Life was good as a kid in Edgewood in the seventies. I had two older brothers, loving parents, a big house to roam in and lots of friends. We also had a dog named Bodri who was half German Shepherd, half Labrador Retriever and wholly a legend. She fought dogs, could terrify strangers and threatened new friends. She also loathed the mailman with a fury that never waned despite seeing him six days a week year after year.

Still, with us she was loving except for when my brothers and I would rumble. Then Bodri would jump in, gnashing her teeth, growling and rolling with us on the carpet. Interestingly, when we wrestled, this dog always helped the underdog, consistently defending whoever was losing. When it came to bedtime, however, Bodri was steadfastly loyal. She slept in my bed. My mom would tuck me in and shoo away Bodri who would then dutifully trot out but linger around the corner. After my mom floated downstairs, Bodri would saunter back in and slide into my bed like a Slinky in reverse climbing a stair. Bodri would unapologetically stretch out to claim a sizable part of the bed. I was more than willing to contort my body, sacrificing my comfort for her comfort. 

I would then reach for my pocket radio, making sure the volume was off. I’d slowly boost the sound to hear the Yankees post game show. Yankee players babbled on about their achievements and “giving the team 110%.” That couldn’t end soon enough before the main attraction – the out-of-town scoreboard. I would lie still, filled with mounting anxiety as the broadcaster rattled off scores, making quick mention of which pitcher won and which players hit home runs. When the Orioles won, a gleeful spasm ricocheted throughout my body. When they lost, gloom filled me. But with my feet on Bodri and my ear on the radio, no one ever really lost.