My wife and I are dog people. In nearly 28 years of wedded bliss (insert cackling laughter) we’ve had a dog for all but the first 2. Newlywed apartments being what they are, we had to settle for a cat during those times.
Picked up a Lab/mix in ‘83 who spent the next eleven years with us and witnessed the birth of our three children.
Picked up another Lab/mix in ‘94. Seems like he was a yearling at the time. This one passed just a few weeks ago, having lived for at least 15 years. That’s old for a Lab.
Along the way there’s been the occasional attempt at having more than one dog, or a guest dog would show up for a spell. Cats would wander in, or a lizard or hamster. When you have children and a home and a wife who can’t say no the menagerie promises to be in a state of flux at odd given moments.
But always, there was the prime dog. Given the not-so-difficult task of anchoring the home and making it his own. Growling at intruders to give me a little warning, a little head start to the Remington. The keeper of the space, a presence for the woman when I’m off down the road on some dusty jobsite for days on end. An entertainer. A lounging sloth in the workshop to serve as a sounding board, a keen observer of kitchen activities.
We keep a dog because it’s the way things are, and have always been.
People in the Backwater understand this. Rare indeed is the house down here without one, or several. They roam at large because fencing is expensive and limiting, and a dog content with his lot won’t go very far anyway.
Ally and I made the trip yesterday to a rescue shelter. It’s a strange way to add to your family, to roll dice and hope for the look, a spark, when seeing all sorts of dogs cramped behind steel and shouldering each other for a look at strangers in khaki and boots, the kennel deafening with the howl and bark of dogs in trouble. A dozen such dogs, sent to the very back edge of a backwater swamp, to a building hard to find and out of the way.
I believe in a lot of the undercurrent things that go on between dogs and the humans who attempt to herd them. Who attempt to know what’s best for them. I looked at one who huddled, shivering in his pen on a hard concrete floor. He was much older, a silvery mix of breeds and obviously new from a home of some kind, a soul accustomed to carpet and regular meals and a soft hand. He had the stare of the defeated, and the thought went through me that no, this one wouldn’t work for what we are. And he turned and slumped to a corner and would look no more. He knew, and I knew. And a hard old thing it is to know.
Just as simple or hard to reject the jumper, the loud one, the downright ugly one. I followed in Ally’s wake and she was being very slow about the whole thing. Would have taken just about all of them I’m sure. But there was one, yes, and he spoke without sound and for a wonder, he was a Lab. He tracked us with his eyes, just a couple of barks, trying to peer around the corner of the pen when we walked away. I saw all this because I was tracking him as well, and his alertness. Like I say, I believe in that sort of stuff. Just like I believe in the spark between man and wife who speak without words, and it was no surprise to me when Ally said, “Can we see that one please, the Lab?”
It was a start, the start of the first day for a dog we’ll call Sam.
There was the skittish nervousness of a juvenile Black Lab, all big feet and muscle and tail going in four directions at once. He was thin, bony even, from some never to be explained wandering before the Shelter got hold of him. Skinny or not, he pulled me to the car like a crazed mule, a rope lead digging into my hands. “Good lord”, I said to Ally. “There’s nothing wrong with his energy!” And he hauled me to the nearest big pine tree and pooped like he’d been holding it for a week.
“Good dog! Good Sam!” He was, well, like someone just released from jail, and I worried about his past, my stinging hands and the cars upholstery.
But he glided into the backseat and calmly sat upright as if he did it every day.
We stopped at the grocery and laid in food. And a proper leash. And a long training lead. And because we are foolish spoilers of grandsons and dogs, a rawhide bone.
Ally was all set to walk him when we got home, and he demonstrated no lack of a sense of equality as he dragged her around the acreage on a jailbreak flight.
But once in the house, he was mannerly and obedient. He watched my wife, he followed her, he wouldn’t let either of us out of sight.
There was an agreement made, and the proper signs were exchanged.
Right now, he sleeps and dreams on the floor alongside the bed of his mistress. There is a look about him, from his eyes, and it isn’t the look of eagles just yet. It’s a look of wanting, of course, always a dog is wanting a touch, a meal. This is a look of wanting to be part of something. He wants to join the club and we’re just as wanting that he do so.
It’s the way things ought to be. Welcome, Sam.
Filed under: Family
Not having seen him since January, the little man lingers in a shadow of me, a loved and soothing shadow. I go there at times, to feel better of my life and how it is lived. And to pray the prayer of one who doesn’t deserve the priviledge of prayer.
God, keep him safe for one more night. Keep the furies at bay.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I had the DeWalt chopper set up in the back hallway of some random cubicle farm, zapping up chunks of backsplash and other useful sticks of what passes for building material in this day and age. It was a pleasant jobsite. There was a low hum of activity, 20 trade mechanics moving in an efficient way to bring a new office to life. It’s always struck me as a strange thing, that low hum. You’d think more noise on a construction site would equal more stuff getting done. No, the good ones are quiet, because they are filled with goodly experienced lads who don’t need to ask or inquire, and go about their business with no wasted motion, and expect much the same from you. It’s a delicate dance we do, out here.
The plumber was around the corner and in the Men’s while I sprayed sawdust from the back of the rapid firing saw. Bandy little guy with goggles and clutching a propane torch. He emerged a trifle agitated, calling ”Lighter? Anybody got a lighter?” to the otherwise empty hall.
I fished the Zippo out of the shirt pocket and waved, clinking it open with my left while never releasing the saw trigger in my right, and he pounced at it. The steady yellow flame fed his wavering blue one, until he dialed in the dosage and a thin blue heat hissed like a laser between us. He jammed a cigarette to his lips, waved the torch past it in a smooth arc (oh the little skills we pick up out here) and gave me a nod and a wink, off to the shitter to melt some copper into compliance with local codes.
“Hey Plumber, got your sinks here? I got countertops, they need holes, you got sinks?” It’s a standard thing with me, I ask this on every job.
Carpenters install lots of cabinets, cabinets that frequently house sinks. You’d think that the Plumber would be responsible for cutting his own sink hole through the top, but no. One day long ago, stone aged Plumber forgot his jigsaw one day, and the superintendent was impatient to get the kitchen finished on his tenant build-out and was berating the Plumber for being so careless as to forget his saw. So the Plumber, being a crafty and shifty sort, said “Look, there’s a Carpenter over there. I just know he has a jig, get his ass to do it!” And the super pondered for a minute and remarked “Gee, there’s a thought!” So he went to the Carp, pulled out a twenty, had a quiet word and in minutes, the job was done.
Problem is, long ago Carpenter did such a nice job of it, with his sleek jigsaw with sharp blades that Plumbers began to spread the word. Leave the saw at home they whispered in their dark plumber filled watering holes. Leave it at home and get the Carpenter to do it. Why, he does such a better job of it than we can. Besides, why should we have to take a chance butchering somebody else’s product? The Plumbers got drunk and indignant, and changed the industry forever in their twisted and evil way.
You don’t think so? It’s all true, my friends. Every word.
Turns out there were 2 plumbers on the job, and they were there to install sinks. Just sinks. They had nothing else left. I was ahead of them by a little bit, but 2 plumbers with little to do gained ground on me in a hurry, the lone installer of things wood. By the time they caught me, I was on the last two bathrooms and they were positively dawdling. Noticably.
“Sheesh. Looks like a dime’s holding up a dollar, eh?” as I glanced behind me while simultaneously firing three screws into a base cabinet. They chuckled, admiring a brass fitting and wiping rags over the next sink with a polish. “You just keep gettin’ up there, Woodpecker. We got all afternoon.”
I pulled the next cabinet into alignment, whisked a clamp from the toolbelt, nudged the toebase with a prybar and slipped a shim in, checked the level and fisted the clamp tight. Three screws, next, repeat.
“Right efficient there, ain’t he Bob? Moves like he mighta done this oncet or twicet. Where’s your help today, Carp?”
I grinned. “Who needs help when I got you two climbin’ right up my ass? Y’all got me motivated.”
Cabinets screwed to wall. Top screwed to cabinets. Four rapid moves and the sink lines were drawn. Tip the jigsaw, plunge cut the first line (“Hey Smitty, he didn’t even drill a hole! Didja see that?”). Round the fourth corner with the saw, switched to left hand for the last 3 inches so the right hand could snake under the top to catch the chunk of top about to drop onto their shiny water lines and drain fitting. Saw stops, chunk of top whirls through the air like a frisbee and lands atop 6 others just like it. Done, and done.
“There y’are, lads. You’re up to bat”, and saws and drills and toolbelts begin to nest themselves onto the big rolling cart I use. The plumbers were impressed.
“Fine work there, Mr. Carpenter. Just glad it weren’t me that had to do it. Hate those sink cuts, I do.”
I paused, for the sheer drama of it all, pulling sunglasses over eyes and strolling for the door. “Shucks, I kinda like ‘em, really.”
The Plumber raised eyebrows. “Ye do? How’s that?”
“Simple. Means I’m done, and you ain’t. Ta, boys.”
Woodpeckers. Faster to the watering hole, and make better lovers, and all that. Couldn’t imagine it any other way.
