Frigid, biting winds cut like a knife through my parka. A Montreal Canadian toque pulled over my face and ears was little protection against winter's last blast. Heavy crusted snow fought my every step as I made my way home from a Saturday morning skate. I quickened my pace across the stubbled field and through the ever tranquil grove of pines. When I exited on the other side, my familiar nemesis met me full force. Only two blocks I thought, as renewed determination hastened me along. Finally, the snow-packed road offered some solace to my cold and tired feet. I stopped. The mid-day sun shone brightly as a harbinger of spring, and puffed clouds drifted lazily high in the brilliant blue March sky.
I dislike winter, especially when March teased me into a false sense of spring fever: I know one final hurrah lingered just around the corner. One more block, then I'd be on my street, Burnet Street. Ours was a quiet road running parallel to Lake Ontario just west of the Sixteen Mile Creek. A street of modest homes, yet each house was different from the next. I passed familiar, friendly houses until finally, I reached my house.
The white picket fence resisted my most determined efforts to open it. Perhaps a blob of ice frozen to the ground was the culprit. But no, such a simple answer was not to be, for as I kicked away the snow, the lifeless body of our dog, Tim, was uncovered. His frozen stare sent a silent shudder throughout my body and I looked in questioning disbelief around our yard. There was no one but me. I was alone. Again I gazed upon our five year old pet. The best pet four brothers ever had. He would run like the wind when any of us called, or bark excitedly when a stick was not thrown quickly enough. He loved to fetch wood from the cold waters of the lake, drop it at our feet, then shake vigorously all over us. In winter he slept near the floor grate and in the summer he deserted us for his own well- constructed house behind the garage. And now he lay stiff in death's grip. Mom responded to my yells and soon my kid brothers peered wide eyed from the folds of her dress.
Dad took my hand and led me around the house to the back door. We talked of Tim as warm tears turned cold upon my numbed face. He said we'd get a butter box from the garage rafters, line it with an old quilt, and make a fitting resting place for Tim. My big brother put Tim in the garage and we reluctantly entered the house.
We ate our lunch quietly, no one talked. The only sound was the occasional slurp of tomato soup. Bob and Les wanted to go out and look at Tim. Dad said no. Murray and I agreed, for in our minds Tim would always run and jump and play to the delight of four boys growing up on Burnet Street.
By Allan Ross Wark
