"It’s Bertie’s dinner. It’s Bertie’s dinner," Bertie’s dad sang happily as he heated up a little bit of chicken in Bertie’s purple bowl and then added a cup of dry kibble on top. Bertie wagged his tail and jumped around on his hind legs.
"Do you want your dinner?" Bertie’s dad asked playfully. He asked that every night, and Bertie always wondered why.
"Of course I want my dinner," Bertie thought to himself as he cheerfully barked. He liked the dinner game. "Why wouldn’t I want my dinner?"
Bertie’s dad took the purple bowl into the laundry room. Bertie chased after him; his nails clicking on the wooden floor of the kitchen. Bertie watched as his father set the bowl on the black woven placemat that matched the room’s black and white tile floor. That was Bertie’s special eating place--his own little corner of the bright yellow laundry room.
"Sit," Bertie’s dad commanded. Bertie sat.
"Good boy," Bertie’s father laughed. "Now you can eat." Bertie hungrily pushed his face into the purple bowl, using his nose to move the dry food aside so that he could get to the chicken faster. He’d eat the kibble afterwards.
"Why do I have to sit before I eat?" Bertie thought as he rooted around for more chicken shreds. "He doesn’t have to stand before he eats." Bertie chuckled to himself, "Oh well, he’s a good daddy anyway." Bertie found another hidden pocket of chicken and chomped on it happily. "Mmmmmm...chicken, chicken, chicken."
As he munched Bertie remembered the Oklahoma chickens again--how they would squawk and flap when he chased them. He remembered white feathers gently fluttering down everywhere like the cold stuff that his daddy called "snow."
Bertie had liked to chase the chickens. He was only a baby at the time. And, chasing chickens seemed to be about the best thing in the world. He had only wanted to chase them just to see them run and hear the funny noises they made. He didn’t want to hurt them--not really.
Bertie began crunching on his dry food. He heard the sounds of pots clanking together in the kitchen. His daddy was cooking his own dinner--softly singing to himself in words that Bertie didn’t know yet. Bertie focused his attention on his dry food and tried to remember more about the chickens.
There was one particular day, Bertie remembered, that one of the chickens had been a little slower than the others. Bertie remembered running faster to make the chicken speed up. But, it hadn’t. "What had happened then?" Bertie wondered.
"Oh yes," Bertie sighed. "I remember."
Bertie finished his dry food, took a few drinks of water from the other purple bowl and wandered back into the kitchen. His daddy was standing at the counter, chopping something with a knife. Bertie glanced up at the stovetop. He could see steam rising from a pan and he could smell the unmistakable aroma of sun dried tomatoes. Bertie walked over to his daddy and wiped his white beard on the back of his father’s pant leg.
His daddy laughed, "I take it you’re finished, good boy."
Bertie lay down between his father’s feet and the counter. That way if anything fell off the counter, Bertie would be sure to catch it and eat it before his father could pick it up. His daddy regularly dropped tasty things: broccoli, cheese, and mushrooms.
Bertie put his head on his father’s foot and casually licked his daddy’s fuzzy black socks. Again, he remembered chickens.
What had happened that day? Bertie remembered the one chicken wouldn’t speed up, and before Bertie knew what had happened, he had caught the chicken in his mouth. It squawked and flapped its wings. Bertie had tossed the chicken up into the air and caught it in his mouth--just like he always did with his toys. But, the chicken didn’t seem happy.
Bertie remembered how he tried to be gentle with the chicken. He hadn’t chomped on it too hard. He hadn’t wanted to hurt it.
Bertie shut his eyes and thought as the smell of tomatoes and pasta filled his nose. Bertie’s daddy dropped a piece of cheese.
"Oops," he said. Bertie happily gobbled it up.
"You’re a good little helper, Bertram," Bertie’s daddy said as he reached down and patted Bertie on his head. "Thanks for helping me clean up."
Bertie licked his daddy’s hand before his father moved over to the stove and began stirring whatever was in the pan.
Certain that nothing else would be falling from the counter, Bertie walked over to the hallway and lay down on the long carpet runner. He could remember chomping down on the chicken. And, then he remembered what happened next.
A man had hollered and shouted at Bertie. Bertie had felt the man’s rough hand grab him by the fur on the back of his neck. Bertie remembered dropping the chicken and before he knew it he had been tossed inside a dark room that smelled of hay and other animals. It had hurt and Bertie remembered licking his paws to make himself feel better. "I didn’t hurt it," Bertie thought to himself. "I didn’t hurt the chicken--just scared it a little."
Bertie growled to himself. He didn’t like remembering these things. He licked his feet then, too. Just to make himself feel better.
He watched as his daddy poured the colorful, steaming hot pasta into a green bowl and walk over to the white kitchen table. "Come here, Bert!" His daddy called. Bertie sprang up and bounded over to the table, sitting by his daddy’s feet. As he ran, the tags on his green collar jingled.
"There’s nowhere else I’d rather be," Bertie thought as he put his chin on his daddy’s black-socked foot. Bertie decided he was going to stop thinking about chickens and mean farmers--at least for awhile. "I’m happy here," Bertie thought. "I can’t imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else."
But, that hadn’t always been the case. There were times before Bertie had lived in Texas, when he was still a pup in Oklahoma, that Bertie had wanted to run away--and he did.
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