Oliver and Ziggy

Long ago, back when cable TV still ruled the living room, Oliver Riley had been sitting in front of the television set in the living room. He was only five years old at the time, so he couldn't remember which channel it had been on, and to this day, he swears that the nature documentary must be lost media. But, whatever it was, that program became the spark that ignited his love for animals.

The particular subject of this documentary was foxes, and it inspired him so much that he grabbed a notebook, climbed the stairs to his room one step at a time, fished his box of crayons from his desk, and plopped himself down on the carpet of his bedroom. But just as he reached for the crayons, he froze! He had a dilemma. He had forgotten what color foxes were! Were they yellowish, orangish, or reddish? He had only just learned his colors, after all.

Just then, the sun set beneath the hilly horizon beyond the rooftops of his suburban neighborhood, triggering the streetlight right outside his window. The glow spilled into his room like a spotlight, and he glanced up to the warm, amber-y orange hush against the dusky blue sky. The boy was mesmerized! He grabbed the colors from the box and drew a fox with dusky blue fur and golden-orange eyes.

"Look! I drew a fox!" the boy presented the drawing to his mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table on her phone.

"Hold that thought, Jess--my son drew something," she said, setting her phone down to take a look. Honestly, a fine piece of artwork for a child who was drawing on the surface of the carpet.

"Wow, Picasso! That's awesome! What's his name?"

The boy bashfully shuffled in place, thinking hard. Then he landed on a sound that made him giggle. "Ziggy."

"May I borrow the crayon?" she asked.

He handed it over.

"How do you spell it?"

"I dunno!" he giggled. "Sound it out."

"Okay then." She carefully wrote: "Z-I-G-G-Y." She then took her son's artwork and attached it to the fridge with a magnet.


The first tale Oliver spun unfolded on the blustery autumn afternoon, when the wind howled through the trees into their yard like a mischievous spirit, sending golden leaves pirouetting through the air. Oliver, bundled in a thick sweater two-sizes too big, chased after them and watched them dance in a swirl. And of course, according to him, Ziggy was right there beside him, darting between the swirling foliage, with him, even if his mother couldn't see him.
He insisted to his mother that the wind came from beyond the fence.

"And... the wind... has pockets!" Oliver declared between gasps, flinging himself into the pile his mother had just raked together.

"Pockets?" she echoed, resting her gloved hands on her hips. "What on earth for?"

"That's where it keeps." He thought for a second, his hand reaching down and picking up leaves beneath him then proudly showing them "The leaves it steals!"

"Do they really steal the leaves if they aren't ours to begin with?" she teased, ruffling his wind-tousled hair.

"They are ours!" he squealed, dissolving into giggles as he tossed the leaves into the air like confetti.

Then, throughout the winter, when Oliver was stuck in the house, he started insisting, the hallway lights had to stay on or off. Both upstairs and downstairs. No exceptions!

"Behind the walls is where The Keeper lives." he whispered one evening, eyes wide with certainty. "He watches over the whooooole house!"

His mother withheld a chuckle. "So he's not a subletter, huh?" she mused, tapping her chin. "We're living in his house rent-free."

Oliver nodded, attempting clumsily to shape his fingers into a heart. "He cares for us very much."

"What does he look like?" she asked, leaning in as if sharing a secret.

"A spider..." Oliver murmured, his voice dropping to a hush.

"Yeah?"

"With glasses."

"Naturally."

"And a hat—" He scrunched his face in concentration. "like Abraham Lincoln." (The only president he knew at the time.)

"Sounds like a dignified gentleman," she remarked, lips twitching. Oliver didn't know what dignified meant, but he nodded anyway.

This particular tale filled an entire sticky note—front and back.


Soon winter thawed into early spring, there weren't many kids Oliver's age on their quiet cul-de-sac, so most afternoons he'd head to the backyard and pretend to play with Ziggy. And afterwards, his mother would call him in for dinner, and he would ask if Ziggy was invited too.

He always was.

And during these dinners, Oliver would talk about the day they'd had.