The Walk
Sep 06 '06
The Bottom Line Old dogs never really go away.
“C’mon, heel now,” he clicked at the Labrador puppy. “You need concentrate a little more.” The puppy was a rambunctious eight-month old, about two-thirds legs, but starting to deepen in the signature Labrador retriever style. She was yellow, a light golden roux with dark highlights. She wore a Dudley nose, and displayed the pigmentation of her mother, who was chocolate. She had intelligent, expressive eyes, hazel, like the green water of the bay.
The pair had walked this way nearly every day for some weeks now. The pup was learning the leash and finer points of socialization. As they wandered the neighborhood, meeting cats, chickens, skunks, turkeys, and as the night would arrive, deer. They saw unusual creatures in the form of peacocks and horny toads, along with the occasional tarantula. He was satisfied with the way the pup was learning her surroundings, and he felt like he was learning much about her.
The dog was gregarious, almost to a fault, but that is a mainstay of the breed. Her intentions were clear; meet every stranger and receive human petting and affection. She wanted to mug each human being that she encountered. She also displayed the qualities of being intrepid and courageous. She had no outward fears. Perhaps horses thundering up might cause her to plant and stare, but for just a moment. She used the time to process her observations. She never bolted.
Like all dogs of good breeding, she was very loyal, and she acclimated very well to her environment, a place much different from the Fatherland, the cold, wet, Labrador coast. So talented were the fishermen who bred the dogs that a good retriever could have numerous qualities to endear her to her master. A good Labby is a power swimmer, an athletic runner, waterproof, soft-mouthed, and a repository of seemingly unending energy. Labbies are sporting dogs, but make wonderful service dogs as well. There is one thing they demand in return, however, and that is their place within the family, rather than among it. This much is true, the Labrador is not happy out back when the rest of the family is indoors. He always thought prospective owners should know that about them.
“I’ve never seen that black Labrador before,” he said aloud. She looked up at him and begged him to let her stop and meet him. They both looked toward the big, black dog standing at the corner of the field fence; in the haze you could see his impressive size. He was patrolling the edge of a ten-acre pasture, wearing a faded, hunter orange collar. “We’ll just walk by and see how he is,” he said to his pup. As the man and dog walked by, the large male gave off an alert bark, a greeting known to every dog. They stopped and looked at the big black dog, and knew by his large, friendly eyes that he was without malice. The Black stood while his otter tail wagged back and forth, his large, dark eyes examined the puppy. The two dogs were instant friends.
“Well, maybe just a short introduction,” he said. He made his pup sit, although she could barely contain herself in the presence of the large male. “Ok, go say hi,” he told her. She immediately ran over, tail shaking furiously, and licked the dog’s face and snuggled under his neck. The Black had poked his head through a square in the field wire that would just barely allow it to pass through. He could tell by the skill the dog used to pull off this maneuver that he had done it many times before.
There was something comforting about the presence of the big black Labrador. It was almost transcendent, like the way he felt as a child during the chile roasts near his grandfather’s ranch in Deming. The beautiful fall weather and the earthy smells of the roasting chiles had left a mark on the man. They had given him a place in his memory that was always tranquil and always available. There was something about this dog that made him feel a little like that, also. “Alright, time to go,” he said. “We’ll talk to him again tomorrow.”
They saw the big dog a few more times and the man decided to ask the owner if his pup could go in and play for a bit in the pasture for some socialization. He saw his neighbor climbing into his pick-up truck and waved at him. As the pick-up backed down the driveway, the driver rolled down the glass as the man and the yellow Lab approached. “How are you, neighbor?” the man asked. “I’m doing great,” said the big man, who was a welder by trade. He extended his huge, leathery hand to the man outside the truck and they shook an introduction.
“Look, I’ve seen your big black Labrador and I was wondering if my pup might get in the pasture and play with him a bit,” said the man. The welder looked puzzled, “Well I certainly wouldn’t mind, but I don’t own a black Labrador.” The man was stunned, “but we’ve played with him, right there in the corner of the pasture, he’s come up to the fence.” The welder thought, “No, the only black Labrador like that I can remember was the dog that Dub Zayne had when I bought this place from him 23 years ago. Dub was the sportswriter for the paper and an avid water fowler. He died in 1986.”
The man went flush for a bit and swallowed hard as his mouth had gone dry at the news. “Well thanks anyway,” he muttered to the welder. “It’s no problem, it must’ve been someone else’s dog loose in the pasture.” “Yeah, must’ve been,” answered the man.
They walked towards the corner of the fence as the welder put his truck in gear and started down the road. The pup reached her nose over towards the field fence where the black dog had worked his head through. The man looked down and saw a lock of black hair. He reached for it and pulled it away from the wire.
As he brought the black hairs to eye level, they twinkled, almost like sparking, and slowly dissipated, like the Marfa lights. As they disappeared they left behind a sort of energy, like static electricity, but not exactly. They heard a loud alert bark from across the pasture and saw the outline of a large black Labrador on the other side of the fence. He barked out one last time and turned, fading into the falling darkness.
copyright 2006 MJA
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Member: Mark A
Location: Schauerberg, Germany
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The time will come when we are no more, so let's just eat some BBQ...
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