A shroud of clouds wrapped the sky in gray. Throughout the day sizeable snowflakes white-washed the familiar landscape into a foreign terrain. The afternoon was turning dusky and Olivia, my five-year-old daughter, stood at the window. She couldn’t wait one more minute. “The snows stopping momma! Let’s go!”
I’d promised her, if the weather allowed, a snowman building expedition and now it looked like I was about to forfeit my warm fingers and toes. We outfitted ourselves in hats, boots, scarfs, gloves, coats, snow pants and headed outside. Giddy with anticipation, Olivia giggled as she took giant kindergarten steps in the deep white and carved snow angels with her quilted-coat body. We patted and rolled the snow into three large, lopsided balls, stacked them on top of each other and completed Frosty’s face with objects I’d brought from the house.
“Momma, there’s snow in my boot. My sock’s wet.” She lifted her left foot and tried to pull up the leg of her pants. We’d been outside for a while and the cold was deepening.
“How about if we get your boots off and warm up with some hot chocolate,” I said.
“No! Not yet. Six more minutes.” Her five-year-old mind thought that was a long time.
“Well why don’t we go in the garage for a second and get the snow out. Maybe get some dry socks.”
She followed me into the garage and plopped down on the cement floor. I tugged her boot off and felt her wet sock. “Momma, look,” she said pointing straight ahead. I turned around and into the garage ambled a hefty, sandy colored dog. I’d seen the large dog before trotting the sidewalks and playing with the neighborhood kids. He belonged to someone, his collar and tag gave that away, but I had no idea who. I felt confident he wasn’t a threat as he lazily loitered in the garage and wagged his tail. He sniffed the bikes, the shovels, the bags of fertilizer. Olivia patted her legs and yelled for the dog to “come here.” She reached out as he walked close. She rubbed his head, combed her fingers through the thick fur on his side, then laughed as he stepped between her outstretched legs and began sniffing the boot that stood beside her. “He’s smelling my boot,” Olivia said laughing. She watched him put his nose inside the wet shoe.
It was at this moment that her delight turned to horror. The con artist (otherwise disguised as an innocent canine) snatched the boot in his mouth and galloped away. He was half way down the driveway, carrying his pink and white trophy, when Olivia realized he wasn’t coming back.
“My boot!” she screamed. “My boot! He took my boot!” Her frantic tears came fast. With one foot clad in a sock, and the other in a snow boot, she ran out of the garage hobbling up and down through the snow, chasing and howling at the bandit. Her blundering pursuit was short lived, however, as she watched the dog dart quickly between two houses and disappear. Olivia turned back to home, gasping between sobs.
I hugged her, tried to dry her red cheeks and reassure her that it was going to be okay; I’d buy another pair of boots. The howling escalated. “NO,” she wailed. “I need my boot!” Nothing I said calmed her.
The door to the house opened and Kevin, her dad, stood in the doorway curious about the scene playing out in front of him.
“What’s going on?”
I tried to explain, with the loud sobbing backdrop, about the boot, the dog, and her tears.
He looked at Olivia and I watched his expression turn soft.“Wanna go look for it?”
Her sobbing slowed and she nodded her head up and down. “We’ll find it, right Daddy?”
No, I thought. This wasn’t a good idea. That dog and boot could be anywhere; a proverbial needle in a haystack. This escapade would only get Olivia more upset. I faced Kevin and gave him a steely, “don’t do this” glare.
“It’s worth a try,” he said ignoring my warning.
Olivia’s sorrow quickly turned to hope. “Let’s go Daddy! Let’s go.”
She pulled on his hand and the two of them got in the car and drove slowly away. Olivia’s face an inch from the window – staring, searching, hoping.
I waited in the house, worried about the outcome. Thirty minutes passed and the front door banged open. Olivia rushed in proudly holding the boot high in the air. “Momma, we found it! We found it!”
With complete wonder I looked at her prize. Kevin explained that after several minutes of vigilant searching, they spotted the running outlaw; his mouth, however, was empty. Kevin parked the car close to where they saw the dog, walked through snow and slush, and in the odds and ends of a rutted suburban construction site they found the dirty boot.
Olivia wore the boots devotedly all winter and when spring cleaning arrived, she refused to let them go. Years later I found them in the back of her closet and packed them away with her baby booties, first soccer cleats, and prom heels.
She’s grown now. Moved out. Work meetings and graduate school have taken the place of pink and white snow-boot excursions. Yet, she comes home often. She sits and laughs and talks. Today she is standing in the garage with her dad. This time she is 23-years-old and he is 60.
I watch her open the car passenger door for Kevin.
“Ready Daddy?” She asked. She never shortened the name to Dad.
“Yep,” Kevin said with a laugh. “Let the fun begin.” Olivia smiled and patted his back.
It’s chemo day. Olivia wants to take him. I wave from the garage and watch the two of them drive away. Both of them staring, searching, and hoping.
