The greatest tribute

[This is a piece of fiction. Although some elements are drawn from real life, it would be fruitless for a reader to speculate on what is real and what is imaginary.]

The old '88 F150 pulled up the road and stopped between the barn and the house, finally sputtering to a stop, enough warning lights lit up on the dashboard that each trip was potentially its last. This had been a short trip, out to a point in the pasture near a giant old oak tree overlooking the pond, an idyllic place for anyone to spend an afternoon, or an eternity. He left the pick and heavy iron bar, (essential tools for digging Virginia clay soil), in the back of the truck, but pulled out his favorite spade and examined it. There were a couple new dents along the edge so he went over to the anvil, grabbed a hammer and pounded them out before returning the shovel to its designated location on the wall. He breathed a heavy sigh and said, to no one in particular except maybe a nearby barn cat: "That was the hardest hole I ever dug."

He turned to leave, ready to head for the house and for something cold and intoxicating to drink. As he passed the workbench, he pulled a collar from his rear pocket and hung it on a nail just above the work bench--a place of honor in this man's world and a place it would be seen and remembered every day.

When he went inside, the old girl of the household rose to meet him as she always did. It was a lot of effort for her these days, her old bones and arthritic joints didn't move as fast or as smoothly as they once did, but it was an effort that she had made every time he walked through that door for the past 10 years and she wasn't about to stop now, especially today when he needed it more than ever. She came up to him, looked him in the eye as if to say, "I understand, he was a great little guy." Then she positioned her beautiful head into the palm of his hand knowing that he needed the therapeutic benefit of human/canine contact.

The next morning he hopped into the truck alone for the first time in three years and headed into town. Errands were accomplished, groceries were purchased, but eventually he ran out of excuses and had to go back home. Just south of town, he saw the sign for the SPCA and his eyes welled up with tears to the point that he had to pull in just to get off the road. He went inside, perhaps knowing that he needed to talk to other dog people because no one else could possibly understand. He paused as he got to the door, remembering something he had once heard or read about losing a dog: "The greatest tribute to a dog you've loved and lost is to open your heart and home to another dog in need."




I heard an old truck pull up and hoped it wasn't another redneck coming in to look for a lost hound. What those idiots don't understand is that our hound friends are perfectly capable of finding their way home, if they want to. They're hounds! They've got the best noses in all of dogdom, they don't get lost, when they get the chance they go off in search of a better gig.

I caught a glimpse of the dude through the window just as he got to the door and I knew this was no local redneck. He paused at the door, as if he was reluctant to come in and I think he almost turned around to leave. As luck would have it, one of the volunteer dogwalkers was leaving at just that moment - it was Judi, one of my favorites, a woman so doglike I almost expected to see a tail on her. She brings her yellow lab, Henry, with her sometimes and I like to play with him. Anyway, when the door swung open in his face, he stopped thinking and just walked in. That's generally good advice for humans. Most of them think too much and they all talk WAY too much.

With just that one glimpse, I knew this guy wasn't looking for a lost dog. He looked lost himself. He must have known the shelter staff because he was in there talking with them forever. I finally heard some laughter out of him and then the door opened and he came in. I was in the kennel nearest to the door so I didn't want to scare the guy or overwhelm him when he first walked in. I've got a big bark and it's a little off-putting to strangers. I stood, wagged at him, and gave him a little woof just to be friendly. When he responded, I went to the front gate of the run and sat down, sideways, up against the wire gate. He crouched down, didn't look me in the eye, but instead turned sideways up against the gate next to me, but facing the opposition direction.

I was impressed. This guy showed some good dog sense. I gave him a quick, polite sniff and learned most of what I needed to know about him: single guy, no scent of a female on him except a whiff of Judi that he picked up as he brushed by her at the door; two horses, a mare and a gelding; two dogs, an older spayed female and a young neutered male. He was exuding sorrow scent as was the spayed female. The scent of the male dog was not as fresh and it betrayed a dog in extremis. Now I knew why the dude was so distraught. He shifted positions and then put his palm up against the gate, obviously inviting further contact. I gave it a lick and saw the first little bit of a smile out of him before he walked on down the row to meet everyone else.

I'd like to think that he sniffed me when we were sitting there and had learned as much about me as I had about him. But I know humans have very limited olfactory abilities, too much of their brain is devoted to speech. If he had the power of smell, he would have learned that I had been living on the road for the past two months after my owner was hauled off to jail for the third time. The guy had a drinking problem, but mostly he had a stupid problem. I had learned to cope, disappearing into the woods when he was drinking and coming back later to clean up the food left laying around when he and his drinking buddies had passed out drunk. I wasn't crazy about winding up here, but it was the first good meal, clean water, and decent night's sleep I had had in weeks.

I heard him talking to several of the other dogs, but before long he came back to my run and resumed his position at the gate. Finally he opened the latch, reached in and clipped a leash onto my collar. I stepped through the open gate and then just sat down next to him, leaning up against him. He knelt down and hugged me. I checked his heart rate and respiration, all good. Still no scent of woman, looks like the spayed female is my only competition for his attention, that's cool, I can share. The hug continues. Boy, this guy is needy. But I knew that I had just what it would take to make him smile. When he finally released the hug, I showed him my patented four-feet-off-the-ground leap with a half twist. He smiled, he laughed, and I knew I had him. He starts babbling something about names, I just want to say "Call me anything you want, just call me yours!"

Papers were signed, I helped. Money was exchanged and we were out the door. He seemed surprised that I knew which truck was his. I leapt into the truck when he opened the door and took my place in the passenger's seat as if I had been doing so every day for years. I gave him a few slurps to encourage him to drive.

I would hear him recount the story of our first meeting many times in the years to come. In his version of the story, he chose me instead of the other way around. That's complete bullshit of course, but I don't call him on it. Sometimes you gotta throw 'em a bone.

Written in memory of Brady.