Hello, my friends, and happy Thanksgiving eve! I haven’t posted much lately because I’ve been working on something longer, and a tad serious, so to take a break from that, I’ve written a new, humorous, short story that I just posted on my Medium page. It’s based on characters from my collection, (Mostly) True Tales From Birchmont Village, and inspired by our new doggie, Molly. It’s called “The Time Molly Took A Walk.” If you can’t get past the Medium firewall, I’ve also included it below. Hope you like it!

The Time Molly Took A Walk

It was an adventure that was most special, an expedition that was truly exceptional, a traipse that went well beyond the ordinary because Molly, the Steversens’ Golden Retriever, was taking her first walk through the neighborhood!

The Steversens were longtime residents of Birchmont Village, but with each having been fully immersed for years in the fast lanes of their careers (although no one knew what they did, only that they were gone most weekdays from nine to five and Mr. Steversen wore a tie), they neither mingled, nor mixed, and, thus, tended to dodge the dramas and dilemmas that the rest of these denizens were often embroiled in. However, all that changed of late with the Steversens opting to accept early retirement from their respective employers (again, no one knew who their employers were, only that they drove separately to their jobs and Mrs. Steversen had a yellow parking permit dangling from her rearview mirror). It was only then when this couple (soon to be a trio) decided to relax and unwind and enjoy the finer things in life, and what could be finer than a doggie, and particularly six-year-old Molly.

When the Steversens saw her at the shelter — that fluffy flaxen fur like cotton candy, that long red tongue with an inexplicable dot of black in the center, that tail wagging excitedly to and fro like a furious feather duster — they just knew this was the companion for them despite Mr. Steversen’s initial misgivings and nervousness for he wasn’t a “dog person” and had an irrational fear of canines nipping at his slim shins. But such worries were fast dispatched with this gentle pooch whose temperament made clear she wouldn’t harm even a fly despite her generous size. Molly tipped the scales at eighty-eight pounds as her former family, who could no longer care for her with the unexpected addition of a ninth child to their brood, had been overzealous with their feeding habits. This was something that Mr. Steversen could certainly relate to as he had packed on several pounds with his newfound penchant for enjoying a craft beer (or two) on the patio each evening, weather permitting.

Molly was somewhat anxious herself, having not had much involvement with outsiders and she hadn’t done a lot of socializing. Yet she took to the Steversens and the safe space they created for her in front of the fireplace (unlit, of course) with a comfy old comforter she could curl upon and a firm body pillow she could lean against. Molly spent the majority of her days precisely that way, along with intermittent trips to the backyard to tend to her personal affairs and to roll around in the grass and to stare quizzically at Johnny, the wild rabbit who had taken up residence in the garden the spring before last. But when the vet advised that Molly could benefit from some exercise that was when the Steversens set about to introduce her to the entirety of Birchmont Village by accompanying her on what they hoped would become regular jaunts through these sedate streets.

On this important morning, Monday at eight to be exact, Mr. Steversen fetched Molly’s leash from the closet in the pantry that had three shelves specifically allotted to her and her belongings — her food and her treats and her various playthings — and then set about to fetch Molly to clasp the collar around her neck. Not accustomed to such a contraption, Molly understandably bobbed and weaved and then, the natural problem solver she was, used her weight to her advantage by simply plopping down on the floor and burying her head between her oversized paws. It was not until Mrs. Steversen pitched in with a subtle ttch-ttch sound and a reassuring smile (though Mr. Steversen thought that it had to have been a “female bonding thing”) did Molly allow herself to be corralled. With the leash sufficiently secured, and a supply of lavender-scented plastic bags in case Molly decided to conduct her private business in public, the Steversens went forth out the front door, onto the front stoop, through the front yard, and into the heart of this community.

The first person to greet them was Young Billy Milner on his bike, along with his best bud, Chubz, the Johnson family cat, riding, per usual, shotgun in the basket, having just finished his paper route. Billy praised the Steversens for possessing such a “pretty pup” and volunteered to show them around since he was well familiar with the area being that he traversed these roads routinely. He set about to do just that when, alas, at the intersection of Swan and Forest he was hastily recalled by his mother, rushing out in her housecoat and scolding that he was going to be late for school, but then realizing that her tone might have come across as a tad harsh, and considering the circumstances, she softened by suggesting that perchance Billy, and perhaps Chubz, could meet up with Molly sometime in the afternoon to become friends.

The Steversens replied in the affirmative and then pushed on in this journey with delightful Molly. Without really walking her prior, they weren’t sure how she would behave, having witnessed many dogs meander about without any clear indication of what they were doing. Molly, however, seemed to be the exception for she proceeded as if she had done this before, like she was an old pro at going for a stroll. She moved straight ahead, and in a straight line, sticking close to her folks and against traffic at Mr. Steversen’s direction, only glancing about to confirm that both he and his missus were still in tow, not wanting to leave anyone behind, courteous like that. She was so good at this that Mr. Steversen was tempted to ease his grip, but he was relieved he didn’t when Molly stumbled over a branch that caught her off-guard and caused her to lurch forward. Mr. Steversen was able to pull her back, and Mrs. Steversen, again with her ttch-ttch sound and smile (and Mr. Steversen just shook his head at that), reassured Molly that everything was all right — and it was.

They kept on this way for a block, and then another, and one more still when a slow-moving, open-wheel vehicle deliberately approached and came to a leisurely stop. It was Hank Walters Bryant, the ranking member of the Birchmont Village council, who was making his typical Monday morning rounds in the official golf cart boldly emblazoned with the letters “B.V.” to check that trash cans were properly aligned at the curb with the opening sides pointing forward as mandated by ordinance. Hank had not yet met Molly, and he considered that part of his job, in his formal capacity, was to know everyone’s pets. He welcomed her with a stern pat on the head but first allowed her to sniff his hand (Hank was a “dog person”), which Molly licked vigorously as Hank had just eaten a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich and apparently still had the remnants on his fingertips. He goodheartedly allowed that, and laughed it off as he drove away, discretely wiping his digits with a napkin he kept in the glove box for just such a situation.

Molly and the Steversens continued their walk with the nostrils on Molly’s wet nose flickering quickly for she was sniffing all kinds of new smells, from Harris Maggiano who was grilling sausages for breakfast to a pile of wet and musty leaves to fragrant dryer sheets from someone in the Chichester household doing laundry with the exhaust billowing out in a perfumed cloud to some scents that the Steversens couldn’t quite tell what they were since Molly was more proficient at that. The Steversens, for their part, were acquainting themselves with neighbors they didn’t know they had.

There was Etna Pataskata who carried a collection of dog biscuits in her fanny pack and was about to toss one to Molly but Mr. Steversen reluctantly declined on her behalf as Molly was on a strict calorie count per doctor’s orders. Old Man Williams, with his bowlegged gait, shuffled to the edge of his driveway to retrieve his newspaper, mumbling about how he would expect it to be delivered nearer given how much he paid for the subscription (and with annual increases), but then he caught sight of Molly and his consternation instantly melted. He was so smitten that he invited her to sit alongside him on the float at this year’s Christmas parade since Old Man Williams portrayed Santa, not understanding that this would need to go before a vote of the village council (like everything) before any such arrangement could be finalized. Ted Canari, absolutely resplendent in a burgundy velvet tracksuit that he had won at a raffle, was stretching his legs while listening to a true crime podcast on his headphones that he said helped him to relax. The starting lineup of the St. Martins Dragons, the reigning regional Little League champs who always traveled in a pack, sprinted in tandem to catch the bus with their pitcher, Jimmy Gee, the de facto leader, yelling to the Steversens with a pumping of his fist, “Your doggo rocks!” and his teammates, en masse, agreed equally enthusiastically.

The Steversens were finding that there was a lot happening, and more hustle and bustle than they could have imagined, though Molly didn’t seem to mind as she kept moving along, causing Mr. Steversen to ponder, a brief existential interlude, who was walking whom. It was not until they got to the far end of Blanchard when Molly became distracted by the group of renters who shared a two-bedroom suite at the Stonemill Apartments. They were out on the deck playing their guitars and bongos and tambourines (“But at such an early hour,” complained Mrs. Shuttleford, who did not suffer fools gladly, and who claimed she could hear “that hullabaloo” from well inside her living room.). Each thump of the drum made Molly jump so they swiftly retreated into the relative solitude of the nearby park. Yet no sooner had they stepped foot (and paw) upon the quarter-mile crushed limestone path when someone shouted, “On your left!” and just like that the guy who everyone called On-Your-Left for his habit of doing exactly that whenever he went for a jog came darting by. A little farther up, a group of deer had paused to gawk at Molly from afar, as well as the hawk that the Blenheim Boulevard Bird Club had been tracking, albeit obviously not very well since this was the first anyone had seen of it in months. Mary Ellen Plumberly, who would capture mice in her kitchen and release them back into the wild, came wandering through, and then, not fifteen minutes later, Dwayne Weatherbly, who dabbled in taxidermy, rushed past with a sack that appeared to have several inanimate mice inside.

Once out of the park and back onto Blanchard, Molly was panting and slowing discernably as this was the most she had ever walked at once, at least as far as the Steversens were aware, and they decided it was time to return home. However, an ear-shattering howling stopped them dead in their tracks for before them were two of the largest creatures Molly had ever encountered (and the Steversens as well): Lilabelle Durham’s twin bloodhounds that must have stood, if they could stand on two legs, six foot two. Neither Molly nor the Steversens could fathom what this slobbering pair was up to, but they didn’t want to find out either. Molly tore off like she had been shot from a cannon (and the Steversens didn’t know the gal had it in her like that). Unfortunately, Mr. Steversen was unprepared for such a reaction. When Molly yanked at the leash, he tripped over his feet and rolled his ankle (those slim shins), tumbling to the ground and pulling poor Molly to an abrupt standstill. She whipped around with an expression to convey, “What are you doing? Can’t you see we’re about to be eaten alive by these beasts?” But all Mr. Steversen could do was lamely hand the leash over to Mrs. Steversen who tried to appease Molly once more with her ttch-ttch sound and smile (and Mr. Steversen didn’t care at that point because he was more concerned with how he was going to walk home).

Lilabelle apologized profusely, as best she could over the incessant (and increasingly louder, if that was possible) woofing and yelping and baying from her gargantuan animals, and explained that their bark was worse than their bite, and then she urgently clarified that they didn’t bite but she was just turning a phrase. Mrs. Steversen, the peacemaker of the clan, assured her that no harm was done. (Mr. Steversen had a different take on that as he winced in pain while he staggered to stand but he kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to cause a scene — or any more of one.) Nevertheless, Lilabelle, owner of an upscale boutique in Poplar Square, offered the Steversens a ten-percent discount on any of the tchotchkes, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac that she sold at her store. The Steversens nodded politely yet with no intention of taking her up on that because they already had more than their share of tchotchkes, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac.

Mr. Steversen’s hobbling, as they headed to their house, caught the keen attention of Officer Fifeson, the police officer from Ridgeland who was contracted out by Birchmont Village to patrol the streets in his off-hours to curtail any shenanigans and suspicious activity. He had been lying in wait, strategically placed and secluded by the arborvitaes on Fox Hollow Lane, in case any members of the Wheelmen, and Wheelwomen, Cycling Club, in their multicolor spandex, blew through the stop sign. But noticing Mr. Steversens’ adverse condition, the dutiful patrolman put a hold on that mission and offered the Steversens, and Molly, a ride. With the lot of them situated securely inside the cruiser, Officer Fifeson peeled out with lights flashing and siren blaring, which was not at all necessary but Officer Fifeson wanted to seize the moment, and besides, with Molly in the car, he imagined that he was part of an elite K-9 unit. Molly seemed to enjoy the ride as much as anyone with her head hanging out the passenger side window taking in the rest of the sights and sounds and smells of her newly adopted surroundings.

When they were safely restored to their abode, Mr. Steversen doddered to the freezer for a bag of frozen peas to place on his ankle, while Mrs. Steversen relieved Molly of her leash and collar. Once free, Molly beelined it for her space in front of the fireplace and promptly took a nap, with a satisfying snore, for she had experienced a lot for one day (and so too the Steversens) and looked forward to repeating it all over tomorrow, the time Molly took a walk through the neighborhood and discovered a whole new world set out before her.