I rub welts on my arms, rub away the punished feeling of having done something terribly wrong, as deemed by Mom.  I settle on the bedroom floor and open a book, Hurry Home, Candy. I went to the library today with my fourth grade class at St. Mary’s school.  Oh, the comfort of this book!

“Not this again  ̶  you read it six times already.  Next visit, take out something else,” instructed Sister Ann.

I turned away quick.

“I’ll take it out as many times as I want,” I thought, cheeks flushed with embarrassment because she noticed something distinctive about me.

At home, I read, “The little dog sat shivering…often he did wrong, he did many things wrong…then he was punished…Until at last he subsided in a stupor of terror before the prodding broom.  A terror…that left nothing but an abject begging and pleading that could be uttered only in a shrieking puppy whine.”

My sore arms hold the book.  “He could come and go in security…and in ownership.  The wonderfulness lay in that – the feeling of ownership…It was a new experience.”

“Someday, I’ll own my life,” I whisper.

I flip ahead.  “He did not know what to do – he was being praised!  He wanted to believe it…He had done right…His scared body wouldn’t let him believe it…You are a very good dog.”

My tears start.

“When you were little and defenseless they came at you with brooms, did they?  I know how it feels, and you needn’t be ashamed.  A broom or a constant kicking around when you are little, it’s hard to overcome.  I’ve had sixty years to overcome it, and you but a year or so, so don’t be ashamed of yourself, little fellow.  It’s bad enough that I still am at times.”

Sixty years!

“Then he would…have…A love so huge, and so complete and so eternal, the little dog would hardly be able to encompass it in this one little timid heart.”

The pictures make me love the dog even more.  The cover is a scene of birch and pine trees with a moon shining on a little brown dog.  The dog, Candy, is my friend.

Over time, I forget the author, forget the pictures.  I love other books.  In college, I attend a lecture by Maurice Sendak.  He stands by his right in how to portray a nude boy in his book, In The Night Kitchen.

“I was highly criticized for showing the boy’s penis.  The story was about a boy.  The penis simplified the fact.  I refused to change it,” he said.

What’s the point if you can’t make your own decisions?

Years later, I search bookstores, tag sales, and book sales.  A computer finds Candy.  The little dog is on a screen.

Hello, Candy.

The book arrives in the mail.  I hug it tight.  I’m with an old friend.

On the cover, above the dog, are the words, Hurry Home, Candy.  Meindert DeJong.  Pictures by Maurice Sendak.

Hello, Maurice.