I took Tommy, my Dawg, to the local DG to shop.
I like to sing a song from my childhood to Tommy. It’s from a television commercial from the late ’80s.
Tommy was strapped into the passenger seat, his window down.
I had been inside shopping already and was now back at the truck, standing in front of the passenger window, singing out loud to Tommy,
♪My Buddy, My Buddy, wherever I go, he goes. My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy, and Me.♪
“Mommy, look at that man,” a young kid says while pulling on his Momma’s blouse.
I begin Humming the tune instead of Singing it.
“I see him, Honey. That looks like your dog ‘Benji.'”
“Why don’t y’all ever sing to Benji?” The kid asks his Momma.
I’m watching from the corner of my eye—watching and listening.
“Well, we all assumed you sang to him, so we didn’t need to sing.” The Momma replies.
“Y’all need to start!” The kid says as he’s getting in the backseat.
While the Momma straps her son into his seat, he says, “You all are gonna start singing to poor Benji!” And as the mother shuts the car door, I hear the kid exclaim, “Poor Benji!”
I go back to my singing: ♪My Buddy, My Buddy, Goes wherever I go. My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy, and Me!♪
