Poor Pete!

by jkatejohnston

Thanksgiving 2015

Dear Max,

Around four o’clock, Enzo said, “Mom, I am ninety-nine percent sure you are going to say ‘no’ to this. Ninety-nine point nine. Will you take me and Petey and Colin to the river with the hole where Colin fell in that one time?” I promised to take Enzo and Pete tomorrow. If we went today, it would be dark by the time we got there.

27 November 2015

Dear Max,

I took Enzo and Pete to the promised place on the river, a beautiful spot: clear water, little islands and boulders, and a few spots that Enzo calls “the rapids” where the water moves faster over the rocks. The picture I want to preserve is Enzo paddling upstream on his yellow kayak, digging into the water, moving strongly, Pete running and then swimming after him, front paws on the back of the boat—golden Pete with blue sky and fall color setting him off to perfection.

But I don’t want to misstate things. It was pretty, but stressy. I kept calling out to Enzo, “Stay where I can see you!” while trying to get Pete to stay with me. I could see that Pete was tired. His poor bad hips trembled when he sat down. And he’s not a wise dog, doesn’t know when to stop. Enzo and I were wearing wet suits, life jackets, fleeces and windbreakers. Poor Pete just had his fur and not enough sense to shake off and curl up with me on a dry towel in the sun.

When we got home, after the cold and wind and sun, we had pie for lunch, apple for me with sweet milky tea, pumpkin for Enzo with whipped cream from a can. No pie for Pete.

Poor Petey!

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