The White Dog Days of Summer

I got to keep moving

Blues falling down like hail 

And the day keeps on remindin' me 

There's a hellhound on my trail 

("Hellhound on My Trail," by Robert Johnson)

At least one dog lives at most of the houses and trailers along the route between our humble abode in the back woods and the state highway that takes you into town. As we motor along, sometimes a beagle or retriever or pit bull will run out and give chase for a couple of yards before turning back to continue the important work of laying in the yard and staring at the mailbox. Very few bark or actually come close to the moving vehicle. But there is one, a white greyhound, who finds me particularly disturbing. Everyday he lays in wait at the bottom of a hill, crouched in the gulley across from his trailer. Then, when I am right on him, he springs out in full bark mode. Bearing his fangs between barks and growls, he comes right up to the door and runs beside the vehicle down to the three way. Devil dog followed this script all summer without fail, until this weekend.

Saturday mornings at our house normally do not require or involve a trip to town, but this past Saturday I wanted to be at the tractor mechanic's shop when it opened. Coming over the hill in the truck, I prepared mentally and braced for the imminent attack. But it did not come. Hesitantly, the truck came to a rolling stop at the three way and still no attack. "Oh, no," I thought. "Someone must have come flying over that hill and hit him." The truck pulled away and I felt a little sad. Then, about a half mile up, there he was, trudging toward me on the right edge of the road, tail between his legs. As we met, he slowed down and looked up with a worn out face as if to say, "Not today my friend." My four-legged nemesis then drooped his head and plodded on toward his house. "Aha!" I reconsidered. "He may not have been hit by a barreling automobile, but I bet he was hit by a barrel of whiskey and is nursing one humdinger of a hangover. The old boy must have stayed out all Friday night and is trying to slink home before they wake up and find him gone!"

Sunday morning, as I headed into town for Mass, the hellhound was back on my trail, ornery as ever. I guess he stayed home Saturday night.

I'm Alright. And You?

The juice is not flowing this week.  (Perhaps I should get some from Melky Cabrera)  So, here's one from the archives.  I wrote this piece in 2003.

The earth here gives us life.
Today we return another life to it.
After more than a week of barely eating
and not moving on or from his pillow,

we had Rufus, the oldest of our three dogs, put to sleep.

When asked what happened to him, our vet simply said,

“He got old. He had a long life and he’s just lived it all up.”

My wife started a hole

in the grove of trees between the house and the lake.

When I got home this afternoon,

I picked up the shovel and took my turn.

As I dug, I heard a steady and methodical rustling of leaves on the ground behind me.

I turned several times,

but saw nothing.

Eventually, one the ducks living in our pond

waddled up within two to three feet,

stopped and watched for a while.

I looked up and spoke to him in a normal conversational tone of voice

several times as he approached.

Not once did he hesitate or act skittish.

In fact, he proceeded toward me with a determined sense of purpose,

like it was every duck’s daily duty to walk up and watch you dig a hole.

Some time passed

and when he had assured himself

that I was digging to his satisfaction
or simply lost interest,
he waddled back down to the pond
without a word.

As I continued digging,
Pippin, our six month old Golden Retriever,
so full of life and youthful playfulness,
ran out into the water to pounce upon him
like Tigger greeting Pooh.
There was a solitary bark
followed by a splash and the sound of rapidly flapping wings skimming across the water,
and then silence,
broken only by a few mocking quacks from a safe distance away.
Pippin soon bounded back up the hill toward the house
and shrugged as if to say,
“Stupid duck.  I didn’t want to play with it anyway.”

I finished my digging
and thought again of the life we were offering to this land.
Some are calmed by the steady noise of a bustling city.
Others find serenity in nature’s silence.
Rufus experienced both.
He first wandered up and made himself at home with us in the heart of the city
almost 14 years ago.
We know not from where he came.
He was 5 – 7 years old then.
Thereafter, from house to house and fenced yard to fenced yard,
he followed us to new places in the city, then a smaller town,
and finally here where he enjoyed his last few months.
Out here he had no fences to limit his wandering fancies
and the carriage-less horses stampeding across the pasture was the only traffic he had to avoid.

We knew before we left our last house in town
that Rufus was slowing down and that his time was getting short.
I am comforted to know that his last months were here in the summer and fall
and that he went to his rest before suffering through a harsh winter
his body could not endure.

As soon as he arrived here, new life entered him.

He took right to the place

as if he had always been here and somehow belonged here,

a feeling he shared with each of us.

Rufus loved the pond and the open pastures,

and had all the freedom he could want,

but I sensed that he found the most joy

simply laying in the shade under the front porch

listening to the wind and the birds,

surveying his kingdom

from the ridge,

knowing

that all was well.

So today

we gave him to this earth,

earth that has restored us
and continues to give us life.
Perhaps
I too
have been brought to this place
to live out my final days.
Be they many or few,
I am at peace and pleased with the thought
that of all places
they would be here,
and I know that all is well.

(2003)

Et cum spiritu tuo