"D'ya know how to go to 'lando?" →[More:] So, me and my stupid dog are out this morning, because he was whining when I came back from breakfast. I've plunked down on a park bench about 3/4 mile from home. "Park" might be charitable; it's really a couple of trees, a big parking lot and a kiddie playground in the middle of some city land given over to softball and soccer fields, most of which are behind chain link fences. But it's a convenient place to sit down and catch some rays, when I'm out with the mutt.

So the dog is laying at my feet, and I'm watching clouds, when I spy a kid coming across the parking lot, dragging a backpack. He couldn't have been more than 7, and more likely 6, and he was walking with his head down, and shoulders slumped, like he'd been trudging along all night. But he perked up a bit at the sight of my dog, with his red kerchief tied around his neck, and came our way. And he was almost to us, when I saw a grey SUV roll slowly into the park entrance, a couple hundred yards away, and go behind the rest room building.

"Hi." said the kid, as he got closer. "'Zat your dog?"

I love that question, when I'm sitting near this pooch, leash in hand, and for some reason, I get it all the time.

"Yep." I said, and the dog looked at the kid, speculatively, hoping the kid might fish a doggie treat out of his pocket, as I sometimes do. So the kid regarded the dog, the dog regarded the kid, and in the distance, a woman edged around the corner of the rest room building, looking towards us all.

"D'ya know how to go to 'lando?" said the kid, finally, transferring his gaze to me.

"You mean Orlando?" I asked.

The kid nodded.

"Maybe." I said. "What's in 'lando?"

"My Dad lives there." said the kid.

"Oh." I said, looking at the backpack he'd been dragging. "You going to find your Dad?"

The kid nodded again, and looked back at the dog, who stood up, hopefully. The woman in the distance had edged a bit further around the building, but stood near a doorway to it, still looking at us. The kid, facing the dog and I, had his back to her the whole time.

"Well," I said, "Orlando is over 100 miles a way. Too far to walk, especially with the load you're totin'. You got money for a bus ticket?"

The kid shook his head no, and his shoulders slumped again.

"You running away from home?" I asked.

The kid nodded, slowly, and kept looking at the dog, his lower lip trembling now.

"Anybody hurt you?" I asked, wondering to myself if I ought to call the cops.

The kid shook his head no, and kicked some pine needles in the dirt.

"So, do you think running away from home, to go to Orlando, over 100 miles away, without any money for a bus ticket is a good plan?" I asked.

The kid shrugged his shoulders, and looked again at me.

"I bet your Mom is worried about you. Did she help you pack for your trip? Does she know you're going to 'lando?" I asked.

"No, but she said I should take clothes if I was going." he said. He was biting his lower lip a bit, now, perhaps to keep it from trembling.

"Well, maybe she thought you'd change your mind, if you went for a walk, carrying all that stuff." I said. "Do you think she wants you to go find your Dad, all by yourself?"

He shrugged again, and looked back at the dog, who was sniffing him now. He looked at the backpack beside him, as if he'd sell it cheap, for the money to buy a bus ticket to 'lando, but I may have been reading more into his manner than was in his mind.

"Are you as mad as you were when you left home?" I asked, remembering, across a half century, exactly what it felt like to be put upon, and take my fate into my 6 year old hands, and hit the road.

The kid shrugged again, as the dog nosed him.

"Your call, buddy." I said. "'lando's that way." and I nodded in a southwest direction. "Long, long walk. Whada'ya gonna do for lunch?"

The kid kicked some pine needles, and the dog, satisfied that the kid wasn't hiding anything edible in his jeans, sat down again.

"Here's an Idea." I said. "How 'bout I call your Mom, or somebody 'round here, and see if we can't get her to lend you the money for a bus ticket? Think she would?"

The kid shrugged, and looked up at me, hopefully, like I could reason with his Mother on his behalf, adult to adult, and arrange it that way.

"What's your Mom's name?" I asked. "Do you know her phone number?" A couple hundred yards away, the woman by the rest rooms shaded her eyes, and kept looking our way.

"Lena." he said after a while. "My Mom's name is Lena."

"Do you know her phone number?" I asked again.

"Unh-uh." he said.

"Oh." I said. "Well, does she drive a gray truck?"

He nodded.

"That her?" I said, pointing towards the rest room building.

The boy turned, and saw her, and she started towards us.

"You know, she was watching over you, probably the whole time since you left home, today." I said. "She must love you a lot. Whyn't you go tell her you're sorry you worried her?"

And leaving his backpack by my dog, to run towards her, he did.