looked around for his lucky fishing rod and saw it balanced on the shelf of his closet. He shuffled over to it, and flipped on the close light as he passed and blinking at the brightness of it. He reached up and grasped the rubber handle and pulled.
With a loud thump, a book was yanked off the shelf along with Grover’s rod. The huge book fell and landed right on his toe.
“Ouch!” The old man yelped, jumping backwards out of the closet. He glared at the book, which now lay harmlessly on the floor.
Grover reached out to pick it up, intending to place back on it’s shelf, but something caught his eye that made him drop his lucky rod; written, in glossy silver letters that stood out against the black leather cover:
Grover and Mary Anne Vale
His hand lingered for a moment on the cover, before he slowly opened up to the first page.
He swallowed.
On the page was a black and white photograph of a young man and woman. The man had neat, dark hair and suit. The woman had a beautiful, lacey wedding dress and a smile bright enough to light the whole world.
Grover and Mary Anne’s Wedding - March 3, 1968 read a caption in wavy hand writing.
For a moment, Grover stared at the picture of Mary. Her smile; one of his favorite things about her. He remembered her eyes; green like the leaves of a tree in summer. Her hair; the dark, wavy curls that bounced around her shoulders as she walked. Grover remembered her laugh, and memories came swirling back the him: a sunlit picnic in a sweet smelling meadow. Watching the sunset over the ocean as salty water sprayed their faces, and the way she had held his hand, but...she was long gone now.
Angrily, Grover snapped the book shut, stuffing it back on it’s shelf. He grabbed his fishing rod, and stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
He walked down the street, past the pastel colored houses that sat far from each other on either side of the old road. He kicked a small pebble as he walked, heard it clatter down the sidewalk in front of him. He was headed towards the end of the street, which curved off into a small wooden bridge. Growing from the ground underneath it were huge trees, whose leaves dangled over the bridge, creating a green arch above it.
As Grover reached the old bridge it made small groans and creaks underneath him, but they were almost inaudible over the trickling and gurgling of Wilasound Creek.
The creek was in fact more of a river; it had been named a few years ago and since then it had grown. Now it was about four feet wide, as well as five feet deep. It was in a muddy trench whose walls were approximately two feet tall and stood about one foot from each side of the creek.
Grover made his way to the end of the bridge and stumbled to the edge of the water. Hanging over the creek was a sort of dock, made of worn and soggy boards. On this, Grover sat, and cast out his fishing rod.
Everything was calm. The creek chattered. The leaves cast a dappled green light on the ground. A bird called to it’s family.
And a little puppy skittered up behind Grover with a small “Yap!”.
Grover jumped. His fishing bounced out and back into the water. Grover steadied, glaring at the dog tottered towards him on it’s short legs.
“Yap!” It went again as it plopped itself down next to the old man.
It was a little thing, with dark, intelligent eyes and soft, shiny gold and black fur. Its small tail thumped on the deck like a drum as it stared expectantly at him.
“What d’you want?” grumbled Grover as he glared down at the puppy with distaste.
“Arf!” It replied, it’s tongue lolling out the side of it’s mouth.
“Shoo!” Grover growled, flapping his hand at the little dog. The puppy’s eyes followed his hand as it flopped in front of them.
“Ow!” Grover cried as its jaw closed around his hand. He yanked it free and examined the little teeth marks.
“I hate dogs,” He mumbled, and he grabbed this one by the scruff.
“Arrr…” The puppy growled as it was dragged across the bridge.
Grover ignored its protests. He dragged the little dog down the street and stopped at the house next to his.
Unlike hs neat and tidy house, this one was a mess. The paint was chipped in places, the sidewalk was filled with cracks, and the grass was beginning to turn yellow.
Grover tromped up to the door and mashed the doorbell with his free fist, listening to its chime ring throughout the inside of the house.
The door in front of him creaked open. “Yes?” said the young woman who had opened it. She was dressed in a blue jumpsuit, with her hair exploding out of a ponytail on the top of her head. Spongebob Squarepants played inside the house. Grover saw a giant dog fast asleep on the couch.
“Is this yours?” Grover asked, holding up the small puppy.
“Oh, yes,” giggled the woman.
“Aroff?” questioned the puppy.
“Woof!” The huge dog on the couch perked up it’s head and bounded over.
“It’s okay, Pernina,” cooed the woman, patting the dog on it’s head and taking the puppy. “Bear is back!”
She reached for the puppy in Grover’s arms. He glared at her as he handed it over.
“You’ve named these beasts?” He asked.
“Well, of course, sir,” The woman giggled again. “They’re my dogs!”
