Madagascar

He loved dogs, but he didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of owning one, on top of which the concept of  “owning” an animal made him uncomfortable. But he’d always stop to pet a friendly dog on the street or in a shop, and he’d jump at the chance to board a traveling friend’s dog for a few days, even weeks.

His wife was somewhat indifferent to dogs, but she always welcomed the temporary visitor, as long as he did the feeding and walking. She was even happy to steal the occasional stomach pat, or to receive a brief lick.

The friend’s dog, a medium-sized male of unknown lineage, was called Winslow. The friend referred to it as That Winslow Boy whenever it did something naughty.

He was walking Winslow one morning when a passing neighbor said, “Oh, got yourself a dog?”

“Just for a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’m caring for him while his owner is in Madagascar.” He regretted having said “owner.”

“Oh, Madagascar, marvelous!” the neighbor exclaimed, and went on to tell him, in voluminous detail, about her own trip to Madagascar the year before.

Hard Times

He received a phone call, out of the blue, from a childhood friend he hadn’t seen or spoken to in decades. This friend had fallen on hard times and was “reaching out” to his old buddies.

He had fond memories of the guy and did want to help, so he asked, “How can I help?”

“I could use a place to stay,” the friend said.

Oh, no, that was out of the question. Not only would his wife never stand for it, neither would he.

“I’d love to help, but we don’t have the space,” he told the friend.

“I understand,” the friend said. There was a pregnant pause and then the friend said, sheepishly, “Maybe you could help me out with a little money for a motel?”

Should he suggest the friend find a shelter, or would that be an insult? Sure he could afford to give his friend a few hundred bucks, but what happens when that runs out? What about the long term?

He told the old friend to meet him at an ATM downtown. He withdrew $500 and handed the cash to the friend.

“Thanks, this means a lot to me,” the friend said.

He was about to say, “Any time,” then he caught himself and said, “Sure.”

Endgame

Before he met his wife, in a college course on postwar European drama, where they bonded over Beckett’s Endgame, he was dating a girl named Josie, but there had been no real spark; apparently the feeling was mutual, because when he told Josie he’d met someone new, she said, simply, “OK.”

That was thirty years ago. He and his wife had not discussed Beckett for the past twenty of them. Like most marriages.