Phil and Chiefy

Thinking of the Old English Sheepdogs we have been privileged to have in our home.

It brought back a tender memory.

Of a little boy who loved one of them...

Okay. Picture him even smaller and glued to a dog...

Phil was a tiny boy.

Not yet two.

With the dubious honour of being both the youngest of the ‘Three Musketeers’ and of his family of seven.

He had been dropped off at Auntie and Uncle’s place for a few days while Mom and Dad took a brief holiday.

For the first few minutes, he followed sisters and brothers around the unfamiliar house, whimpering and trying to make sure they didn’t disappear.

Like his parents had done. 

Then he saw his Auntie’s three Old English Sheepdogs.

Tears were forgotten as his face brightened. 

His small world . . . changed.

For the next two days, Phil attached himself, quite literally, to the big male, Chiefy.

Whom, in his baby way, he thought was called ‘Chiefy-Sit’.

During that time, whenever Chiefy moved, it was with two small hands clutching fistfuls of long, grey hair and a little man toddling along as fast as he could, babbling, “Chiefy-Sit! Chiefy-Sit!”

When Chiefy finally did ‘sit’, Phil would pounce on him. Burying his little face in the soft, gray hair.

If Phil was distracted and moved away, Chiefy followed.

When the little boy slept in his crib, it was with one small hand through the bars, still clutching the long, soft hair.

They were quite literally, inseparable.

It was a short, sweet, two days.

But it ended.

Phil’s family moved away and visits were few and far between.

He grew up and Chiefy grew old.

They never saw each-other again.

Twenty years after this story, Husby and I travelled down to Portland, Oregon to witness Phil and his bride marry.

Since then, he’s become a father and graduated medical school.

He is a plastic surgeon now.

All grown up.

But in my mind, he will always be that little boy.

Clutching the soft grey hair of his short-term furry best friend. . .