by Ernest Hemingloong (not Hemingway, for legal reasons)
He was an old man who lived alone, except for the dog. The dog was as old as he was, in dog age. The dog was named Ben by the old man’s son. Ben had the patience of a saint and the eyes of a wise men who had seen everything.
Each morning, the old man woke, said his prayers, read his Bible, defrosted chicken, walked Ben in the park, cooked chicken to feed Ben, and then settled down. The old man had once fought great battles: bills, careers, the rising price of Big Mac. Now he fought only one thing – finding purpose in life. And staying healthy.
He muttered about it often, to Ben.
He spent a large portion of his day on screens – big and small. His son told him they must turn on a screen with purpose. Do not spend time without any specific purpose.
He wanted to write a book. He drafted the outline. And then, nothing. He muttered to Ben often. Ben, being wise, did not answer.
He wished the boy was with him.
One stormy evening, the old man looked out the window and sighed a sigh heavy with philosophy and slight indigestion.
“I’ve faced the storm, Ben” he said. “Now I face the vet’s bill.”
Ben licked his paw.
There were no big events now. Only memories, a warm spot on the couch, and a dog who never left.
Which, the old man thought, was victory enough.
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