The Collected Works of Alex Finkelstein and Clifton Boyd

The dog sat there, his tounge hanging out, his tail hitting the ground rapidly. I was seven, and like many a seven year old, I loved dogs, I breathed dogs, and I saw dogs as frequently as I could. And I, of course, much to my Mother’s dismay, I spoke dogs. Frequently. Most of my speech resembled a mad lib. “Mom can I get a dog? I hear there is a new breed, the __________________ and it’s really good because __________ and ________! And I promise i’ll always walk him and feed him!” i would ask eagerly. And o course the frequent answer was no. But on the way home from school one day, I saw him, the perfect dog. Deep brown eyes, short brown hair, and admirable snout. I picked him up and ran home. “NO” my mom said firmly… 

I called out my son’s name and stared at my children, While my wife talked on and on about the newest sale over at Marshalls–The end of the year shoe sale. The thing was, it wasn’t even the end of the year yet, Only mid-november. I stared over at Sarah. She was running around the playstructure, taking in the air full of fun and frolic. I got up and I waved my hand toward her, to beckon her back to the minivan. My wife walked into the car and started it up. My children ran toward the door of the car. They hopped in and put on their wireless headphones, to watch the potable DVD player nested in our car.