Stay!: Keeper's Story by Lois Lowry Page A
Authors: Lois Lowry
commented, "We have to get Keeper a license."
I had one already, of course. Back in the city, back in the apartment I had shared with the photographer, my small metal license tag dangled from the collar that was usually kept, along with the leash, on a hook in the kitchen. I suppose the photographer, by now, had enshrined it in some nostalgic fashion. Perhaps it was framed.
Yes, I like to think that it was framed: encased in glass, perhaps with a small engraved label saying PAL . Perhaps there would be dates, indicating my tenure. It would no doubt hang on the wall near the piano.
Thinking about it, I confess that I choked up a bit. I visualized the photographer there in the apartment, maybe with some friends over for dinner. Afterward, during coffee, someone would move to the piano and let his fingers drift into some old show tune. Then his eye would catch the newly framed memento on the wall. The label, engraved PAL. And the small license tag (perhaps bronzed now) fastened meticulously onto a piece of velvet.
The photographer would tell my story, and the pianist would play softly in the background. There would likely be moist eyes and a moment of silence.
I might, I supposed, even become the lyrics of a song.
Gentle Pal, O dog supreme—
Where are you now? What might have been?
Well, it didn't rhyme exactly. Maybe if I changed the first line to "O dog so clean. " If "been" were pronounced the British way...
No. Maybe " O dog, my Pal through thick or thin— "
Well! That was it, of course. Sometimes, through careful revision, a true poet finds his way to the perfect combination of words.
"I've made an appointment with the vet," Emily's mother was saying. "He has to have a rabies shot before we can get the license."
Of course she didn't know that I had already had all my shots. But I didn't care. I'd have them again—and again and again—if it meant that I would be licensed, I would be legal, I would be theirs.
I bounded toward the stairs, intending to tell the news to Bert and Ernie, who would inevitably be found on Emily's bed, posing as pillows. Never the closest of buddies, we nonetheless did communicate from time to time. Pausing on the staircase, where I was still in full view of the inhabitants of the living room, Emily and her mother, I assumed a proud and regal pose, a pose of gratitude.
Observe the dog! He's yours! You're his!
What a glorious day this is!
They paid no attention of course, because my poetry was inaudible to humans. But Emily did glance up, saw me posing there, and smiled. So I continued up the stairs.
Bert and Ernie were, as I had known they would be, curled up together, asleep on Emily's bed. I nosed them awake. They both yawned and looked at me with sleepy impatience.
"Whaaaaat?" they asked. "What do you waaaant?" The cats had a habit of speaking in concert, and their voices were reedy whines, very unlike the assertive, imperious way a dog speaks.
"I'm to be licensed," I announced proudly, and with gruff humility.
Bert yawned again, and stretched. Ernie licked his paws fastidiously.
"Whhhhy?" they asked.
"Well, of course you wouldn't understand. Cats don't have to be licensed. But when a dog is chosen by a family—when a family commits itself to the lifelong care of a dog—"
Bert and Ernie looked at each other and yawned in unison. Bert began to tend his whiskers. Ernie languidly clenched and unclenched his paws, making claws appear and disappear in a shockingly exhibitionistic way. Through slitted eyes he examined each claw, assessing its beauty. It was clear that they were both jealous of me.
"—then the dog receives a license. It's a sort of public statement. An emblem," I continued, pretending not to notice that they were ignoring me out of spiteful envy.
"A license," they chorused in their smirking, pompous voices.
"I composed a poem for the occasion," I told them, and recited it dramatically.
Observe the dog! He's yours! You're his!
What a glorious day this
I had one already, of course. Back in the city, back in the apartment I had shared with the photographer, my small metal license tag dangled from the collar that was usually kept, along with the leash, on a hook in the kitchen. I suppose the photographer, by now, had enshrined it in some nostalgic fashion. Perhaps it was framed.
Yes, I like to think that it was framed: encased in glass, perhaps with a small engraved label saying PAL . Perhaps there would be dates, indicating my tenure. It would no doubt hang on the wall near the piano.
Thinking about it, I confess that I choked up a bit. I visualized the photographer there in the apartment, maybe with some friends over for dinner. Afterward, during coffee, someone would move to the piano and let his fingers drift into some old show tune. Then his eye would catch the newly framed memento on the wall. The label, engraved PAL. And the small license tag (perhaps bronzed now) fastened meticulously onto a piece of velvet.
The photographer would tell my story, and the pianist would play softly in the background. There would likely be moist eyes and a moment of silence.
I might, I supposed, even become the lyrics of a song.
Gentle Pal, O dog supreme—
Where are you now? What might have been?
Well, it didn't rhyme exactly. Maybe if I changed the first line to "O dog so clean. " If "been" were pronounced the British way...
No. Maybe " O dog, my Pal through thick or thin— "
Well! That was it, of course. Sometimes, through careful revision, a true poet finds his way to the perfect combination of words.
"I've made an appointment with the vet," Emily's mother was saying. "He has to have a rabies shot before we can get the license."
Of course she didn't know that I had already had all my shots. But I didn't care. I'd have them again—and again and again—if it meant that I would be licensed, I would be legal, I would be theirs.
I bounded toward the stairs, intending to tell the news to Bert and Ernie, who would inevitably be found on Emily's bed, posing as pillows. Never the closest of buddies, we nonetheless did communicate from time to time. Pausing on the staircase, where I was still in full view of the inhabitants of the living room, Emily and her mother, I assumed a proud and regal pose, a pose of gratitude.
Observe the dog! He's yours! You're his!
What a glorious day this is!
They paid no attention of course, because my poetry was inaudible to humans. But Emily did glance up, saw me posing there, and smiled. So I continued up the stairs.
Bert and Ernie were, as I had known they would be, curled up together, asleep on Emily's bed. I nosed them awake. They both yawned and looked at me with sleepy impatience.
"Whaaaaat?" they asked. "What do you waaaant?" The cats had a habit of speaking in concert, and their voices were reedy whines, very unlike the assertive, imperious way a dog speaks.
"I'm to be licensed," I announced proudly, and with gruff humility.
Bert yawned again, and stretched. Ernie licked his paws fastidiously.
"Whhhhy?" they asked.
"Well, of course you wouldn't understand. Cats don't have to be licensed. But when a dog is chosen by a family—when a family commits itself to the lifelong care of a dog—"
Bert and Ernie looked at each other and yawned in unison. Bert began to tend his whiskers. Ernie languidly clenched and unclenched his paws, making claws appear and disappear in a shockingly exhibitionistic way. Through slitted eyes he examined each claw, assessing its beauty. It was clear that they were both jealous of me.
"—then the dog receives a license. It's a sort of public statement. An emblem," I continued, pretending not to notice that they were ignoring me out of spiteful envy.
"A license," they chorused in their smirking, pompous voices.
"I composed a poem for the occasion," I told them, and recited it dramatically.
Observe the dog! He's yours! You're his!
What a glorious day this