Dad, when is Arnie going to become a dog?
The question was odd coming from his perch on my shoulders. I was slogging him up Apple hill. (It is a back trail by the house that leads 200 yards straight down to the pond, and straighter up to the house again. I had given up and let him run down, but was entrapped with the up hill portion.)
When will Arnie turn into a dog?
I had to re-ask.
Arnie Finkbiner is the black male cat we adopted one year ago, who has since fought a raccoon and lost, and discovered a hive of digger bees.
I don’t think he will.
But what about fwogs and bunnerflies?
The sun had come up the hill more so then the trip down 30 minuets ago. We carried stinky bog water filled pail, which was dripping down the front of my long boots. Since we had discovered the tadpoles and helped mom hatch butterflies in her classroom, we had been down to the wetlands regularly.
Well, they make a big change to become something different, a new animal.
Like when they die?
Yes. No. What. What? No they don’t die…they just change.
Like when we die?
Like when we die…what?
We come back.
Yes. But not as people.
There was a chill up my sipne, or the strain on my back on these mornings was becoming unbearable. Pushing the years at three, and tipping the scales at 35lbs, he was going to have to walk.
What do we come back as then?
But aren’t babies people?
He was silent.
You know what I will come back as?
And I know he will come around to become a great dad.
And maybe a great back surgeon too.