Dad

While walking my dog Albert yesterday, oh, maybe a mile or two from my house, a little boy came running down the sidewalk, arms stretched wide.

“Doggy, doggy, doggy!”

The father raced after his kid and swept him up in a protective hug. A death grip, really.

“My dog is friendly; your son can pet him,” I said.

“Oh no,” he laughed nervously and squished the kid to his chest. “I’ve heard horror stories; what happens when a child pulls a dog’s ear or the tail.”

And Albert gave one of his many horrifying faces where his eyes cross and his tongue lolls, like he’s one whisky shy of a coma.

“OK, then. Have a nice evening.”

Oh, I’m so glad I didn’t have a father like that. Don’t give your kid the gift of fear. Over the deadly sins, fear should reign supreme. It can eat gluttony for dinner and still have room for vanity and lust.

My dad passed me many crosses, including a bad temper, impatience, and the ability to make a really vile pot of coffee. But whatever my fears, they did not come from him.

Today is the anniversary of his death. Or maybe it’s tomorrow – neither of us were any good with dates. I swear he never knew my birthday.

But he got lots of the important things right.

And he was a looker, wasn’t he? I always thought so.