True story friend ship between dog and boy 350 words
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When I was very young — I must have been about eight or nine — I had an imaginary dog. At least, I’m told it was imaginary. My mother assures me I did not have a real dog until I was fourteen: a black-and-white sort-of-kelpie called Jerry that
I didn’t like very much because he was crazy.
I remember Jerry well because he’d bark a lot and chase the spores that rays of sunlight lit up as they streamed through my bedroom window while I was trying to study in the afternoons. He’d yap at them and jump on my bed and I’d have to take him outside and throw a tennis ball at him until he’d settle. Yeah, I remember him — but this other dog I remember just as well was a different one. A light brown, almost yellow, labrador that was very calm and used to lay his head in my lap while I was reading and smile when I stroked his head. The memory is vivid — but, as I say, my mother assures me we never had a dog apart from Jerry. Now, I know memories are notoriously unreliable but, for a while, I simply couldn’t believe that Tim (that was the dog’s name) had never existed. My mother is quite elderly and I wondered at first whether it was her memory that couldn’t be trusted. But she told me I certainly used to talk to her about Tim when I was young: she thought at the time it must have been a dog I played with on the way home from school; that is, until she found me ‘playing’ with him in the backyard.
Apparently I was running about and laughing and hugging the air and throwing sticks and worrying everybody unnecessarily. I’m not sure who the ‘everybody’ was but the lady from the NHSA didn’t seem too bothered by it when my mother took me in and made me tell her about our adventures. I was quite happy to relay one or two of our more dangerous escapades and, at her request, even draw a picture of the most hair-raising one with the special soft crayons she had called Cray-Pas (a small packet of which I was allowed to keep).
It was the time Tim and I crossed that river. Of course, there was no river at all near my suburban Adelaide home; there was a storm drain and there was a creek up at Brown Hill but nothing that resembled the raging torrent that almost swept Tim and me away.