An Ode to Otis
Otis on canvas by Augusta Hyland Wilson
Summertime is the only time I feel sorry for Otis. It’s hot and he can’t handle it. And other than the stretch from June to August, that dog doesn’t have it so bad. Not in the slightest. But, boy, come June, you’d think he was dying from a heat stroke with the drama that ensues after he’s out back … he’ll throw himself under the ceiling fan in the living room like he’s dying, then go to our mudroom and dunk his entire face in his water dish, look up pitifully with water dripping down as if to say, “It’s so rough out there, you have no idea.”
I wanted a dog most of my life. I spent every birthday hoping for one, but it never came. When my brother (who’s the oldest) was a baby, my parents had Basset Hounds, Buck and Maggie, but they eventually had to put Buck down for violently biting my brother, and later, they gave Maggie away. I think the heartbreak from both was so devastating they never got another dog. But, that’s just my theory on the matter.
