Who Needs Todd the Dog?

PHOTO BY TAYLOR GROTE ON UNSPLASH

This story is about the dog we inherited while we were in Labrador. The photo is the closest I could find that looks like him. The story about him is essentially true with some creative license. He was a special dog, and the kids loved him very much. This is the story I wrote to remember him and his antics.

Who needs Todd the Dog?

“Leave me alone,” I tell him. He trips me when I get up. He drools on the floor at breakfast. His tail bangs my leg when I brush my teeth. I try to escape, but he begs me to come along. “I’m seeing my friend. You can’t come.”

Who needs Todd the Dog?

Mom calls Todd the Dog a mongrel. My sister says he’s a mangy cur, but I say he’s hopeless because he doesn’t chase balls or fetch sticks. Dad says, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Who needs an old dog?

Todd the Dog’s wet nose demands rubs forty times daily on the back of his neck, behind his ears, and tummy. All places must get rubbed.

Even on the toilet, Todd the Dog comes for a rub. “I need privacy!” I yell. “Close the bathroom door,” Mom shouts from the kitchen. “I’m claustrophobic,” I explain. Mom says I don’t know what the word means.

Who needs an annoying dog?

My friend Todd lives next door. My sister calls him “Todd Too.” One rainy day Todd Too comes to play. He leaves his muddy shoes on the mat. Todd the Dog scratches at the door. When I open it, he races to the kitchen and shakes off his garden mud. Mud is everywhere. Mom shouts. “Todd, you bad boy!”

“What did I do?” my friend whispers.

“Mom’s yelling at the dog,” I say. Todd Too won’t play at my house anymore.

Who needs a hopeless dog?

Winged berry thieves steal our saskatoons. The cedar waxwings and the robins gulp them until they’re gone. Todd the Dog never barks; he only naps. There aren’t enough berries for Mom’s pie. We need a cat!

Who needs Todd the Dog?

 Mom says Todd the Dog’s older than me and almost blind. He runs into the soccer net, and I have to untangle him. He bangs his head on a park bench. “Todd the Dog is no seeing-eye dog,” my sister says.

Who needs him anyway?

Yesterday’s blizzard piled huge snowdrifts everywhere. Everyone goes to help clear Grandma’s driveway. We leave Todd the Dog in the backyard, where he can snuggle in his doghouse because he’s a bother when we work. After shoveling, Grandma invites us for cookies and hot chocolate.

When we return, I go to let Todd the Dog inside. “Todd,” I call, but he doesn’t come. I climb into my parka and boots and trudge outside to look for him. The wind bites at my cheeks. A set of snow-blown tracks leads to a large snowdrift by the fence. Todd whimpers as he dangles above the snowdrift, one front paw caught between two fence boards. The chewed and clawed planks hold his foot tight.

“Dad, Mom, help!” I scream. “Todd’s in trouble!” Everyone rushes outside.

Dad says, “Todd tried to jump the fence to join us, but the snow’s soft, and he’s an old dog.” Dad and I plow through the snow to the fence.        

Todd the Dog is dangling there, limp, unable to fight the wind and the fence any longer. He feebly wags his tail. Together, we lift him to free his paw. My sister carries him inside, and my mother bandages his foot and wraps him in a warm blanket.

Todd the Dog lies on the floor, eyes closed, motionless.

I lay down beside him, recalling happy times. After telling him to “stay,” he’d wait hours for me even when I forgot him. I remember his begging wet nose and wrestling him on the rug. On sad days, his tail was happy to see me. When Todd Too didn’t want to play, Todd the Dog sat beside me like a best friend.

Todd the Dog opens one eye.

“Old friends are best,” I tell him. “Tomorrow, we have many things to do.” Todd the Dog’s tail thumps weakly on the linoleum floor. I rub him behind his ears and then on his belly. Tomorrow, he can follow me anywhere, and I won’t mind.

Who needs Todd the Dog? I do. “Old friends are best,” I tell him. “Tomorrow, we have many things to do.” Todd the Dog’s tail thumps weakly on the linoleum floor. I rub him behind his ears and then on his belly. Tomorrow, he can follow me anywhere, and I won’t mind.

Who needs Todd the Dog? I do.