I ran into my friend Carolyn in the midst of the city; she had just returned from an errand to a photography studio.
In her childhood, Carolyn's family was adopted by a stray that the vet called "an Eastern Townships farm dog". Carolyn and her brothers begged to keep him. When the wish was granted, her mother dubbed the dog Peter, a name she had once considered for her sons.
Peter loved the family cottage, especially the lake. He'd bound down the dock, launching himself in a graceful arc, to swim with Carolyn's father. Carolyn remembers standing in the water to get her shot of Peter's leap, terrified of soaking the camera.
Years passed, and like all dogs, Peter went to heaven. Carolyn lost her mother; her father, now in his mid-eighties, lives independently thanks to her attention. The cottage he built stands, but frustrated by his physical limitations, he no longer visits. His photo of Peter faded to a ghostly sepia.
Some memories, though, can be recaptured. Thanks to digital imaging, the lab returned Peter's leap to glorious colour. His fur is lush, the Quebec lake blue, the maples' summer-green leaves bend. He flies forever off that dock.
Peter's photo is Carolyn's loving Father's Day gift to her dad.