Bogart

Mom is not crafty. She doesn’t sew, or scrapbook. She rarely cooks. There aren’t little wooden signs around the house with catchy Christian sayings, or annoying inspirational mantras. Still, when I was a child she was forced to be resourceful. I understood that money was tight because Dad taught school and they reproduced a lot, and because of this, I tried my best to be grateful for the things I was given. On my eighth birthday, Mom gave me a stuffed pillow that she sewed herself, and I named it Bogart.

Bogart was made out of a pattern purchased from a craft store. Mom stuffed him with cotton and sewed him together, and I loved him. He was a Basset Hound, complete with the long ears and droopy eyes, and I carried him with me everywhere for most of that year. Whenever we asked Dad for a pet, he would say, “If you can’t milk it, ride it, or eat it, you shoot it,” so Bogart was Mom’s way of granting my pet wish.

The year I turned eight was significant for a number of reasons, not the least of which was Bogart. That was also the year we moved from a big city to a small farming community, and Bogart became my only friend. In my mind, we carried on conversations. I would explain basic human function, like using the toilet and taking a bath, and he would explain how in his canine breed, long ears were symbols of consequence and distinction (he didn’t like to boast, but he sometimes tripped on his). I slept with him, ate with him, camped with him, and watched Saturday afternoon baseball with him. His face was fixed; constant in my changing world, and Mom made him for me.

One afternoon, six months after moving in, my older brother had two Marks over to spend the night: Mark Darcy and Mark VanTassell. They were rowdy, obnoxious, and older than me, so naturally I clung to them like body odor. They took Bogart and teased me the way sociopathic twelve year olds do, and after rescuing my stuffed stoic friend, I sniffled the tears back and left them, hopeful that a just God would strike them with palsy.

At some point during the night, Bogart came up missing and I panicked. I woke Mom and she woke the boys, but each feigned ignorance and when they left the following morning, my best friend was gone forever.

Mom is not crafty. She doesn’t sew, or scrapbook. She rarely cooks. There aren’t little wooden signs around the house with catchy Christian sayings, or annoying inspirational mantras. However, in one loving burst of thoughtfulness on my eighth birthday, she created a companion that still understands me better than anyone I’ve known since. Now, when I take my dog for a walk and people ask me what kind of dog he is, I say: “He’s a Basset Hound—and generally speaking, the longer the ears, the more attractive the dog. He doesn’t like to boast, but he sometimes trips on his,” and when they ask me his name, I reply with a lump in my throat, “His name is Bogart.”