The Glove Incident: A True Story

This is a true story of what happened recently on a residential property in Virginia. There are three accounts, each of which are presented here for the first time in their entirety.

Steph’s Version:

The snow was starting to blow in heavy, like troublesome confetti, so I went outside to secure some things near my front door. It was reasonable to think it’d be a quick job. I figured I could get away with clogs and my cotton shirt, though it was cold, and snow was mounting on the ground. My hands aren’t the best in cold, but to gain better dexterity I took off my favorite, most beloved, fantastically useful, treasured gloves and chucked them to the side on the walkway. This was when it happened. My neighbor Mocha came charging out of nowhere and swiped one of history’s most revered gloves with his teeth, then bolted into my yard. Mocha is a Brittany, a dog built to rush to the fallen, to point, to fetch, or both. You will know for a fact that lightening is slow once you meet Mocha. You will also know this meant my glove was gone. Or at least travelling at the speed of light to who knew where.

So, what was I to do? Well, for starters, never give up.

I calculated quick as lightening. I’m not expert on dogs, but I tried to think like one, such that I could. I picked up the remaining glove to use as a lure. Surely Mocha would be interested in two gloves if he liked one, especially if I made it to be like a bird. But this wasn’t true for Mocha. More wasn’t better for him. I frantically wiggled the glove (making it like a faulty pigeon in hindsight). This put me in a weakened position. My body said, I’m begging you to come over here and take this, you crazy thief! This big demonstration caused the thief to tilt his head ever-so slowly to the side, with the precious glove still drooping from his mouth.

Of course, it was all a ploy to get him close enough to me so I could grab the other glove out of his mouth or distract him into dropping it, which was my big mistake. If Mocha knows one thing (and I think that’s the case), it is knowing when he’s being offered a deceptive ploy. And I have one thing to say to that. Drats, you perceptive scoundrel!

But I kept on. (Never give up.) I picked up a stick and threw it. Come and fetch, you crazy thieving perceptive scoundrel! Mocha stood still and looked at me from afar with the lovely glove deep in his teeth. Weirdly, he appeared bored. Or maybe curious. I threw another stick, and another. And another!

Mocha!

Nothing.

I felt like a fool, a human backhoe, churning up the woodland detritus for naught. A dog had me in his clutches. He had my glove, too. It was at this low point that I got an idea. It was an evolution on the prior ideas. What if I put the remaining glove on the ground, make it look like a legitimate offer? Would that be a trick enough?

I tossed my other glove onto the ground. It was risky, I won’t lie. I had a moment of scare to the heart and muscles. I carefully crossed my ice frozen fingers. I trembled in the exposure of my risk, or perhaps it was hypothermia.

Mocha looked at the glove. Looked at me. Dropped the glove from his mouth onto the ground and started to trot over to get the new one. No bolt of speed of light. Was he giving up? Playing along?

If I say my heart did a shocked somersault of disbelieving joy, that would be about right. I couldn’t believe my luck. It looked like I was going to win. That’s when my primordial reflexes kicked in and with a lightening swoop, I grabbed back the glove from right under Mocha’s approaching jaw, then immediately pivoted to the other glove in the distance.

The snow was laid down thick by then and getting thicker. As I took off running, the frozen mush sucked the clogs right off my feet. It was like I got dropped from a plane—I just had to go with it. I ran in socks across the slushy ground, into the scraggly overgrowth where my beautiful glove lay. It was a show of grit, I tell you, of desperate victory. I was at too much of a disadvantage to take time to locate Mocha, but for some odd reason he wasn’t pursuing me. I don’t know how I did it, but I scooped up my beloved glove, and now was holding the pair of them to my bosom, like dear babies. I looked behind me and saw Mocha standing still, inquisitive and staring.

I was out of my mind with ecstasy. I’d beaten the fastest thing in my neighborhood. I was triumphant! I did that dance the NFL guys do, but with less pomp and more deranged, half-dressed, shoeless glee. The fool had prevailed. My snow-caked socks were frozen solid, hands frozen to lumps, body shaking with cold, hair in a wild nest of sleety chaos. But I had won.

I glanced at Mocha. He stood there looking at me. I know he realized he’d been beaten. He had that look. I told him, “I got you at your own game.” He dropped his head, feeling the defeat. It was his own making. And it was the best day of my life. And this is the precise truth.

Mocha’s Version:

My friends, let’s call a spade a spade. I’m fast and love to play, and I see things in the moment lickety-split, and that’s the darn truth. The other day, oh was I having some fun, wasn’t I. The lady who lives over next to the fat tree, the one who watches me sometimes when my people go, she invited me to play, and no way did I reject her. I would never. You should know that. When I see her, it’s party time.

So, she let me make the first move, which she will do, and I know to take her up on it. She had these limp gray fabrics that are so decrepit and ratty and caked with her smell they are a stand-in for her. So, I took one of the stand-ins, and ran with it fast to give the lady a big thrill. That’s what I do. Give people a big thrill. Not to pat myself on the back or anything.

So, it was me, her smelly glove, and then as luck would have it, her too. The three of us. She was ready for me. She got straight up from her crouched position and ran for me. The best kind of playmate! Am I lucky or what? Outside of finding the dead in the fields, it was the best type of moment I can have, when the nice lady runs cuckoo for me. Her face was pinched, like she was trying to get ahold of me and squeeze me in adoration, which I was saving for the end, a cherry on top.

So, the game was afoot, and speaking of feet, you know she was connected to the contest when she let go of the shoes and went in mano a mano. It was a wrestling match of the wills by way of the unclad feet, all in good fun, and in snow to boot (sans boots!) The cherries were piling up on top. It was all I could do to stand there and enjoy this precious spectacle—her hobbling around the land in her essence, face pinched. She wanted the glove, and I wanted it for her.

We went back and forth--sticks, gloves, funny faces, and funny talk. She never looked more humorous, and I appreciate this way about her. She does things just to make me snicker under my breath. Oh, I adore her. She’s a good egg, and I love to discover an unexpected egg in the woods in the nest next to the dead, I do. These best moments were converging all together; the sticks, the gloves, the woods, the silly lady (who’s definitely my best friend, I’ve just decided), and all the dead animals out there I’m responsible for, and their eggs, and the mailman (let’s throw him in there). This year is off to a historically fantastic start.

My hope in sharing my glove story is that folks will try to have a glove episode, too. Joy is attainable if you can find a nice lady, have something like a glove or a dove, and find land to run around on. These are the ingredients. Then sprinkle in the nutrition of life: humor and friendship. You will derive your own story, and others will want to hear it, and maybe you will elicit a little shift in the faces after they hear it. It will look like confusion, but I think it’s appreciation. Or both, I guess. Life’s a beautiful mystery, isn’t it? But I do love when it fits like a glove.

The Glove’s Version:

I’ll be brief, since I’ve never been asked for my side of the story before, and please forgive me if I sound like I don’t know what I’m doing, because I don’t. I’m an inanimate object, but I bet you didn’t know this: I have feelings. I have dreams for myself. Right now, my big, juicy dream is to get some rest. I’ve been contorted to fit the situation, on and off constantly, dragging over surfaces repeatedly, squeezed or bitten sometimes, lost then found, packed in a ball, soaked, and nose-wiped: forever. All I want is rest. If I could just be dropped in the corner of a yard somewhere by a dog and never found—that’s my dream. It hasn’t happened yet, but it almost did. I got so close. Talk about crossing fingers.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to retire. Wish me luck. Nevertheless—I must admit—it’s very nice to be loved and of service. There can be many sides to your own story, I find. While I’m devoted to my owner, I’ll be rooting for the dog. I’m glad to be asked for my version of this incident. Everyone has their own view, and feelings, and dreams. It distinguishes the lady from the dog from the glove. End of story.

Or, maybe, that’s the beginning of it.

This concludes the presentation of the three accounts of the glove incident. Be well, ask the world for its stories, and don’t wear clogs in the snow.