Houston Hangs Around, and Viking Takes His Last Walk
Cleveland State49
Houston35
- Game
- 2034 Week 11
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 11-0
Vikings 49, Houston 35, at home. Eleven and oh.
Fourteen points. Houston scored thirty-five on a defense that had been giving up nothing, and our guys had to win a real game. They did. Eleven and oh.
I’ll be short about the football, folks, because there’s something else I want to tell you.
Viking died this week. Our beagle. The third beagle named Viking. He was fifteen. He went in his sleep, on the porch, in the sun, on his blanket, on a Wednesday afternoon, with Donna sitting next to him. He’d walked half a block with me that morning, like always, and then sat down on the curb and waited for me to come back, like always. When I came back, he was still waiting. He walked home with me. Then he lay down on the porch and that was that.
Leo and Sofia came over that night. Sofia read him her stat sheet one last time. Leo told him the scouting report for Friday. Marco dug a grave in our backyard, under the maple, and Sam made a little walnut marker. It says VIKING, and under that, III, and under that, “GOOD BOY. WAITED AT THE CURB.”
Three pierogi. One for each Viking.
A fourteen-point home win over Houston. Eleven and oh.
I knew Viking for ten years. He was already five when I first came to Mickey’s for Thanksgiving in 2024. He disliked me for most of that decade, on principle, in the way of beagles and editors. In 2031 he slept on my shoe for forty minutes. I didn’t move. It was the first time I understood he’d forgiven me for something, though I never knew what.
I went to Mickey’s on Thursday. Mickey was sitting in the walnut rocking chair Sam built, the one meant for Rose. He wasn’t rocking. I sat on the steps. We didn’t say anything for a long time. Then Mickey said, “He waited at the curb, Kenny. Every morning. Half a block.” I said, “I know.” He said, “I always came back.” I said, “I know you did.”
My father, Sunday. I told him about the dog. He said, “Mickey’s dog?” He knew Mickey, for a moment. He said, “Tell him I’m sorry. Dogs know when you come back.” Then he asked about the weather. I wrote it all down.
Back and forth
He waited at the curb.
Every morning. And you always came back. That’s what he knew.
Your dad said dogs know when you come back.
He did. He forgets my name some Sundays. He remembered that.
Eleven and oh in a hard game, and the third Viking, fifteen, laid to rest under the maple with a walnut marker that says he waited at the curb.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.