Hairy/Blackie

When I was thirteen, summer afternoons stretched like golden ribbons, and the world seemed vast and full of hidden adventures. My dog Snoop and I were inseparable, roaming our neighborhood with a carefree spirit. One of those afternoons, as the sun dipped low and cast long shadows on the sidewalk, our little world expanded in the most unexpected way.

We had just finished a game of fetch in the park when Snoop’s attention was drawn to something unusual near the edge of our street. There, huddled by a streetlamp, was a small black cockapoo with an air of forlorn mystery. His coat was a tangled mess, but the most striking thing about him was his beard and mustache, which gave him the appearance of a tiny, furry gentleman lost in thought.

I felt an instant connection with the scruffy creature. He looked at us with eyes that seemed to convey both curiosity and a touch of sadness. No tags, no collar—he seemed like he’d been discarded or lost. I crouched down, and the little dog shuffled over tentatively, sniffing the air. Snoop, ever the social butterfly, bounded up and introduced himself with a wagging tail.

We brought him home, and my mom was initially skeptical. But she saw the same spark in those dark, soulful eyes that I did. We gave him a quick bath, and once he was clean, his beard and mustache stood out even more, making him look like a charming little wizard from some whimsical tale.

My mom wanted to name him Blackey, a name she thought was fitting for his dark fur. But to me, he was a free spirit, and the name Hairy seemed to capture his wild, adventurous essence perfectly. Every day with Hairy was an adventure. He and Snoop became fast friends, and together they were a bundle of mischief and joy.

Hairy had this knack for finding the smallest gaps in fences or the tiniest openings in doors, which he used to stage little escapades. Despite my mom’s insistence on calling him Blackey, I’d always call him Hairy, and he’d respond with a wag and a playful bark.

We’d spend afternoons in the backyard, where Hairy would dig with a fervor that was almost artistic. I’d watch as he wriggled and wrangled his way through the dirt, sometimes emerging with a proud, triumphant yelp. Snoop would look on with amusement, his own version of a cheerleader.

But then, as abruptly as he’d arrived, Hairy vanished one day. I came home from school to find a gap under the fence wider than usual. It was like he had simply slipped through, as if he was a spirit too restless to stay in one place. We searched everywhere, but there was no sign of him. I like to think he found a new adventure, somewhere beyond our street—a place where he could dig and run free, just as he always wanted.

The days turned into weeks, and though I missed him dearly, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Hairy living out his days in wild, uncharted places. He had brought so much joy and laughter into our lives, even if only for a brief time.

Whenever I see a small black dog with a beard and mustache, I’m reminded of Hairy, that tiny, free-spirited adventurer. I like to think he’s still out there, chasing shadows and living the life he was meant to lead, with Snoop in his memory and the name Hairy whispered on the breeze.