Writing Contest

Spring 2015 Winner

 

And the winner is...Ariadne Lukas from Vernon Hills, Illinois. Congratulations Ariadne! The prompt for this contest was the first two sentences.

 

 

Super Ritchie

 

 

It all started when my dog ran away—well not ran exactly. The best he could manage at fourteen years old and thirty pounds overweight was a purposeful lumber.

 

It happened when I was moving my stuff back home after graduating from college, and I made the mistake of propping the front door open to bring in some boxes from my truck. Mom had warned me that Ritchie made a habit of escaping a few times a year. He always came back on his own a few hours later. Nobody knew where he went.

 

I flung the door closed. I didn’t have time for this. Me and the guys from my high school were meeting up to play pool, just like the old days. But today was Ritchie’s birthday. And I knew he didn’t have many left. In fact, the vet had said this was probably his last. I figured with the pain in his hips and extra pounds, he wouldn’t get very far. Still, what if something happened? So I grabbed the leash and ran after him.

 

Great. My first day home, and I’m chasing a hundred-and-ten-pound Golden Retriever through the neighborhood out of breath. Boy, was I out of shape.

He ran two blocks to the walking path through the woods. It’s where I’d always taken him as a puppy. I’d ride my two-wheeler, while Ritchie ran right by my side. I never needed a leash back then. He followed me everywhere.

 

He crossed the bridge, then veered off the path and down toward the creek. I held in a chuckle as he scrambled clumsily over fallen logs and plunged chest first into the muddy creek.

 

“Ritchie. Come!” I clapped my hands. “Come get your ball.”

 

I was not going down there.

 

“Want chicken?” Surely he was hungry. “Bacon!”

 

Ritchie’s ears rotated toward my voice like mini satellite dishes. But he pushed forward. Bacon was his weakness. One time he’d jumped our fence and downed the neighbor’s entire unattended plate of freshly grilled bacon. I didn’t blame him. The whole neighborhood smelled delicious that day.

 

But there was something down there he wanted more than bacon. I sighed in resignation. I’d have to climb down there and get him.

 

I must have said every swear word I knew as branches scratched my head and I struggled to find a safe place to plant each foot. Ritchie turned to look at me just as my next step sank in mud.

 

“Wait till I get my hands on you.” But he knew I’d never do anything but dig my fingers into his neck for a good scratch, rub his velvety tummy, and share my bed with him—even if it meant I only got a small strip at the edge. I realized I’d be spending the next hour scrubbing him in the tub.

 

He cocked his head and shook, then turned to look to the other side of the creek. Just as I reached the bottom, he scrambled out onto the other side, forcing me into the ice-cold water after him.

 

Here, the forest was so dense I thought Ritchie’s plump body would get stuck between the tree trunks. All I saw was his tail swiping between the trunks. The deeper we went, the faster he seemed to go, like whatever he wanted was now just a few sniffs away.

 

I struggled to keep up and breathe. So. Out. Of. Shape.

I stopped. I was pathetic. A twenty-one-year-old who couldn’t keep up with an old, overweight, sick dog.

“Ritchie.” My winded voice pierced the forest air.

 

He stopped.

 

Finally. I bent over, my hands on my knees, and gasped for a deep breath. I pulled the leash from my pocket, straightened up, and stumbled toward Ritchie. He turned to look at me, his eyebrows knotted in concern. A resolute spark in his eyes told me he was not done. No, something was driving him deeper into the woods, and he wasn’t stopping until he reached it.

 

“Ritchie. Please, wait.” As if he would listen.

 

Then he stopped.

 

I came closer as he sniffed frantically along the ground.

“Come on, Ritchie. Enough.”

 

He started to dig. Leaves and branches flew behind him until he reached loose topsoil. Then he kept digging.

“What is it, boy?” Now I was curious what the heck he was after.

 

Ritchie stopped digging. He sank his teeth into the dirt and pulled out a muddy object. With his nose high in the air, he walked right up to me and dropped it at my feet. I picked it up and turned it over.
“What the—?”

 

My Spiderman action figure.

 

The one I thought was long gone with the boxes of toys Mom gave away. The one with the magnetic hover board that actually climbed walls.

 

I ran over to the river and dipped him in the cold water, moving his arms and legs to clean out the dirt. Then I sat on the ground and propped him on a rock.

 

“You found him.” I was a little boy again.

 

Ritchie sat there with his tongue swinging in a happy dance. Then he barked and pranced with excitement.

The day I’d gotten him as a puppy, I’d brought Ritchie into these woods, and it had become our favorite place to explore. I’d fly down the path on my bike pretending to be Spiderman, while Ritchie was my superhero flying dog. I’d outgrown this place probably ten years ago.

But Ritchie never did.

 

Over the next few minutes, Ritchie proudly unearthed a collection of yellow tennis balls, two Ninja Turtles, and my Batmobile. He watched me wash them off in the river, and then we played. Just like old times.

 

For me, it was the most unexpected welcome home present. For Ritchie, I think it was the best birthday he’d had since I’d gone and grown up on him.