Mogadore Lake

 

I was ready to call it a night when an ancient memory flooded in upon me. Somebody’s mother drove a group of us friends to Mogadore Lake, and we took my little dog Bimbo along. We played for a while, and then we came home. It was already dark when with a stab in my heart I looked for Bimbo, and realized we had left him at the park. I asked my father to drive me there. My father said no. He said, “It’s time to get rid of that dog. You don’t love him anyway.” I believe I felt the emotions again I felt that night, confusion and betrayal, and shame, for if my father said I didn’t love the dog, there must be some reason. Had I been cruel or cold to my friend? It didn’t look like my father was going to relent, so I went out the back door and headed for Mogadore Lake, on foot, at least ten miles away. I was a block or so up Eastwood when father came by in the car and drove me. As soon as we came to the parking lot, Bimbo was there, wagging his black and white tail. I scooped him up in my arms. Father said, “Don’t you pretend to care about the dog. We should have left him here.” Between shame at the betrayal of my four-footed best friend and hatred of my father I didn’t know what to do. I wouldn’t cry in front of my father, but I do in the dark of my own room sixty years later.