When we went out a few weeks ago and plucked a gangly dog from a place that rescues dogs as a matter of course, I had no idea.
Really, no idea at all. See, I’ve nearly always been around dogs of the muttly sort. A little bit cross bred. A splash of white on the chest of a large black dog, a slightly pointed snout on what otherwise might be called a Lab. Oh they were all fine in their own way, relatively obedient souls with little in the way of independent thought.
Maggie and her clown Boxer dog, of pure lineage and perfect markings marked an insight into the world of having a thoroughbred around, one with brains and the oft-heard comment that “He’s too smart for his own good”, or something more profane when he thoughtfully chewed slippers after being left in confinement for longer than he liked.
But this dog here. This Laborador called Sam.
I drive the Backwater with a large Lab, front feet planted atop the small cooler to my right and a steady gaze ahead. When the drive turns longish, as it always does, he whirls and stretches long for a nap on the floor, the tunnel between two rows of large tools that run the length of a ten foot long box attached to a very dirty van chassis. I spend hours in the Shop, with the door rolled high and Sam on a long lead patrolling the yard. But always he is near and he steps into the truck and looks to me. “I’m ready, we’re going aren’t we? I’ll work for you, come along with you, but ever and always I want to BE with you, tall man in bib overalls. I want to lay before tall fires on cool evenings and stare with half open eyes at this life, and know that you are in the room without looking. I want the thrill of you letting me off this lead so that I can race across the half-acre and show you that your trust is warranted, that I’ll come back in a trice at a word. To shove a block shaped head under your arm and hold it there to feel the closeness and warmth, and stare. Soaking up every motion of the hands, hearing every inflection of the voice that compels.”
I’ve not been around this level of ability in a dog. The notion that one of his catagory was found wandering in the woods is astonishing. He travels with me, and is let out on leash to parade before people who invariably exclaim, “He’s gorgeous! My god, what a beautiful boy!”, and his master is proud and not a little silly with that pride.
He is an alpha, and is creating his role every day.
Now in the manner that such a life cannot help but be tinkered with, enter my Eldest Daughter, the lover of all-things-dog. She called me the other evening as I drove from city to woods, a hand on the silky black head beside me, his huge feet webbed and steady on the cooler.
“Daddy, promise me you won’t be mad at me . . .”
“Huh? What kind of way is that to start a conversation?”
“Well, cause . . . Mom’s bringing something home with her.”
“My dinner?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“Hmmm. Cash money?”
“No. Promise you won’t be . . .”
“What is it, for heavens sake?”
“Well I was down in Carolina today and there was this dog, see, and . . .” She was suddenly in a rush to explain, and I know this girl grown to be a woman, know her well. And she spun the story and my mind drifted as it always does, for I might live in 2008 but the mind is always and forever drifting to times when she was six, or ten or sixteen, and I feel and smell the day when a little smaller but equally determined Beth was gunning to talk the old man into something, and it makes me smile of a moment. She might live apart now, in a place not too far away, but I still tangle blonde hair in my calloused paw and draw her near and buss her forehead to me, the little lass with a tale to tell.
“. . . and I took the dog up to Mom’s work and she kinda looked at me funny, and . . .”
The tractors, in the field and me flying by with a grinning Lab, eyes dancing at life springing black from soil turned over, soon for the seed, and a cloud of dust in the rearview. The tinkling sound of a collar with tags as a head swivels to follow every movement.
“. . . but I couldn’t just leave him there, right? I mean he was helpless, he was . . .”
And Beth was relentless, and I watched miles ticking by as she talked in my ear and Sam panted happy next to me. She allowed that Mom would explain it all to me, and Mom generally does, although it’s not an explanation at all but a curious mix of “Here it all is Honey, and did Beth call you?”, which sort of blends into a “You already know about this of course” and leaves me flummoxed as to what to do with the wimmen in my life. Again.
The alpha, being what he is, probably took it with a lot more aplomb than his master did. It is another role for him.
I have no doubt he will play it well.
But for gosh sakes.
Three weeks ago we had no dog at all!
Filed under: Backwater Livin'
When we first moved down to the woods and the house and land were being assembled, the issue of a driveway reared its head. The builder/realtor had included the makings of a concrete driveway in the price. “Yup, run you a nice driveway from the road to the house”, he said.
The backwater being what it is, it so happened that he put it off until the very end of the project when the monsoon season was gettin’ up. Rained for days it did, and concrete and rain do not make happy driveways at all.
It had the unfortunate consequence of stalling the closing on the house. Couldn’t close the loan without a driveway, and moving trucks would sink to their axles in the bog of Carolina clay in any case.
I finally called the guy. “Look, let’s just do a gravel drive. Screw the concrete, get me forty yards of crusher-run out here and spread it out so we can get this thing done, okay?”
The realtor was delighted. I just saved him large money, see? He jumped all over it and the deed was done the very next day. House closed, problem solved.
Well, sorta.
In the way of doing things down here, I had a guy out to spread more gravel just weeks after moving in. Make it bigger and longer, you see. That driveway became a living thing. Something to be nurtured and tended much like a garden. It helped not at all that I put up a 40 foot shop in the backyard and the last 30 feet of driveway leading up to it was . . . sand.
Truck eating, soft and maleable sand. After six months, the sand turned to mud and I had my own mud bog for a parking spot. And as attractive as that might sound for a house in the swamp I was getting fearful that one night the big rig might sink out of sight and never be seen again.
This is what 20 yards of crusher-run looks like after a rookie driveway maker (that would be me) spends 3 hours on it. With a tractor and rear mounted blade. Shovel, rake. And more than a few longnecks. I took this photo while standing on the concrete apron of the shop.
Another few hours and the deed was done. Flat, serviceable parking had once again been established.
One of the neighbors happened by, a tough worker of the land who always takes an interest in the improvements of homes in the neighborhood. “Looks nice son, right good job ye done there. Graded it all by eye, did ye?” and yes, I had.
He squinted, coughed. “Kinda glad y’all went with t’ gravel. I was thinkin’ when you moved in y’all might be pourin’ concrete for a drive. We all was. Gravel just works better ’round here.”
It might have been unspoken, but the implication was clear. Concrete was for rich folks. Crusher-run and tractors were in order, down here.
Shucks, I’m glad. I’d hate to be thought of as the snob with the concrete driveway.
That just wouldn’t do at all. Naw, not at all.
