What The Tail Wagged

Tiny bits of lint and dust floated in the Sunday morning sunlight, while George, my black German Shepherd, played among them. His big paws made a soft thumping sound on my freshly cleaned wooden floor as he chased a fly only he could see. I smiled from the kitchen, watching the pure, simple happiness on his furry face, his tongue lolling out in a doggy grin.

My coffee was almost ready, and its rich, earthy smell began to fill our small house, mixing with the scent of lemon polish from my earlier cleaning.

On the window shelf, where the light was warmest, sat the vase, my vase. It was simple, a pale milky blue with a single hand-painted forget-me-not on its side, its stem a delicate green curl. It had belonged to my grandmother, a wedding gift she received from her own mother.

She gave it to me a year before she passed away. I remember her hands, soft as worn cotton, wrapping mine around the cool, smooth porcelain. "A little piece of home for you, my dear," she said, her voice gentle and quiet. She told me the vase was over a hundred years old, brought by boat from the old country. It wasn’t just an object; it held her voice, her love, and was a real link to my past. It’s all I have left of her.

The fly, for reasons only it understood, landed right on the edge of that pale blue vase.

George saw his chance. He was a good boy, the best boy, but in that moment, he became a hunter, his instincts clear in every muscle of his strong body.

His prey drive took over. He jumped toward the shelf with a happy, clumsy leap. His wagging tail, full of excitement, hit the edge of the shelf.

What happened next took only a second, but it felt like forever.

The vase wobbled, tilting slowly and unsteadily as if time had slowed down just to make me watch. Then it fell, crashing onto the floor with a sound that felt terribly final. I held my breath, unable to breathe.

The sound wasn’t loud, but it broke the morning’s quiet. Pieces of milky blue scattered across the floor like broken ice.

My heart sank. I couldn’t breathe. I stood frozen in shock, and the sound of the coffeemaker behind me seemed far away.

George, startled by the sharp noise, stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at the scattered, glittering pieces, then up at my frozen face, his head tilted in confusion. Seeing my reaction, he seemed to realize something was wrong. His tail, once high with joy, now tucked tightly between his legs. With his ears back, he quickly left the room, leaving a silence heavier than the noise.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t have known. He just saw the fly, chased it, and everything else happened because of that.

I walked over slowly, my socks crunching on the small pieces. I knelt down, my knees pressing into the hard floor. I picked up a piece, the one with the single, perfect forget-me-not. The edges were sharp.

Forget-me-nots were my grandmother’s favorite. I remember her kneeling in the soft dirt, her gnarled fingers carefully planting the tiny seeds each spring. Later, we would enjoy their sweet, honeyed smell from the flower pot on her balcony. We would sit together in comfortable silence, her hand on mine, as we watched the sunset. Sometimes she would tell me stories from her childhood, and I loved every moment with her.

From the hallway, George let out a low, worried whine. He crept back into the room, his body so low it nearly touched the floor, and gently nudged my hand with his wet nose. His big brown eyes were wide and full of confusion, almost like guilt. He licked my wrist, a soft, warm apology that said more than words could.

Looking at him, at that face I loved more than anything, I expected to feel angry. The sharp ache for the vase burned in my chest, and for a moment, I almost felt frustrated at the clumsy, furry cause of it. But as I looked into his worried eyes, the feeling faded as quickly as it came. The real anger never came. Only the hollow ache stayed.

All I felt was a hollow ache for the vase, for my grandmother, for that little piece of home that was now just a memory. Then, through that ache, I remembered George sleeping at my feet when I was sick, bringing me his toy when I was sad, and trying to protect me from delivery men, especially those selling solar panels.

He was just a dog. The goodest boy in a world of breakable things.​

I let the piece of pottery fall and hugged his strong, warm neck. I buried my face in his fur, which always smelled like sunshine and dog, maybe with a hint of dog sweat. It was the usual dog smell, but not the bad kind. His scent always calmed me.

He wriggled closer, his soft whimper fading, as if forgiving me for a sadness he didn’t understand.

"I know, George," I whispered into his fur. "I know you didn’t mean to."

His wet nose touched my face, and he was ready to chase the invisible fluff in the air again.

The vase was gone. The loss hurt, but this warm, loyal dog leaning against me was my home now. My grandmother would have understood; she always valued a happy heart more than a perfect vase.

I swept the pieces into a small pile, saving the one with the flower. I could put it in a small frame to preserve what was left.

It would be a different kind of keepsake. It would remind me not only of my grandmother, but also of the little accident that just happened.

George saw that I was okay, gave a happy bark, and trotted off to find his ball. My goodest boy was back. And he was right. It was time to play.