Thatcher and Mr. Fritz

by

Richard Leland

This may be one of the stories to become a series of adventurous tales involving a precocious young man of five and his friend. confidant, and pet Border Terrier, Mr. Fritz


Thatcher Palmer, even at this early age and Fritzi, team up to bring adventures that only a bouyant boy, eager for life and living adventures and his excitable and serious dog, encounter. Should there be more Thatcher and Fritzi stories? Let us know.

Several times on my way to the puppy shop and many times on my homeward journey, I almost turned the car around and took the puppy back. He stared at me, wide-eyed, piercing brown eyes, the same way Thatcher did, when I first saw my baby boy, moments after his birth.

Their mouths were closed tight as if waiting for me to talk. Thatcher always appeared patient while he awaited a response. Puppy’s manner defied any interpretation and conclusion. He seemed to dare me to command him while he waited and wagged his tail like a metronome a dirge. His eyes told me he searched for something and it wasn’t me. I hoped it might be Thatcher, my child, first and last born son, active enough to keep two mother’s occupied. And I decided, after many sessions of discussions with Thatch, his arms folded across his small, inflated chest, I would surprise him on his fifth birthday and hold out the puppy to him. He suggested without asking, a natural modus operandi for my Thatcher, I visit the puppy shop and I did. I should have taken more time to select Thatch’s puppy and companion to be, forever, as he put it. And I should have paid more attention while I made the selection. As I thought back on the scene, I recalled that the other puppies and older dogs and cats would have nothing to do with, puppy. Taking notice of that scene caused me to be unsettled. He did take notice of their movements out of the corners of his eyes. His tail wagged when I looked at other small pets, only dogs; Thatcher wanted a puppy a guard dog. But then his tail stopped when I reached down and slowly pulled my hand back, out of his reach.

“A good choice,” the pet shop owner said. I imagined the man’s elation and guessed he was eager to be rid of a puppy that showed awareness, stubbornness and, it was just a gues, an ability to rule the shop and those in it. The thought occurred that I might have bought the shopkeeper and paid puppy for him as I judged their relative intelligence levels to be the reverse of normal: man to beast. But puppy didn’t react when the proprietor handed him to me: a surprise. However, he began to pant loudly as if he were exposed to the Sahara. I saw his eyes look at me as I placed in the rear seat. Why did I tell myself he wanted to sit in front?

As we drove to Maple Street, I suddenly felt I wasn’t alone. I never thought that the little terrier might be considered company and in fact I didn’t think much about him. Only dire warnings periodically: turn at the next corner, return him to the puppy store, and deny Thatcher a dog a pet. But as I looked into the rearview mirror, his brown eyes were large than in the store and looked directly into mine. I pursed my lips trying to figure out how he managed to stand up in that rear seat. He wasn’t long enough to stretch his brown body from the rear seat to the back of the front seat. I learned later that somehow he climbed up into the pocket behind the driver’s seat and supported himself by his back feet on the pocket’s elastic like a man on a tightwire. He watched me drive and must have been nervous. I was curious about his stability until I stopped the car, at home, and I had to help him out of the large pocket. He didn’t like it. He was stuck although the bouncing pleased him and his tutu. I got the impression he liked the car, was somewhat neutral about me, but considered that I went with the car. My primary concern was how Thatcher and puppy would get along.

As I lifted puppy from the car, he panted and seemed to want to stay in the large gray pocket. He wore an expression of pleasure and I equated his panting with a smile. He sighed as I closed the door but made no further objections. I saw that Thatcher was in the front window clapping his hands. I looked down, feeling puppy’s tail hitting my side with a quick tempo and his head pointed toward the front porch as Thatcher screaming and yelling crashed through the front screen slamming it against the wall and came down the stairs running and jumping up and down.

“Fritzi!” he shouted as puppy’s rear began to wiggle.

Puppy stopped panting and let go with a low growl.

“Fritzi, my Fritzi,” Thatcher insisted. “Can we keep him in the house?”

“Never,” I replied, the biggest lie of my life.


End of the Excerpt from Thatcher and Mr. Fritz

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