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 1
 
Boy
© 2008 by Ron Sanders
Despite the old song’s lyrics, Southern California rainfall varies widely between
never 
and
 pours
. The January through March stuff tends to sploosh and drizzle, to pound and peter. Arthur could be allowed out with only his little crayola raincoat, even on evenings, if he didn’t wander toofar, and if the air was not overly nippy. He liked to leap small puddles, and sometimes to come downhard in their centers. When he got to the mall he enjoyed the way its antique streetlamps glowed inthe mist. Spooky and cozy all at once.As he came in off the sidewalk he noted few shoppers about; rough weather for Angelenos.But that’s a positive; crowds just show you how small you really are. The youngster hopped a fewmore puddles and huddled in a candy store’s doorwell. To his right stood a pair of facing cast iron benches, adrift in an amber pool. A frail figure sat crumpled on one of the benches, bent into arumpled trench coat with a clear plastic protector. On his lap shivered a soggy old dog, gray andwhite with a dirty mussed coat. The boy inched along, as children will, moving well to well, until hestood between benches. After a minute the old man’s head rose, weighed by the rain and years. His jaw shuddered as the lids peeled apart. His rheumy old eyes fell on the boy.
 
 2
“Son. Son . . . what is your name?”“Ata.”“Otto?”“Arta.”“R2? R2D2?”“Artr.”“Arthur. Do you like animals, Arthur?”“Yesr.”“Dogs?”“Yesr.”“Do you like this dog, Arthur?”The boy leaned in. Sensing him, the dog dazedly lifted its head.“Yesr.”“His name, Arthur, is Boy.” The old man gave the animal’s paw a little shake. “Boy, Arthur.Arthur, Boy.” The effort cost them both. The hand and paw dropped. “Boy is well along in dogyears, Arthur, and has difficulty with many basic functions. Also, he is all but blind and can nolonger run. He cannot speak because he had a very bad master long ago, but he is a good dog, son,capable of giving a caring master as much love as he receives.”“Yesr.”The old man folded forward. “Would you like to have Boy, Arthur? Would you like to takehim with you and give him a good home? I can no longer care for him.”The boy watched politely as the old man very gently lifted the dog and placed him betweentheir feet. “Yesr.”The old man cupped Arthur’s hands in his own. His eyes were pinched barnacles, his mouth aclosing cave. “Bless you, son. Bless you, bless you, bless you.” His shaking old hand fumbled withthe trench coat. “Here is his little leash. He must be walked on this leash at all times, for he issightless, as I mentioned, and unable to follow commands as you might expect of a much younger animal.”Arthur obediently clipped the leash onto Boy’s tattered collar. He stood patiently, waiting to be told. At last the old man said, faint as the drizzle, “We must part now, son.”
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