I’m not sure about everyone else, but the majority of my memories, especially those from my childhood, are like snapshots inside my head.

It takes no effort at all on my part to see clearly the treehouse in front of my dad’s shop at our old house on Savannah Highway. I can’t remember for the life of me how we got up there but the rough edges of the pine planks, dotted with peepholes (which were, in hindsight, not intended to be peepholes; they were simply holes where the pine knots used to be) are clear as the Alabama sky. More effectively, we could peer out the windows by swinging open the small squares of the wall Daddy had carefully cut out and hinged back on. When it came time to properly fortify our little hideout, we slipped our tiny uncoordinated fingers beneath the dark red vinyl straps he had fastened into handles.

And just as I think to myself that I don’t have enough vivid memories of those days, I find I am transported back in time and standing within those rough-hewn walls. The smell of freshly cut wood floats in the air. Beneath me stands the little white shop with the gray roof, filled with my dad’s most prized possessions — his tools. The walls are lined with pegboard and outlines drawn so there is no mistaking the proper resting place for each one. A kerosene heater sits in the corner, off-white, cold, covered in dust. It must be summer time.

Suddenly my mind’s eye has a full-screen vision of Copper, a handsome mix of Irish Setter and Golden Retriever, cowering in the back of the room. He is scared and so am I. Daddy is leaning down over him, fiddling with something on his head. Mama is at his side, “Good boy. You’re fine. You’re just fine.” She speaks slowly and softly, stroking his thick hair and oozing comfort in that way only a mother can.

I feel a knot in my stomach and my eyes start to burn. Something is wrong. I scan the room, trying to understand. It looks the same as it always does except I don’t recall the three of us ever being in here at the same time before now. My eyes reach the dog, as big as I am. Maybe bigger. I notice he is quivering slightly and my eyes follow the length of his back to his tail, slowing swaying from side to side. And then a sound I don’t recognize. It’s something tapping against the concrete floor. Plastic? No. I shift to one side, straining to see but the flood light over Daddy’s head blinds me. Just then, he stands and makes his way across the room and I see it — a fishing rod.

I look back at Copper, then at my mom. She is saying something to Daddy now but I can’t hear the words. “You’re gonna have to hold him still,” he replies. Wire cutters in hand he is back in his place beside the dog in two steps and that’s when I see it. The light hits just right and bounces off the metal, dulled from repeated exposure to creek water yet sharp enough to pierce the poor dog’s mouth — a fish hook.

There’s a quick snap from the cutters as Daddy snips the hook in two. He carefully pulls the remnants from Copper’s mouth and reaches down to join Mama in consoling him. But he’s too slow because the dog, acutely aware that he is now free from the entrapment, is on his feet and barreling past us all. He clears the doorway behind me, sprinting to celebrate his release.

I wonder how long he tasted metal after that… how long he remembered the helplessness… so completely dependent on his family to be, for lack of a better word, saved from his peril. The common assumption among those who are properly educated in these things, is that dogs have little to no short-term memory. It’s the reason the more heartless of the world still have loyal companions in their canines, even after inflicting unimaginable abuse upon them. That may be true, but here’s another truth: a dog knows who his friends are. And yet another: he knows who is family is.

We could learn a lot from our four-legged friends. They forgive quickly and easily. They love unconditionally. A pricey toy from the pet store is a welcome treat but they are just as happy with a knotted up sock, as long as we are on the other end of it. Scrambled eggs for breakfast are nice but a bit of kibble in the bowl gets an equally enthusiastic response. So they walk on all-fours and poop on the lawn. They get the important stuff right.

And I guess my memories aren’t all snapshots after all…