I was looking forward to catching up with my old friend, this day. It’s 6 o’clock and Jerry, the Wonder Mutt, sits on the mat at my front door, looking back at me, his belly newly filled with a “delicious selection of chicken and vegetables to meet a dog’s demanding day.” He waits patiently for his evening walk that will relieve him of yesterday’s delicious selection of chicken and vegetables.
I decide to treat him to the Biggie Walk. (And yes, Jerry seems to understand what “Biggie Walk” means.) The Biggie Walk takes me from Vanderhoof and Sutherland, north, through the stone entrance of the Lyndhurst Rehab Centre. It’s here that I meet up with my old friend…Stick. Stick stays hidden until I come get him on one of these long walks. I let Jerry off his lead and together, the three of us set out.
I found Stick about two years ago. He was lying in some rotting leaves amidst other sticks that didn’t interest me at all. For some reason Stick stuck out. He wasn’t particularly attractive. His bark was patchy, and woodworm had mapped a debossed highway up and down his length. When I picked him up, he was the perfect length, just high enough to allow my arm to bend at a 45-degree angle when swung forward. His top had a natural “handle” that felt good in my hand. He wasn’t particularly hefty, though. In truth, he probably couldn’t sustain my full weight without snapping. But something about him made me think he’d still try. Stick seemed to have heart.
I have been proven right many times. Stick has helped me navigate that ice-covered hill down to the dog park, in winter. The same park where he once fended off a frothing husky from attacking Jerry last summer. And he kept me from sliding backwards on the mud path just past the horse barns, this spring.
We continue our loop, down the hill, over the creek, past the off-leash park, around the cricket fields, down the steps into Sunnybrook, across the steel bridge and up to the Serena Gundy stone entrance. The whole route takes almost an hour and a half. Hence “Biggie Walk.” It’s here that I veer off the path and put Stick in his other hiding spot. Jerry keeps a lookout. We say our goodbyes.
As I come to the path, I see someone walking towards me and then pass. Did they see what I was doing? Should I go back and get Stick? Embarrassment stops me, and I carry on up the hill. But something doesn’t feel right. I’m compelled to turn around. Immediately, I’m hit with panic. The kind that every parent knows when they lose sight of their child in a crowd. The stranger has Stick in his hands. I yell after him, “Hey, you took my Stick!”
He looks at me, “It’s a good stick.”
“I found him! Uh, it!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll put it back,” says Stranger, as he walks away, Stick in hand.
Shocked at the audacity, I was also angered. But mostly sad. Yes, I know it’s “just a stick.” I know I can’t “own” a stick, I think to myself. But I have a connection with that Stick.
It was at this point, that Sally walked by. We exchanged a pleasant “hello” and Sally commented on Jerry as I struggled to prevent him from jumping on her. Before realizing it, I was relating my story about Stick to her.
“Is that rude? Or is it just me?” I asked.
“No, that’s YOUR stick. You’re attached to it.”
Sally got me. Sally is in her 80s and has been living in Leaside for decades. And as it turns out, Sally had a Tree.
“It was on Bayview. Every day, I used to walk by that tree, touch it and say ‘Hello, Tree.’ I’d talk to it. Then one day, I came by, and my Tree was gone. Just gone. I was so sad.”
We continued to talk as we walked to Sally’s street. And as I waved goodbye and turned to head home, it occurred to me that if I hadn’t lost Stick that day, I wouldn’t have found Sally.
Now, before you break out the tissue box, I did go back to the scene of the abduction the next day. To my surprise, and joy, Stick was where I always leave him. The Stranger had returned him.
The three of us walked – me, Jerry and Stick. And although Stick couldn’t tell me about the adventure he’d had the day before, I told him about Sally and her Tree.
This article was guest contributed by David Crichton.