The Search for the Great River Song Flag

 

I am very much loved and appreciated in our little home, but sometimes I feel neglected, not because I don’t get enough attention.  I am speaking, art-wise.  My parents have good friends who, over the years, painted pictures of Foley and Pocket.  While I treasure my time here, sometimes, I feel like Buggin’ Out sitting at Sal’s Pizzeria, wondering why there were no people who look like him on the walls.

I do have one beautiful photo of me standing in a kitchen chair reaching across the table for a crumb that was visually enhanced by Freddie Girl’s dad Steve.  It is strategically placed in the center of the living room wall, above the TV, so all it takes is a glance up for my parents to see it each night (and too many afternoons since COVID, I am not complaining.)  I think it is the best piece of artwork in the house.  But, quantity-wise, I was still trailing.

It was worse outside.  There is a flag hanging inside our porch, near a window, to be seen by people passing by.  It is a beautiful Yorkie flag sent by Angel Willie’s generous mom.  My parents would like to hang it outside, but when it becomes windy, the outdoor wood the flagpole screws into is no match for the gusting gales, and it snaps, and the flag always blows away.  Do not forget the wind.  It plays a significant role in this story.

Everything changed earlier this summer.  My parents had, in the past, small decorative flags, on a tiny holder in the front yard.  Inevitably the flag would fly off, blown away by the idiot wind.  Then, while looking online for toe jam, Daddy saw a new kind of holder that was guaranteed to secure the flags and keep it out of the breezes.  It had two clasps on top, and a device that snapped on to the bottom of the banner and connected to the stand, to ensure the pretty flag would not disappear during a Northeaster.

Then the flag arrived, and on it was my face, or at least the face of one of the many River Song impersonators we have on these shores.  I was moved.  I had brought about real change without having to throw the trash barrel through a window.  The flag was placed at the end of the driveway, where it announced to everyone passing by that I lived here.  In a word, it was awesome.  

Every day when we went on out walks, I made sure to remind Pocket that my face was the first thing people saw when they came to our house.  It was a sign that a loving, friendly, beautiful dog lived here, and she was not a Yorkie.  Every time I see it, my heart swells with pride.

   

Last week the remnants of the latest hurricane stormed up the east coast.  The central part of the storm was to our west, but we still got lots of wind.  On one of the occasions when we were taken out to pee, we were shocked to see that the foolproof flag hanger had succumbed to the wind, and my banner was caught in the air, perhaps traveling to Nova Scotia.  What a tragedy.  

   

When Mommy learned the flag was gone, she insisted Daddy find it because it was the symbol of her love for me, and cost money.  So Daddy went outside to search for the small flag amid a massive wind storm.  My banner was not the only item blown about that day.  Daddy walked down the street looking in gardens, the front of houses, and under trees where the debris was piling up, but he didn't find the flag.  

   

He forced himself forward, into the gale, which was doing its darndest to push him back.  He walked around the perimeter of the site, where the wind had deposited most of its jetsam, with no luck.  He decided to come home and tell Mommy and me that he was sure it would turn up soon, and then order a new one.  But it wouldn’t be the same.

   

Then Daddy realized it was not the wind at all.  It was my nemesis, the beagle across the street, who took the flag.  Daddy bravely entered their forbidden yard, and by their back steps, found my flag, waiting to be buried in the ground forever by the vengeful beagle once the storm passed.  Daddy heroically retrieved the little banner and brought it home without letting it ever touch the ground.

   

Now it is flying in our yard again, a message of my resilience, and that of my family.  

  

Don’t mess with the Griffon flag.  Long may it fly.