A Familiar Face

Alan knelt, his fingers tracing the almost imperceptible indentation in the soft earth. The air, thick with the scent of damp soil and pine needles, carried a faint sweetness that tickled his memory. It wasn't the wild, untamed perfume of the woods; it was something more domesticated, something familiar. He looked at the bright, cerulean ribbon, a small splash of defiant color against the muted greens and browns of the forest floor. It was tied in a surprisingly neat bow, a touch of whimsy that seemed out of place in the wilderness.

He’d seen ribbons like this before. Not on the puppies themselves – Mrs. Higgins had mentioned they were too young for such adornments – but on the collar of a dog. A particular dog. A dog known for his boundless energy and his even more boundless capacity for mischief. A dog named Barnaby.

Alan stood, brushing the dirt from his knees. Barnaby. The thought settled in his mind with a gentle certainty, like a puzzle piece clicking perfectly into place. Barnaby was a golden retriever, a lumbering, good-natured creature belonging to the folks at the Oakhaven farm, just a few fields over from Mrs. Higgins. Barnaby loved to play. He loved to chase. And, Alan remembered with a fond smile, he loved to “borrow” things. A favorite squeaky toy, a rogue gardening glove, anything that moved or made an interesting sound. He wasn’t malicious, not in the slightest. He was simply… enthusiastic. And, as Alan recalled a particular incident involving a runaway wheelbarrow and Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning petunias, he could also be remarkably forgetful.