Do you remember when you became a teenager? The day your life odometer rolled over from being just twelve to thirteen? I do. It was June 7, 1965.

If the black cherry tree still stands beside our old garden gate it can bear witness to that date because that’s the day I carved my initials into its bark, along with the numerals one and three.

Well today someone else’s odometer in my home rolls over to thirteen. Spanky.

While my becoming a teenager was a monumental moment, it doesn’t seem to have made an impression on the Spanks as of yet.

We’ve performed our usual morning routine. He got up, supervised me shaving, taking my meds, and then we went for a walk.

He sniffed every mailbox for a quarter-mile. Marked them all until his pen ran dry. He pooped when we stopped at the vacant lot and did that little scratching thing he always does with his front feet. Then he pulled me back home.

He’s still pretty strong for his age.

We prepared our breakfasts and ate together. After he checked out the daily pandemic warnings he wanted to go back outside. So here we sit. It appears we are going to guard this backyard together and contemplate on what it’s like to be a teenager.

He doesn’t appear to be as thrilled about it as I was back in sixty-five. I doubt he’ll be carving his initials into the river birch. Maybe he’ll pee on it after his marker is replenished.

I mentioned that he was now old enough to have his own Facebook account, but he reminded me he has no thumbs.

A birth defect. How tragic.

So here we sit, taking life in stride. Me remembering the day I turned thirteen, and Spanky guarding the backyard.

_______________
Rick Algood
April 7, 2020