by Greg Kincaid
“All right, then. So why does it have to be any different with Mrs. Claus?”
“ ’Cause you’re better-looking than Hank Fisher?”
“Forget it. If you’re going to be critical like everyone else probably will be, you be Santa!”
George grabbed Mary Ann’s wrist and pulled her back to him. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not getting out of this that easily. You wanted the job. You volunteered. You can’t disappoint the library board. You can’t disappoint Crossing Trails.”
Mary Ann finally broke down and laughed. “Just to be clear, I didn’t want the job, but I suppose you’re right—someone needs to do this for Crossing Trails. As for you, Anna Claus thinks you’re a very bad boy, and you’re not getting a thing from Santa this year.”
“I’m on a first-name basis with several elves.”
“Good, that’ll give you someone to talk to in the late hours of the night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you got off on the wrong foot with Mrs. Claus, you’ll be spending the entire holiday season sleeping on the Claus sofa. It gets lonely out there in the living room all by yourself in the dead of winter. You’ll see.”
“Can I set cookies and milk out for you?”
“Knowing you, you would eat them all yourself.”
He poked playfully at her midriff. “You know, Mary Ann, at our age it’s a bit harder fitting down that chimney.”
Mary Ann feigned taking a notebook from her back pocket, opening it, and writing something down. She put a vivid exclamation mark at the end of the imaginary list and flipped the hair from her face. “ ‘George McCray. Decidedly naughty.’ ”
“Perhaps,” George admitted.
She jammed her finger into his chest and sang out, putting yet another twist on a holiday tradition, “ ‘Three scrawny roosters, two snapping turtles, and a possum in a pear tree.’ ”
Kill Creek moves at its own pace, curving and bending so often that it’s hard to know the direction it flows. The fact that it lies wholly within a floodplain makes development difficult on Kill Creek or in the adjacent meadows. But it doesn’t matter: there is little demand for development ground in rural Kansas. Instead of concrete or commerce, the gentle river nurtures root growth as it runs through thickly wooded and rocky terrain and an occasional open field.
Tens of thousands of acres of the Kill Creek Valley remain surprisingly unspoiled, though the town of Crossing Trails is but a short drive away. Bobcats, raccoons, hawks, owls, and even an occasional mountain lion feast on a buffet of rabbits and small rodents that inhabit the dim shaded spaces. The sun rises as flocks of wild turkey and gaggles of geese move out of the timber and into the adjoining prairie grasses, picking at the frost-covered soil for an early-morning meal of the grains that the big red metal combines leave behind. When the winter sun sets and turns the surrounding meadows to shades of oatmeal and lavender, deer move cautiously from the dark timbered land that flanks the river. With the least provocation, a herd of twenty to thirty does will startle and run, their white tails flicking up and down like gym towels snapped playfully by junior-high-school boys, to return to the safe spaces from which they emerged.
Occasionally Kill Creek runs through treeless open pastureland. All the while meandering, seldom rushing.
Dr. Lev Pelot liked to sit on his back porch, which commanded one of those rare views of the creek moving slowly, twisting its way through his pasture like an artery pumping lifeblood to the prairie. He was old, at an age where he had time to watch the sun cast its golden light across a winter meadow and not the strength to do much more. Using his plastic tennis-ball launcher, he spent an hour each evening exercising his two dogs—a lanky hound named Buck and a husky-retriever mix, Bud. Both rescues. Bud was sly.
When Doc cocked his arm, Bud seemed to know where the ball was likely to travel. He was convinced that Bud calculated the trajectory of the ball by observing the angle of Doc’s body and the arc of his swing. As a vet, Doc Pelot had spent his entire career—more than six decades—marveling at just how much a dog could learn. He was sure that dogs, if given an opportunity, have far more potential than they are likely to realize. People, it seemed, had stopped asking dogs to do what dogs most desperately wanted to do. Dog’s aren’t takers, they’re givers.
As a young country vet, he’d cared for dogs who worked: They herded, they guarded, they pointed, they retrieved. They controlled varmints and stood watch on countless back-porch stoops welcoming some visitors, confronting others. If nothing else, they tagged along. They were companions, from sunrise to sunset, for men who toiled in fields or sprawled beneath machinery, their hands bruised, nicked, and coated with grease. Dogs supervised the planting in the spring and stood by as the sun set on foggy fall harvests. They never complained about the weather and would rather walk on three broken legs than be left behind from doing an honest day’s work. To put it simply, they contributed. They worked. They gave. Dogs may not sweat much, but maybe that’s because there is no toil in a dog’s work, only joy. These working dogs were buried beneath countless willow trees by men wielding shovels in blistered hands, tears on their weathered faces, and memories etched on their broken hearts.
He wasn’t convinced it was still that way with most dogs. Not anymore. Some owners, particularly of the working breeds, understood. Either you gave a dog a task or a purpose or he would find his own. Owners would complain to Doc Pelot, “No matter how hard I try, this dog of mine just digs his way out of the yard. Is something wrong with him?”
To which Doc would reply, “What else does the dog have to do?”
As his career lengthened, he was encountering a new and growing constellation of illnesses that reflected the plight of the modern dog. No longer was he treating generally healthy dogs that found themselves on the wrong side of a barbed-wire fence or an aggressive coyote encounter. Overbreeding—often done under some misguided notion that a particular appearance or breed was more pleasing to man—weakened the average dog with a panoply of modern ailments like hip dysplasia, epilepsy, retinal atrophy, spinal-disk problems, allergies, and so much more. Even worse, lack of purpose had created neurotics—nervous dogs, incontinent dogs, angry dogs, barking dogs, lazy dogs, aggressive dogs, obsessive dogs, and depressed or insecure dogs. Conditions that were once rare had become a common part of his vet practice.
While sitting on the back porch that late afternoon, tossing the ball to Buck and Bud—good work for dogs—he once again returned to his thoughts about the state of the world and a dog’s place in it. He knew he was an old man and that no one cared about his old-man thoughts. Still, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, he inevitably concluded that the decline of the dog was a direct reflection of the decline of mankind. He hypothesized that dogs are like a mirror reflecting humanity.
A few years back, while sitting on that very same porch, this time with a generous tumbler of booze in his right hand, Doc Pelot had suffered a mild heart attack. An ambulance trip and two days in the hospital later, his doctor laid it all out to him very clearly. “Doc,” he said, “you’ve always enjoyed a good drink or two—or more—and a hearty meal, but it’s getting out of hand. Your liver tests and blood-sugar levels confirm it. I’m putting it in your chart so you can read it yourself. As far as I’m concerned, it’s official.” He handed his chart to Doc Pelot.
Doc read the words: “Alcoholism and obesity. Patient warned.” The words hurt, but he knew they were true. He’d been in denial about it for years. Twenty pounds had turned into forty pounds. Worse, two drinks had turned into four drinks, sometimes five. He never went on a bender and got wild, but his nightly highball had turned into something more than a drink to unwind at the end of a workday. He was quietly reliant on booze, and deep down he knew it was a problem. His wife had tried more than once to warn him about his weight and his drinking, but he brushed off her concerns with his usual laugh. His habits, he told her, weren’t hurting anyone. He was wrong—but it t
ook his heart attack and the doctor’s words for it to finally hit home.
His doctor put a fine point on it. “Plain and simple, you’re killing yourself. You need to quit drinking and lose thirty pounds. And don’t think you can do it by yourself. No one can.”
At first Doc Pelot resented that he had to make changes. But he sought out professional help and decided to turn it into a challenge. When thinking about his drinking, he saw that there was a connection between his life and lives of the dogs he’d been treating. Modern dogs and modern men are suffering from the same plight, he realized. To be happy, humans and dogs both need to contribute to their family and their wider community. Both species, thought Doc, need more than a roof over their heads—they need a purpose for living. He needed to find his, before it was too late.
If he wanted the world to be a better place, if he wanted to be a contented old man—and not a grumpy old drunk—he, too, had to find a way to restore meaning to his life. Slowly over the years, as he got older and older and worked less and less, Doc had lost his own purpose and had given up believing he could contribute. Things went even more downhill when he’d retired several years ago. Once he’d stopped contributing, he began to feel isolated, lonely, and—well, he hated to admit it—self-absorbed, despite the presence of friends and family. He was counting his money instead of putting it to good use. He had to find a way to give again. Otherwise he’d just wilt and die. And that would be that.
Not long after his cardiovascular wake-up call, Doc Pelot poured his last martini onto the ground, went on a soup-only diet, and started on a journey that was about to reach its culmination. The brand-new Crossing Trails animal shelter was his late-in-life project, that thing he was looking for that would make a difference in the lives of others. It had been a long time coming. He knew it was rare for old men like him to make even small changes, let alone turn their lives around or find a purpose. With the notable exception of his best friend, Hank Fisher, most of his friends, the ones who hadn’t kicked off by now, were too set in their ways and rigid in their habits to want to affect the future. All the more reason for him to take a little pride in what he was about to do. He might be approaching the Exit Door, but he wanted some suitable punctuation for the end of his life—preferably an exclamation mark.
He thought back on the changes he’d made that had led to today. There had been, and still were, weekly AA meetings, mostly with people at least twenty years younger than him. Later he organized bake sales, car washes, cakewalks, and incessant pleas for help, but eventually Doc Pelot and Hank, who saw things Doc’s way, cajoled the community of Crossing Trails to build a new animal shelter, resting on land that Doc Pelot donated, bordering his farm. Politics and falling tax revenues had forced the closure of the old city shelter. This one would be more or less privately funded, with no overhead because the land was donated and the building had been paid for through Doc and Hank’s prodigious fund-raising. This new shelter would be less vulnerable to politics as usual. It wasn’t going to be an ordinary no-kill animal shelter with the sole purpose of avoiding the euthanasia needle. He wanted to give dogs much more than that. People, too.
The screen door opened. He turned to see his wife, Ruth, clutching her purse. She said, “Doc, it’s time to go.” Slowly, he rose from his chair and called the dogs to come in, still thinking about how far he’d come in just a few years’ time.
—
He knew that he could not stop the world from tossing aside his core values like yesterday’s newsprint. What he could do—what he had done with Hank’s help—was simple. He could create a small slice of sanity on the edge of a lazy river that ran through the Kansas prairie. That, he lamented, was all any of us could do. Clean our own house. Sweep our own back porch.
Doc Pelot and Hank personally willed the new animal shelter into existence. Now, after three long years of work, it was ready to open, and it was time to go throw open its doors. At age eighty-four, Doc had to use a golf cart to get around his property. Hank was worse off. They were both barely holding on to farms that were too much work for old men. Neither one could also attend to the day-to-day rigors of caring for a shelter full of dogs and cats—occasionally, too, a bird, a rabbit, or a reptile. That was the final problem that they had spent the last six months addressing.
Today it was all coming together. Todd McCray and Hayley Donaldson, the team who’d operated the old city shelter before it closed due to funding problems, had both agreed to return and run the new place. Hayley hadn’t left Crossing Trails after the closure, but Todd had—and now he was coming back to his hometown to take up the task. This return of the dynamic duo, Doc and Hank realized, was a tremendous blessing, enough to make two old men giddy.
They were willing to put the future of the shelter into the hands of Todd and Hayley. For the past three years, after the old shelter closed, the city of Crossing Trails had kept Hayley on the city’s payroll. She’d operated a makeshift shelter, using the garages, barns, and backyards of caring citizens. Now, with her new role as shelter director, she would handle the administrative side and stay on the payroll. She had always done a good job stretching too few dollars.
As shelter manager, Todd would care for the abandoned and lost animals that relied on the shelter for survival. His position would be funded from private donations. Doc had charmed some deep-pocketed pals who’d done well in farming into becoming sustaining donors. Plus, he hoped to generate revenue from services like private dog training and spaying and neutering.
After the old shelter closed, Todd had moved from Crossing Trails and spent the last few years as a dog trainer at the well-regarded Heartland School for Dogs in Washington, Kansas. He loved that job but was ready to come home and accept a new challenge. Doc knew for a fact that Todd missed his family—not to mention there was a girl back home. Todd had confided to Doc that three years had been a long time for him and Laura to live apart. They divided the weekends every month: two in Crossing Trails and two in Washington.
Doc had known Todd for his entire life. Todd had some lingering but barely visible disabilities, but when you look hard enough, Doc concluded, you often find that deficits are offset by gifts. Gifts that the rest of us don’t have. Todd was walking proof.
When Todd was young, the symptoms of his developmental-delay diagnosis were more pronounced. Fortunately for Todd, time is the ally of the developmentally delayed. He was a man now, no longer a boy struggling to emerge from the shadows of his disabilities. Besides, Doc Pelot and Hank didn’t need a zoologist. They needed a human who had a way with animals—and in Doc’s experience, and that of Hank and countless others, no one was better with dogs than Todd McCray.
—
At 5:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before the shelter’s grand opening, Doc and Ruth loaded themselves into the small golf cart they kept in the garage and moved along the asphalt path that connected their property to the shelter grounds. Soon they passed outdoor dog runs, an agility course, and a large, open, fenced-in dog park littered with donated tennis balls.
Doc Pelot, Hank, Hayley, and Todd shared a common vision for a small-town animal shelter. It would be a community center where pets and people could interact.
The community had given so much to build the new shelter, so now—if at all possible—Doc, Hank, and company wanted the shelter to give back. Shelters are easily ignored. To stay supported they needed to stay visible. To be relevant they would need a social-media presence—Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, a great web page with monthly e-mail blasts, and entertaining on-site events that brought the community inside the shelter, not driving past it. They would restore the holiday fostering program, which was so successful before the shelter closed, but they also needed innovative and new programs to keep the shelter relevant. Hayley had ideas for an annual dog show—a fund-raiser and a great way to get people and animals together—as well as events like a Strut Your Mutt Fourth of July Parade, a Scary Critter Halloween Party, and a Take Your Shelter Dog to School Day.
/> While Hayley and Hank Fisher were always thinking about practicalities, Todd and Doc Pelot were the dreamers. They wanted more than just a place to keep dogs alive. They wanted to give each shelter dog a life worth living—a purpose. Could they train shelter dogs to be assistance and therapy dogs for use in their own community? Could shelter dogs double as school crossing guards, trace gas leaks for the utility company, serve as search-and-rescue dogs for the fire department, accompany police officers to domestic disturbances, encourage and support patients who needed to get up and walk at the rehab facility, be companions at retirement centers, and so much more? Doc and Todd, committed co-conspirators, wanted to show the world what a dog could do—would do—if given the chance.
Hayley and Hank were both concerned that training shelter dogs to be community-service dogs, while a good idea, would not pay off financially. At one of their organizational meetings, Hayley got out her calculator, pushed a few buttons, and concluded, “Todd, if it takes a year to train a service dog, the shelter will have thousands of dollars of your wages invested in the dog. How do we get that money back?” She crunched some more numbers. “We can charge for the obedience classes, boarding, and vet services and make money, not lose money. At least for now, that’s where we need to put our focus. Is that okay?”
Todd shrugged. “What if I train service dogs on my own time? Then it won’t cost the shelter so much money. Right?”
Doc Pelot looked at Hayley and grinned. That’s my boy!
When Todd got a certain look in his eye, Hayley knew it was best to get out of his way. “Todd, that’s your choice. I just need you to understand that you can’t spend your entire day training dogs. That can’t be our primary focus, or we’ll go broke. Maybe just one or two dogs at time. How about that?”
Todd agreed. “I understand. Then later, maybe after we’re up and running, I could do more.”
Hayley reassured him that training could still be an important part of the shelter’s mission. “Yes, then maybe more.”
