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| Not my boy, but almost. |
I wanted to post something a little different so I am sharing the opening of one of my 'trunk' novels. I am doing this for two reasons.
It's an example of how a real event can become a part of fiction and it's a tribute to my good old boy Harley.
Though the scene took place on the shore of a another river very far from here, what happened to the dog in this opening, is what happened to my dog, when he was a puppy, twelve years ago.
Once a handsome young adult, we call him our old boy now. Though he struggles on some days, he is not suffering. We have given him a good life, keep him comfortable and let him know that he is adored. Though his days are sometimes difficult, he is still able. We feel this will be his last winter but until the day comes when we may have to make the decision, I would rather leave to God, we hold him tight and tell him he is the best of the best and loved.
There is a lesson here I think. Maybe two. Don't underestimate spirit and heroes are everywhere.
The Spirit of the Connecticut
When pleasure by the river settles in the mud,
it may become unspeakable.
At the end of Marsh Lane, the short dirt road leading to
the Connecticut River, there is a small parking lot with a state boat launch.
It’s not a fancy launch, where huge SUVs pull up to back their Whalers down a
wide and sturdy cement ramp into the river. It’s a place for hikers to park,
and kayakers to wade in the mud while gently setting the belly’s of their small
boats in the water. Secluded, it is a contemplative place, where a person can
watch the ebb and flow of the current and seek solace. Or, if it is within
their nature, they may take advantage of how remote the location is and perform
ineffable acts.
With no thoughts as to whether anyone was watching, two
boys with a puppy, splashed in the muddy shallows by the launch. A stick,
tossed by one of the boys, landed in the water just beyond the pup’s reach. He
bounded after it like it was a T-bone sliding off a picnic plate. A woman,
watching from the parking lot, was entertained at first, until the game
changed.
The ball of yellow fluff, a golden retriever and yellow
lab cross, was energetic and eager to play. Standing at the edge of the water,
his hind end wagging, he looked as if he’d wag himself right over. When the
stick first landed in the water, he didn’t know what to do; one paw wet, and
then the other, until finally stepping in to reach the stick, he brought it
back to shore. The boys started throwing the stick further out into the river
until the puppy, struggling to swim, reached it. Finally the dog, after the
farthest throw, stood firm, as if to say, you’ve thrown it too far, boys, I’m
not going out for that one.’
“Fetch it!” The older boy yelled.
Even from the edge of the lot, where the woman stood, she
could see the boy, red faced, ‘spit’ the word fetch. He was livid.
“Fetch it you little shit!” The younger boy screamed.
Glancing among the few parked cars the woman searched for
someone to step in and control the boys, the cars were empty.
Tilting his head, the dog looked as if he were reasoning
why his friends were mad at him; he was having fun up until that moment. He
turned away from the yelling, ears down, head dipped. The boys’ nasty voices
had changed the temper of play, the puppy was scared. He lay flat as if to make
himself disappear.
Stomping over to the dog and grabbing him by the scruff
of the neck, the younger boy yanked him to a stand. Pulling away, the dog
yelped, the boy smacked him.
The older boy grabbed the puppy’s tail; squirming, he
snapped to get away. With his fingers buried in the scruff, and the dog’s mouth
held shut, the first boy stepped further out into the river. The other boy sunk
his hands into the muddy fur of the puppy’s back. They struggled forward with
the squirming dog farther out into the water. Waist deep the two boys plunged
the dog under and held him there.
The woman, watching from the lot, could not believe the horror
happening before her eyes. Frantic, she scanned the shore for someone to stop
the sickening scene.
She never felt how cold the water, and how strong the
current, or how the river bottom filled her shoes with mud. Digging her fingers
into one kid’s shoulder, she yanked until he let go of the dog. Grabbing a
handful of the other kid’s hair, she pulled back, until he raised his hands to
fight her off. Both thrashed away as she scooped up the puppy and headed for
shore.
Emitting a filthy word-barrage, the boys were pissed that
the woman had spoiled their demented game. For an instant she turned and stared
them into silence. Slowly backing downstream toward shore, once their feet hit
dry dirt they ran.
Placing the limp puppy on the hood of her car, muddy
rivulets of water wept from the metal onto the ground. His tongue hung from the
side of his mouth; the puppy was not breathing. Shedding her sweatshirt the
woman began to rub the dog down, chanting over and over again, breathe,
little guy, breathe. The shirt, as wet as the dog, became a hug of sorts,
massaging and stimulating, as she continued her mantra, breathe, little guy,
breathe.
Shuddering from a spasm, his body squirmed under her
tender hands, until he finally settled calmly on the warm hood of the car. The
woman spoke kind words to the little dog, telling him he was alright and that
no one would hurt him again. Raising his head he looked at the woman and tucked
his tongue into his mouth. At first tapping out a slow rhythm on the car’s
hood, the puppy’s tail quickened, and soon became an energetic thank you to the
woman.
Gently lifting the dog, she set him on the ground.
Looking up to her, his tail swiftly sweeping side to side, he stood on his hind
legs as if asking to play.
“You sure have spirit little guy,” she said as she petted
his muddy fur. His tale started to wag so hard she thought he’d wag himself
right over.
“Yup, you sure have spirit. Hey," she said, “that’s a
great name for you, Spirit.”
The woman took the puppy home that day. Once his fur was
dry she brushed him clean and settled him beside her favorite chair. With all
her heart she wanted to keep him but because her landlord would not allow pets
she had to quickly find him a home.
At
work, during a meeting with colleagues, the woman told the story of how she
saved a puppy from two boys intent on drowning him. One of her co-workers, a
college professor, stepped forward.
“I’ll take him,” Professor Dennison said.
“He’s yours,” the woman said without a moment’s
hesitation, because she knew, of all the people she worked with, of everyone
she had ever known, Professor Lillian Dennison was the one most needing Spirit.
