Observations
by Emily Reed
by Emily Reed
When I turned my head to look down the street, all I could see was a purple polka dotted raincoat. The young girl in the raincoat came into view; her bouncing curls and chunky rubber boots clunked on the damp asphalt as she skipped. Her gaze was transfixed on my dog and it was clear that her intent was to pet the wet furball.
Suddenly, my dog noticed the girl and sprinted toward her while leaving rope (or in this case, leash) burn in his absence. My palms seared in pain but I recovered quickly to run after my dog.
She giggled as he ambushed her rosy cheeks with sloppy licks. I was scared he’d knock her over but she had no fear of my excitable dog.
I grabbed ahold of his leash and saw his muddy, wet paws were making a mess of her pants.
“Sorry about my dog! He gets so happy to meet new people that he doesn’t realize the mess he’s making,” I said, out of breath.
My dog was almost finished with his greeting as evident by the little licks to her nose. She resumed petting his wet fur. “It’s okay. She’s so cute! What’s her name?”
I sighed. Apparently boys can’t be adorable balls of creamy fur with floppy caramel ears. “It’s a he. And his name is Frosty.”
The corners of her mouth perked up. “Like the snowman?!”
I nodded. “Exactly like the snowman. My family bought him around Christmas and the breeders thought to name all their December puppies something Christmas-y.”
She smiled and kept petting my dog. She had run out of small talk topics but I had one nagging question left to ask.
“So, what brings you to this street in the rain? I’ve never seen you around here before.”
Immediately, she responded, “I’m going to see my friend Markus! It’s his birthday today and my whole class is invited over to play.”
I laughed and she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. She wouldn’t understand it now, but in the coming years, her attitude toward boys would completely change. Soon, they’ll become repulsive and cootie-infested, yet later, they’ll become attractive and sought-after.
“Well, have fun! Tell Markus I said happy birthday!”
She stopped petting my dog and said, “Okay, and thanks for letting me pet your dog!” She resumed skipping up the street to Markus’ house and it was all I could do to hold onto the leash to keep my dog from running after his new best friend.
My dog and I stood together and watched the little girl ring the bell on the grey house’s door. Judging by the bundle of rainbow balloons tied to the lamppost, I was reasonably sure she had the right house. My assumption was further confirmed by Markus and his parents opening the door and letting the girl into their home filled with crazy children on a sugar high.
Oh, how it is to be young.
When I was young, I too went to birthday parties, ate too much cake, and knew everyone in the neighborhood. Now that I’m older, I stay at home, eat kale, and know no one in my neighborhood.
I’m not complaining that I’ve acquired healthier eating habits. However, I’m displeased with my recent status of hermit.
Sure, I know my neighbor on the left is a smoker and my neighbor across the street is cheating on his wife with a woman named Carol. Yet, all of this is surface information: I only know my neighbors from observations.
In fact, up until that moment, I wasn’t aware that there was a young family up the street with a little boy named Markus.
I’ve become so inwardly focused that I forget to stop and truly get to know people. I think I’m so busy that I can’t bake a tray of brownies to bring over to my new neighbors and get to know them beyond the smoker that lives in their house. And I think I have better things to do than to get to know the torn family across the street who suffers daily from having a father who’s barely around.
My revere was broken by a sudden chill that shook my body as my wet clothes clung to my frame. Without delay, I hurried home to avoid the eventual torrential downpour.
I let my dog into the house and hurried downstairs to grab a towel for his muddy paws. Once I returned from my trip to the basement, I made a pit stop at the pantry.
I sat a box of brownie mix on the counter.
Suddenly, my dog noticed the girl and sprinted toward her while leaving rope (or in this case, leash) burn in his absence. My palms seared in pain but I recovered quickly to run after my dog.
She giggled as he ambushed her rosy cheeks with sloppy licks. I was scared he’d knock her over but she had no fear of my excitable dog.
I grabbed ahold of his leash and saw his muddy, wet paws were making a mess of her pants.
“Sorry about my dog! He gets so happy to meet new people that he doesn’t realize the mess he’s making,” I said, out of breath.
My dog was almost finished with his greeting as evident by the little licks to her nose. She resumed petting his wet fur. “It’s okay. She’s so cute! What’s her name?”
I sighed. Apparently boys can’t be adorable balls of creamy fur with floppy caramel ears. “It’s a he. And his name is Frosty.”
The corners of her mouth perked up. “Like the snowman?!”
I nodded. “Exactly like the snowman. My family bought him around Christmas and the breeders thought to name all their December puppies something Christmas-y.”
She smiled and kept petting my dog. She had run out of small talk topics but I had one nagging question left to ask.
“So, what brings you to this street in the rain? I’ve never seen you around here before.”
Immediately, she responded, “I’m going to see my friend Markus! It’s his birthday today and my whole class is invited over to play.”
I laughed and she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. She wouldn’t understand it now, but in the coming years, her attitude toward boys would completely change. Soon, they’ll become repulsive and cootie-infested, yet later, they’ll become attractive and sought-after.
“Well, have fun! Tell Markus I said happy birthday!”
She stopped petting my dog and said, “Okay, and thanks for letting me pet your dog!” She resumed skipping up the street to Markus’ house and it was all I could do to hold onto the leash to keep my dog from running after his new best friend.
My dog and I stood together and watched the little girl ring the bell on the grey house’s door. Judging by the bundle of rainbow balloons tied to the lamppost, I was reasonably sure she had the right house. My assumption was further confirmed by Markus and his parents opening the door and letting the girl into their home filled with crazy children on a sugar high.
Oh, how it is to be young.
When I was young, I too went to birthday parties, ate too much cake, and knew everyone in the neighborhood. Now that I’m older, I stay at home, eat kale, and know no one in my neighborhood.
I’m not complaining that I’ve acquired healthier eating habits. However, I’m displeased with my recent status of hermit.
Sure, I know my neighbor on the left is a smoker and my neighbor across the street is cheating on his wife with a woman named Carol. Yet, all of this is surface information: I only know my neighbors from observations.
In fact, up until that moment, I wasn’t aware that there was a young family up the street with a little boy named Markus.
I’ve become so inwardly focused that I forget to stop and truly get to know people. I think I’m so busy that I can’t bake a tray of brownies to bring over to my new neighbors and get to know them beyond the smoker that lives in their house. And I think I have better things to do than to get to know the torn family across the street who suffers daily from having a father who’s barely around.
My revere was broken by a sudden chill that shook my body as my wet clothes clung to my frame. Without delay, I hurried home to avoid the eventual torrential downpour.
I let my dog into the house and hurried downstairs to grab a towel for his muddy paws. Once I returned from my trip to the basement, I made a pit stop at the pantry.
I sat a box of brownie mix on the counter.
Emily Reed is a member of the Class of 2019 and attends Linganore High School. She enjoys writing poetry and newspaper articles for The Lance, going on nature walks, and spending quality time with her dog. She hopes to attend college after high school to become an English teacher.
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