Jonathan C. Lewis
Magellan
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
Magellan understands more about journalism than you might think. Besides asking “who, what, where, when and why,” he wags an enthusiastic, “Walk?”
That, as much as anything, explains why he and I are strolling around the California State Capitol grounds. Later, we’ll cross Tower Bridge and sniff along the Sacramento River.
At the high school where I teach civics and history, I’m always reciting the dictum that "journalism is the first rough draft of history." Even if my students don’t get the point, Magellan does.
Lately, we’ve been crossing a lot of bridges. I don’t rub his ears quite the way she did, but I’m getting better at it. He’s teaching me when a walk and a bathroom break are good ideas.
I can hear Magellan’s footfalls clicking on the hard, wet pavement. My footsteps follow his.
The sun is rising over the Nevada foothills. Stars receding into their galactic caves. Lights flickering off. A grainy hue bathing the emergent blue sky.
It’s a biting winter’s day. My gloves are wearing gloves.
My eyes are weepy. The cold hurts my head.
He understands. He misses her too.
She treated him as if he were the only golden lab in the world. He returned the favor. The two of them practicing the Golden Rule.
Whenever we talked about easing her commute by moving closer to her work office, she ground up my heart by pleading Magellan would miss Davis. “Magellan’s happy here. He likes the geese and ducks, and every one of the dusty brown tree squirrels in our backyard.”
“Where else are there downtown shops with sidewalk water bowls, and the pet store that sells his turkey and salmon goulash gourmet dog food,” she argued as if she were his unpaid, personal attorney.
“And what about his doggie play dates at the off-leash park? Or he and his best friends barking back and forth from behind fences when we pass by?” she pressed her case. Without any rebuttal, I demurred while Magellan snored.
In the living room after a long walk, he still curls up on the sofa next to her favorite spot.
At work, I’ve been excused from lunchroom duty. It’s too loud, too chaotic for me. Instead, I stay in my classroom with a half stale sandwich and a yellowing history book. Somehow, she always found time to fill Magellan’s bowl and make my lunch.
Since the freak auto accident—she’s been gone for years now—without her breathing calm, the house numbs us. I suspect Magellan’s pressing insistence on frequent walks is his dogged way of taking me out into the world and away from my grieving gloom.
What I can’t discuss with Magellan is that I don’t want the memory of her to go moldy like so much day-old dog food. I don’t want to forget.
Maybe he already knows. It’s been so long since a woman cuddled us.
Magellan is slowing his pace now. His full body is tugging his leash and me with it in the direction of our car.
I imagine he’s recalling a bit of family history. A trip to the Davis community park for a picnic.
Evenly, we divided up her favorite pizza—an extra-large from Symposium restaurant laden with feta cheese, olives, mushrooms and ham.
