I Can't Make This Up: Life Lessons

by Kevin Hart

The only nice thing I ever got back then was a dog. We lived on Fifteenth Street and Erie Avenue, in the heart of North Philadelphia. It was a tough area where shit happened consistently. One afternoon, my dad came home with a huge Labrador. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy, I couldn’t stop screaming. I fell in love with that dog instantly. “What’s this, Spoon?” my mom asked when she saw it. There was a note of skepticism in her voice. “You got a dog?” “I bought a dog for the boys,” my dad said with forced nonchalance. “They been talking about a dog.” This dog wasn’t a puppy. It was full-grown, with a tongue as big as my arm and fur that looked like old paper that had been left in the sun too long. It was probably seven. But it didn’t matter to my brother and me. We’d been wanting a pet for so long. We named him Tramp and brought him into our room to play. He was on the bed, licking our faces, when the doorbell rang. I walked over to take a look. There was a man and a woman I hadn’t seen before. “You took our dog,” they said. “Your what?” my dad asked, as if he’d never heard anything so preposterous. “You took our dog,” they repeated. “She got loose and was running down the street, and the neighbors saw you take her and bring her here.” “What’s going on?” My mom jumped in. “I thought you said you bought this dog.” “I did,” my dad protested. I could see his wheels spinning as he quickly thought of a lie. “A friend of mine had it. I gave him money for it.” “Coco,” the w...