IT BEGAN on the bottom of a canoe in the middle of Boggy Lake, some sixty miles from home and fifty yards from solid ground. The gentle rocking of the boat was lulling me to sleep when I felt Mr. Monroe’s hand come to rest on that spot between the tops of my ears where the hair goes every which way and the scalp seems to lie forever in wait for a little love and attention. I sighed. Three pats usually led to some vigorous scratching. But this time something was wrong. Mr. Monroe didn’t lift his hand after the second pat. Instead, he left it there flat and heavy, like an iron forgotten in the rush of attending to more pressing matters.
I looked up, hoping to hear that he’d grown tired of fishing and was ready to head back to the cabin and cook up some s’mores. Ever since Toby and Pete had introduced me to those gooey, crispy, chocolaty delights the summer before, I couldn’t get enough. But s’mores were not what was on Mr. Monroe’s mind. Alas. No, he was in the mood for reflection. And who better to share such moments, he was undoubtedly thinking, than man’s best friend himself?
“Harold,” he said, staring off at the pine trees along the lake’s edge, “I’m going to be forty soon.
You know what that means, don’t you?”
Birthday cake, I thought.
“It means half my life is over. Half my road is traveled. Half my songs are sung.” I’d never thought about middle age that way before. Gee, I thought, half my naps are taken.
I whimpered sympathetically.
Mr. Monroe looked at me and smiled. “You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you, ol’ buddy?” In all the years I’d known him he’d never called me ol’ buddy. I mean, he’s a college professor. This was serious. “You know what we need? We need an adventure, Harold. We need to do something we’ve never done before. Something we always wanted to do in our youth but never did.” I never chewed a chair leg, I thought. That would be fun. “Listen, boy, we’re only here for a few days, but we still have time to do something new and adventurous and fun. Let’s go on an overnight camping trip! We’ll sleep out in the open, under the stars. What do you think, Harold?”
Mosquitoes, I thought. Ticks, I thought. Cockleburs. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea at all. But then something else occurred to me.