Humphrey and I walked along Quarry Road, holding hands, as we had so many times before.
“Oh!” Humphrey said suddenly. He stopped and dropped my hand. “Look!”
It was a huge moon, orange above the trees.
“Whoa,” I said.
“Whoa,” he said.
“Okay,” I said after we were done admiring the moon, “now we really have to get going. I think when we get home it’ll be time for—”
“Second Dessert!” Humphrey said.
He started to run ahead of me.
“Humphrey!” I called.
He came back. We walked together, talking about what there was in the house for Second Dessert besides juice pops.
“You’re too slow!” Humphrey said. “Let’s run!”
“You have to stay right next to me,” I said, but I did break into a slow jog. At first, he ran right by my side. Humphrey was a good listener and followed directions. But soon he fell behind—even jogging slowly, with my long legs, I easily pulled ahead of Humphrey—so I turned around. When he saw me stopped and facing him, he put on some speed.
“Tackle!” he said.
Maybe six feet separated us, that was all. Humphrey ran into me. It didn’t hurt, but the football popped loose.
And then I said it.
“Fumble!”
I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking about what a good listener and direction-follower Humphrey was.
“Fumble!” he echoed, pleased as could be.
Fumble and pounce. Fumble and pounce.
Humphrey pounced, just like I had taught him.