“What’s this, Grandpa?” asked Billy, my 10-year-old grandson.

It was a Saturday morning in early May, and we were at the playground at Promise Park, a two-block jaunt from home.  I’d seen him leap from the merry-go-round and bend over to peer at something in the sand.  Then he’d scampered toward me, his arm outstretched.

I looked at the bone-shaped metal object glinting in his open palm.

“It’s a dog tag.  Turn it over.  Does it have a name inscribed?”

“Yeah, Wonka!”

I laughed.  “Who’d name a dog that?”

“Maybe that lady.”  He pointed to a young woman on the other side of the playground leashed to a copper-colored spaniel.  “Maybe her dog lost it.  Can I ask her?”

“Sure.”

He raced over, then back, shaking his head.

I suggested we look for other dogs from the top of a nearby grassy hill.  Moments later we gazed at the soccer fields, the twin ponds, and pavilion.  No other dogs were in sight.

“Want to go back to the merry-go-round?” I asked.

Staring at the tag he still held, he shook his head.

“How about the swings or jungle gym?  You haven’t been—“

“Can we get a dog?” he asked, his brown eyes upraised to meet mine.

He’d asked before, most recently Easter Sunday, the first really nice day of Spring.  His mother had shaken her head vigorously.  Grandma and I had remained mute.

“You know who to ask, Billy.  Do you think Mom has changed her mind?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the tag.

I took his hand and led him home.  Fortunately, we saw no more dogs en route.

#

A week later Billy and I were grocery shopping at Jewel.  I stopped the cart in the aisle between cards and flowers.

“Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day.  You got Mom a card yet, Billy?”

“Yep.  Grandma helped me choose it.”

“What about a present?  She help you there?”

“Nope.”

“Got something in mind?”

He grinned.

“What?”

“A dog.”

I stared down at the boy who had some of my features:  long legs, sloping shoulders and a ski-sloped nose.  I’d once had his brown hair and trim waist.

“Has Mom said ‘Yes’, Billy?”

“She will when she sees Wonka.”  His grin stretched to his small ears.

“Wha—?”

“I know where we can find him, Grandpa.”

“Billy, we don’t know that dog was lost.  You just found a tag.”

“Not that dog, Grandpa.  Mine!”

He stood there, arms crossed, that grin never wavering.

I knew I was.  Couldn’t help myself.  I loved that kid.

Twenty months earlier my daughter Stephanie separated from her husband Jeff.  She left him, an astral/physicist, in California  and brought Billy back to Oakdale, Illinois to live with Meg and me.  Shortly thereafter she signed divorce papers and received full custody of Billy.  But just before Valentine’s Day this year, Steph was notified by phone Jeff had died from COVID.  Because she was still grieving, any talk about something else to love—and possibly lose—upset her.

“Billy, how about we get Mom that pot of yellow tulips over there?  She’d love them.”

He shook his head.

“So . . . uh . . . where will we find your Wonka?”

“The Oakdale Animal Shelter.”

“That’s at least three miles out of our way.  And since it’s  Saturday, they’re probably not open.”

“Can we go see, Grandpa?” His eyes grew bigger.  “Please?”

“We’ve got frozen stuff . . .”

He pouted.

I groaned.  “If your mother doesn’t kill me, Grandma will.”

He leaped toward me and threw his arms around my waist.

Despite my misgivings, he’d made me smile.

It faded in the car.

I gave Billy my phone as soon as we were buckled in.  “Call Mom.  Tell her we . . . uh . . . have some errands to run but should be home by lunch.”

Moments later he was repeating my words verbatim.  When he hung up, I asked him what she’d said.

He grinned.  “Have fun.”

#

The Oakdale Animal Shelter is in a single-story building two blocks east of the Village Hall.  A sign we could read from the road said it was open Saturdays.

As we walked toward the entrance, a door opened and a family emerged.  Two girls younger than Billy happily shared a kitten as their parents laughed.

Billy sped past them into the building.  I followed reluctantly.

A blonde teenage girl wearing a red t-shirt with the Shelter’s logo greeted us.

“We’re just here for a look-see,” I said.

She smiled at Billy, then me, and nodded.  “I understand.”

Then she led us through swinging doors into a high-ceiling room with banks of cages in two long rows with a broad aisle between them.  To our left the smaller cages were stacked two, sometimes three, high.  To our right were much larger ones, about five feet high, three feet wide.

“What would you like to see?” the girl asked.  “Cats, rabbits and other small mammals are—“

“Dogs!” Billy declared.

No mystery where most were.  We heard them barking to our right and not far away.

The girl laughed and pointed.  Billy went racing off.

“He won’t get lost, sir.  There aren’t that many this week.”

“They get claimed that quickly?” I asked.

“Popular breeds like yellow or black labs, beagles, poodles, fly out of here.  Mongrels, unless they’re really cute, stay weeks.”

“Is there a . . . uh . . . cut-off date when . . . . ?”

She stared at me with huge brown eyes welling with tears.

She nodded slowly and whispered, “Three months . . . four if we volunteers beg loud and long.”

Billy came racing back.  “Grandpa, Wonka’s here!  Come see!”  He grabbed my hand and tugged.  I stumbled along behind him.  The girl followed.

In a large cage he awaited us.  He was cinnamon-colored, middle-sized, and scruffy.   He sat politely, panting but not yapping, his dark eyes fixed on Billy.

“What is he?” I asked.

“Mostly terrier, maybe some Schnauzer and God knows what else,” the girl said.

“Got a name?”

“None on record.”

“Wonka!” Billy shouted.

“He is kinda cute.”

“Can I hold him?” Billy asked the girl

“No, Billy.  We gotta go.  Just a look-see, remember?”

The girl obeyed Billy, not me.  Moments later the dog was in Billy’s arms, licking his face as if it were an ice cream cone.

“Billy . . .” I begged.

“A boy and his dog,” the girl said, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “Beautiful.”

Fifteen minutes later the paperwork was completed and the girl hugged Billy.

“Wonka has been our guest nearly two months, but because he’s leaving today with you, we’re giving you this red leash and matching collar.” The girl was grinning.

Billy attached both quickly.

“Take him to the car, Billy.  See if he’ll get into the back seat and stay.”

As Billy loped off with Wonka, the girl grabbed my arm, tears again in her eyes.

“Please, Mr. Berke.  If you choose  n—not to keep him, find another owner for him.  D—don’t bring him back here.  Promise?”

I sighed, nodded.

#

I pulled the car into the driveway of my daughter’s home, a small brick bungalow she was renting.

“Take Wonka for a quick walk while I think of what to say to your mother,” I said, glancing into the rearview mirror.   Billy was hugging the dog in the backseat and making no effort to evade his tongue.

Wonka yanked him from tree to tree up the block as I watched.  A few minutes later they returned to find me standing on the parkway muttering a half-concocted speech.

All three of us entered the house through the back door.

“Hi, Mom,”shouted Billy to his mother who stood at the sink gaping.  “Meet Wonka!”  He released the leash.

Wonka sped to “Mom,” and leaped against her thighs.

“Get down!” she yelped and flung him away.  He only leaped upon her again.

“Take him outside.”  Stephanie spoke to Billy, but glared at me.

Billy obeyed while I silently cringed.  My brown-eyed willowy daughter, nearing forty yet still a beauty, had her mother’s temper.  I was in for it.

She wore faded jeans and a t-shirt, and for a long moment stood looking at me with her fists welded to her hips.  Her face reddened.

“Dad, how could you?”

I shrugged helplessly.  “Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day and Billy thought . . .”  The words faded as I watched tears stream down her cheeks.

She ran out of the kitchen, slamming doors behind her.

I stumbled into the fenced-in backyard where Billy was tossing Wonka a stick.

“Grandpa, Wonka understands ‘Fetch,’” Billy yelled, a huge smile on his face.

“Billy, bring him to me.  I gotta take him back.  Your mom—“

The smile vanished.  “No, leave him here.  I love him , Grandpa.”

My throat burned and my own eyes welled up with tears.

“Leave him,” Stephanie shouted from the open back door.  “I just called the Shelter.  It closes in ten minutes.  But that dog goes back Monday.”

The door banged shut and she disappeared.

“Hear that, Billy?  You’ll be in school, so I—I’ll return him.”

Billy turned from me as Wonka leaped into his arms.  When I left them, Billy was crying while petting Wonka feverishly.

#

I was up very early Mother’s Day morning, drinking coffee in my recliner.  The sun peeped at me through the living room window, but Meg was still sleeping.

My cell phone jingled. I saw the caller’s name.  Stephanie.

Was she going to scream some more about Wonka’s unwanted presence?  That I should have brought him to my home?

“Uh. . . Hi, Early Bird.  Happy Mother’s Day—“

“He’s staying!”

“What?”

“I love Wonka!  He spent the whole night with me and Billy on the couch showering me with kisses. I had to tell you.  He’s the perfect Mother’s Day present.  Thank you!”

Wonka’s loved?  My heart sang from relief and surprise.

“You’re welcome, Sweetie.  Give Wonka some special pets from me, and tell Billy I'm thrilled."

I hung up and waved happily at the sun now fully risen.