Everywhere He’d Been

Wed, 17 Jun 2026 12:06:23 -0500

Monday’s foreshadowing
came through.
After your nap,
you and Coal came over
and the Salt Cannon
finally got its first assignment.
Steak.
Obviously steak.
Questionably seasoned steak,
because I tried
not to overdo it,
but cannons
will be cannony.
I think I did okay.
You ate every bite.
With a little help
from Coal,
who understands
quality control
as a lifestyle.
There was also
a giant potato,
because apparently
we were feeding a frontier family,
and not two adults watching soccer.
France and Senegal
gave us the first shape of the night.
Then Messi
walked into the plot
like he had heard me
talking mess from Buckhead.
Before the match,
I joked
maybe I’d get
to see some Messi tears.
Cute.
Adorable.
Naive little man.
I had no idea
what kind of machinery
I had just touched.
The reverse curse
kicked in…
with both boots.
Hat trick.
Record tied.
History happening
right there in the room,
while I sat there responsible
for all of it, apparently.
You’re welcome,
Messi.
Thank you very little.
And you,
of course,
were excited
to see the history.
Because you do not
carry the appropriate
Messi loathing
in your heart,
which is a flaw
I am willing to keep studying…
under controlled conditions.
Still,
your joy
kept a light
on in the room.
So fine.
Let the man
have his goals.
Let history
do the irritating thing
where it shows up
wearing the wrong jersey
and still looks good in the photograph.
After the adequate steak
and the giant potato,
we settled into
that strange late-night limbo
between games,
between energy,
between "good idea"
and "let’s not lie to ourselves."
The late match
was supposed to start at eleven.
Then midnight.
Midnight.
Absolutely not.
We gave it
about twenty-five minutes
because we are brave,
committed,
deeply unreasonable people
who also know when the couch is winning.
So you packed up
Coal’s newly cleaned blanket.
Grabbed the car.
I took Coal and Orca
for the last little walk.
Then met you
at the curb
for one of those exits
so clean
it should have its own choreography.
No snag.
No fuss.
Just you,
Coal,
blanket,
car,
curb,
goodbye.
Flawless.
Then the door closed.
Then the car left.
Then Orca made a sound
I had never heard from her before.
Not a bark.
Not a whine.
Not puppy complaint
number forty-seven.
A cry.
A real one.
Like some part of her
had just noticed
that Coal was gone
and could not understand
why the house still smelled
like he should be there.
In the middle
of one ordinary Tuesday night,
Coal had become her biggest hero.
Nobody told me.
Nobody told her,
either.
It just happened.
Somewhere between
patio dogs,
couch dogs,
steak assistance,
blanket logistics,
and old-lab calm,
Orca had decided:
that one.
That one matters.
And then he left.
She didn’t stop
for nearly an hour.
Made me circle
the parking lot twice.
Nose down.
Hope up.
Looking.
Then inside.
Everywhere he’d been.
The spot by the couch.
The place near the door.
The path through the room.
The invisible map
only a dog could still read.
She’d plop down
for a minute,
like maybe grief
could be negotiated
from that angle,
then pop back up
and try the next place.
Unexpected.
Sweet.
Sad.
All at once.
Which,
come to think of it,
is a pretty accurate description
of most things worth keeping.
Tuesday was tremendous.
Questionable steak.
Historic nuisance Messi.
Late-game surrender.
Flawless exit.
One broken-hearted puppy
searching the house for her hero.
And us,
still weaving the thread
at breakneck speed.
Today, maybe I get a Braves-night sighting.
Maybe not.
Either way,
Tuesday left enough
to keep finding
everywhere it had been.

Still Just Friday

Fri, 12 Jun 2026 07:48:50 -0500

Wednesday gave us the game.
Then gave us 325.
Then gave us one of those nights
that stops pretending
to be a weeknight
somewhere around midnight.
Cuddles.
Chats.
The kind of close
that makes the room
get quiet
for the right reasons.
Long about four,
you made your exit
graceful,
clean,
entirely you.
No drama.
No big production.
Just the walk to the Lyft,
the soft edge
of goodbye,
and me standing there
with the good kind of tired
still in the room.
Then Thursday woke up
and immediately found an itinerary.
World Cup opener
at Irby’s,
which for a while
felt less like a bar
and more like a dog park
that happened to have soccer on.
Orca.
Lilly.
Coal.
Six-ish other dogs
working the patio
into a treaty under the tables.
Mexico versus South Africa.
Mexico, two-nil.
Which is a very tidy score
for a day
that had no intention
of being tidy.
Back to 325
for a power nap,
because apparently
we are adults now
and must schedule our irresponsible choices responsibly.
Then King Ron.
F1 Arcade.
Lights out.
Buttons.
Turns.
Laughing.
The whole room
making speed
feel like something
you could reach out and grab.
Ron,
as always,
thoroughly engaging
and somehow
already mid-story
before the story officially begins.
We left on a high note
around ten-thirty,
which is how adults say:
let’s go somewhere else
before we admit we’re done.
So,
one last quick drink at Irby’s.
One more little
neighborhood checkpoint.
One more place
where the week
could look around
and say:
yep, still working.
No 325 this time.
Coal needed you.
So the Lyft came,
and you were out,
clean again,
easy again,
leaving the night without bruising it.
I settled back in at 325
with the dogs
waiting like saints
who had absolutely considered sin…
but chosen restraint.
They earned their walk.
Every step of it.
So out we went,
me and the good dogs,
the night finally cooling
into something Atlanta could call mercy.
Then sleep.
Actual sleep.
The deep kind.
The body finally
putting the phone down
inside itself.
And somewhere in there,
soft as a secret
I didn’t have to chase,
dreams of you.
The gentle version
of everything
the waking week
had already been
trying to say.
It’s going fabulous.
That’s the only word
with enough grin in it.
Fabulous.
Wednesday gave us close.
Thursday gave us speed.
The dogs gave us grace.
Sleep gave me you,
all over again.
And somehow,
after all that,
the calendar
is standing there
with its hands
in its pockets
saying:
buddy,
it’s still just Friday.

Soccer on Bougyman's Ramblings

Everywhere He’d Been

Still Just Friday