On black dog days, the door remained closed.
We crept around, ducking beneath shadows festering outside his study.
Mother said that for him, when the black dog came, there was no difference between day and night. He couldn’t help it, she said.
As we grew, we resented that gaping hole in the family where he used to exist, and we challenged him.
“C’mon Dad, get a grip…”
“Take a chill-pill, man…”
Finally he did… lots of them.
I sit at his desk. The dark shape in the corner rises, tongue lolling, waiting to play.
I get up and close the door.
I promised Rochelle I’d try to participate in Friday Fictioneers this week, but I’m afraid it’s a slightly edited re-tread from four years ago. I just don’t seem to have that imaginative edge right now, and I’m wondering when, if ever, it will return. If this story, which is one of my old favourites, strikes a chord with you, then please click on this link – it’s sweet and funny and informative – I never tire of re-visiting it.