The Gift of Fido

The silence in my small house had grown louder with each passing year. Old and alone, the days stretched out, often indistinguishable from one another. I thought about getting a dog, a creature that would fill the emptiness, a warm presence against the encroaching quiet.

One chilly afternoon, shuffling through the familiar streets, I saw him. A small, scruffy shape huddled near a bin, dirty and clearly hungry. He looked up as I approached, his eyes wide but without fear. I knelt down slowly, offering a tentative hand. He didn’t flinch. I stroked his matted fur, spoke softly to him. When I stood up to leave, he simply followed, a silent, trusting shadow.

Now, he is my dog. My Fido. I am his human, his owner, though it feels more like we own each other. The silence is gone, replaced by the soft pad of his paws, the occasional sigh, the happy thump of his tail against the floor.

I talk to him constantly, sharing my thoughts, my worries, the mundane details of my day. He answers in his own way – a tilt of the head, a soft whine, or his favorite response, a vigorous wash of my hand with his rough tongue.

“Fido,” I’d told him just the other day, the worry etching lines deeper into my face, “tomorrow we won’t have anything to eat. The retirement money is gone, finished. We’ll have to wait until pension day!” He just licked my hand, as if to say, “We’ll figure it out, together.”

And then that blessed day arrives. I join the queue, a line of fellow retirees, each clutching their worn pension book, shattered by time and use. My own is tight in my hands, a thin lifeline. Fido, tied patiently nearby, shakes himself happily, a little dance of anticipation. He knows this day. He knows that today the bowls will be fuller, the meal a little richer, a little better than the thin gruel of the days before.

Winter arrives, wrapping the house in its cold embrace. Without a fire, the air bites. But Fido is there. Curled tightly against my legs on the worn armchair, or tucked beside me in bed, his small body is a furnace, a constant, reliable source of warmth that chases away the chill. He is more than just a dog; he is my living, breathing blanket against the cold world.

The first hesitant rays of spring find us sitting outside, bathed in the gentle warmth of the returning sun. We sit in comfortable silence, simply existing, together, grateful for the light, for the warmth, for each other. And from deep within my heart, a simple prayer is born, a quiet whisper of profound gratitude: “Thank you, Lord, for creating the dog.” For creating Fido, who found me when I was alone, and filled my life with warmth, conversation, and unwavering companionship.

Brave toddler agrees to sing national anthem before crowd, only to have 6,000 people on their feet

I’ve always loved theater, and I think it takes a lot of confidence to walk up on stage and sing or act.

To reach to the point where they can act, sing, and dance on stage with ease, adults must practice and train for years.

The child performer you are going to witness is a 3-year-old boy, who is arguably the youngest I have ever witnessed playing the National Anthem. He is not an adult.

He is winning so many hearts with his talent that the video of him singing has already garnered nearly half a million views.

Drake Winslow, age three, is the youngest individual to have ever sung the National Anthem during a Syracuse, New York, School Day game.

This self-assured young performer gave a faultless performance of the song in front of 6,000 spectators.

There was a standing ovation for his outstanding performance.

Drake’s mother, Chelsea, stood behind him throughout his performance and remarked, “I just think he’s too little to realize how big of a deal it is.”

We simply try not to bring it up too often and to be composed for him. He isn’t asked if he feels anxious. Perhaps he won’t consider that after that. He doesn’t truly understand what nervousness is yet.