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“Son,” my Pop says to me, in that gravelly voice he has that tells me he wants to talk seriously about something, “we need to talk about Cars,” and all I can do is shiver inside even though the temperature is already humid enough to cause my fleas to bounce around like they’re having an all-night jamboree, so I scratch absently behind my left ear, arf, and then run around in circles a few times to let the fleas know I’m still alive, and after a moment my Pop asks me to please pay attention as I follow after him as he trots down the alley in that loose, relaxed way he has, and all this time he continues to talk about the danger and recklessness of Cars, “because this is really serious, Son, what we need to talk about, since you’re starting to grow up and soon you’ll be your own Dog, making decisions that will last a lifetime, chasing Cars like the rest of us, even Cars that are unpredictable, that make sudden turns and quick stops, and also some red Cars on occasion, too,” and it’s then – in that single moment – that I know my Pop loves me, arf, and that he wants to protect me in the best way he knows how, so I nuzzle real close to him to let him know that I love him a lot, too; but a few fleas take this opportunity to change partners, maybe to join their cousins, but I’m happy and that’s all that matters right now with me and my Pop.
Don
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