Family pet, circa 1980:

My dad rescued a dog once,

not from the pound,

from Main Street.

It was back when

Dad and Uncle Ronnie

owned a full-service

gas station.

One warm morning,

a Winnebago rode up

to the pumps,

driving right over the

rubber hose that triggered

the service bell.

Dad came out from the office,

where he was balancing

the books.

He cleaned the windshield real good

and filled ’em up.

That was the year gas climbed

above $1.00 a gallon

for the first time ever.

While dad checked the oil,

the woman in the passenger seat

climbed out to go inside

to the ladies’ room.

The driver, a man twice as old as Dad,

paid with cash,

handing crumpled bills out the window.

“Safe travels,” Dad said.

The Winnebago lumbered onto Main;

and to Dad’s surprise,

a small dog,

covered in tangled gray curls,

dashed out of the restroom

quick as her stubby legs

could carry her.

“Wait! Wait!” Dad yelled,

waving his arms above his head,

running down Main Street,

chasing the dog

who was chasing

the Winnebago.

The vehicle careened onto

the bypass,

and Dad stopped to catch his breath.

The little dog did, too.

Later that day,

Dad brought her home to us,

Band-Aids on two of his fingers

where she’d demonstrated

her lack of appreciation.

“Just scared, I’m sure,” Dad said;

but she bared her teeth at him,

blaming him

for everything.

After a good bath,

administered

by my gentle mother,

Bridget settled on my lap,

more tolerant of me

than she was of my little sister.

She lived out her days with us.

Clearly a senior citizen

when Dad brought her home,

we didn’t have her long.

She never forgave Dad

for his perceived slight,

giving him the side eye

on a good day,

a snarl on a bad one.

“Poor old gal,” Dad said,

tossing her treats

from a safe distance,

giving her plenty of space

to hold her grudge.