Mismatched Mitts

Every January I take a walk along a trail back home. It’s almost always deserted except for this one winter, when I was coming around a corner and a strangely familiar dog comes running towards me. As I kneel to pet it, a little girl ,likely its owner, chases closely behind. Exhausted, she thanks me for stopping him and we start talking about the dog. At one point she asks me why I am wearing two different gloves. I attempt to avoid the conversation with a shrug and say “It’s nothing”. She expresses curiosity and says that her and her dog would love to hear why. I go on telling her that when I was younger I had a dog of my own, his name was Max.

My parents finally agreed to get me a dog under the usual conditions. “Will you take him out for walks?”, “Will you remember to feed him?”, “Will you clean the yard?” Without hesitation, I enthusiastically answered yes to all of the above and late that night they brought him home. For years I enjoyed spending time and playing with Max, especially in the winter, when he would humorously pull a mitt off your hand and run away with it. Until one winter he became ill and when we took him to the vet we were told that without surgery, he would have to be put to sleep. Our family did not have enough money for the operation leaving us with a sad realization. The next day I was with Max when he took his last breaths, thinking that even though he was still in front of me, he was gone. When I got home that evening, I gathered all his toys in a box and placed it beside a box of old winter cloths and right then noticed how many pairs of mitts and gloves that didn’t have a match. Since then, every January I walk down his favorite trail wearing a different mitt on each hand from Max’s box.

Submitted By Marco Cecchetto