by Jim Kraus
Alex had read multiple books about dogs—especially the St. Bernard breed in the weeks prior to this day. He knew all about instinct and tendencies of certain breeds. A St. Bernard was supposed to be noble and unflappable. Alex was not sure what unflappable meant, but he imagined it was a dog who would not get too excited about things it did not understand. Alex felt much the same way. He didn’t understand all the intricacies about his illnesses and conditions, but he had accepted them as his fate. He had seldom cried. He had seldom reacted with panic.
Alex’s mother turned around in her seat in the front to make sure everything was normal and upright during their forty-five-minute trip home. Each time she looked, she saw Alex, with a beatific smile on his face, and Lewis, lying prone in the carrier, his soon-to-be-massive head resting on his soon-to-be-immense front paws.
She whispered to her husband, “I think Alex has a new best friend.”
“We can totally hear you, Mom,” Alex called out. “Sheesh.”
“See,” she said, whispering again. “He said ‘we.’ ”
“Mo-o-o-m,” Alex said, in an almost melodic whine of a sort. Lewis, the dog, wasn’t complaining, and as Alex sort of complained, he almost felt guilty for doing so. It was obvious this might have been a first time for Alex, a first time of hearing what he sounded like to others. Lewis, the dog, was the echo chamber, as it were, a recorder and a furry instrument playing-back-at-true-volume. Not simply a dog, but a mirror.
Alex did not want to be a petulant child—the kind you sometimes see on Nickelodeon shows and cartoons.
Alex had learned petulant last week in his advanced reading group.
“Sorry, Mom,” he added. “It’s okay if you whisper.”
His mother did not respond, but her eyes, wide open in surprise, met her husband’s surprised glance back to her. Alex had been a well-behaved boy, but not one who would often lead with an apology.
His mother had read not-saying-they-were-sorry behavior was typical of only children. They had no one to shift blame to, and “children are loath to accept it on themselves,” the childhood expert reported.
When they arrived home, Alex carried Lewis around the house and showed him where every room was. He carried him upstairs to show him his bedroom. Even though St. Bernard puppies are large, Lewis was not quite large enough to master step-climbing—not just yet.
Lewis appeared to be content with a short visit in each room, sniffing and looking, as Alex explained what each room was. They spent the most time in Alex’s bedroom. Alex’s parents had not yet decided on sleeping arrangements. A large dog crate had been erected in the laundry room on the main floor, with a custom hypoallergenic dog mattress inside. But Alex had made alternative plans and placed his old sleeping bag at the foot of the bed.
“What if he cries at night, Alex?” his mother asked. “Won’t it keep you up?”
“He won’t cry, Mom,” Alex replied. “He’s not one of those dogs. He needs to be with me. Or near me.”
His parents acquiesced to their son’s request. He was not a child who demanded much. And since his medical troubles, his parents were reluctant to say no to simple requests.
Pick your battles carefully.
“If it doesn’t work or if the dog cries all night, he’ll have to go to the crate. Okay?”
“Sure, Mom.”
During the first week, Lewis never once cried or whined at night. Apparently, Lewis curled up on the old sleeping bag and slept when Alex slept. On the eighth night, well after dark and well past Alex’s bedtime, Alex’s mother heard a loud whine coming from Alex’s room. She hurried to investigate.
Lewis sat, forlorn, on the floor at the foot of the bed, his head lowered, his eyes staring at the ground, a thin, lonely cry coming from his small throat. At first, Trudy thought he might be in pain. Alex remained asleep and had not stirred.
Then Lewis looked up at Trudy with those eyes, those wide, imploring, deeper-than-the-ocean eyes.
And then Trudy realized she had moved the tattered sleeping bag to vacuum in the afternoon and had forgotten to replace it. She had stuffed it into a closet just to get it out of the way. She quickly retrieved the bag and folded it twice, and laid it at the foot of the bed. Lewis obediently stepped out of the way to allow her to place the bag in the precise spot it had been for the past seven days. Lewis waited until it was down and straightened flat. Then he sniffed at it once, climbed on top, circled three times, and laid down, facing the door, his head nestled between his paws. He blinked twice and then closed his eyes.
Trudy could scarce hold the entirety of the scene in her heart and quietly slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door most of the way, allowing the hall light to provide some illumination to her son and his dog, walking away before her emotions brought a tear or two of happiness.
* * *
Up until this point in his life, Alex had not demonstrated much in the way of dedication to a single task. Again, his myriad illnesses had made it difficult for his parents to stay strict, and insisting Alex stay with a task until it was finished. He had tried soccer and claimed he didn’t like it. The following spring, he had tried baseball. Alex enjoyed playing with his teammates but never appeared comfortable, either at bat or attempting to catch a fly ball. He did not repeat in either sport.
So when Alex spent hour upon hour with Lewis, teaching him to stop and sit and come and walk at heel, both Trudy and Lyle exchanged glances at first, then conversations about how a dog seemed to have changed their son into a better person—or at least a person with more gumption to see things through to their conclusion.
Alex and Lewis would walk along the sidewalk in front of their house, Alex calling out, “Heel, Lewis. Heel.”
And Lewis kept up, walking at Alex’s right side, his head just about even with Alex’s right kneecap, not darting off, not chasing an errant bird or leaf, but keeping pace. The truth be told, St. Bernard dogs, even puppies, are not known as “darters.” Their movements are larger and appear to be deliberate, always considered. Small dogs, terriers, poodles, and the like—well, they dart and weave and charge and jump and yelp and chase. Not so with Lewis. There was a certain large, hefty dignity as he walked beside his human companion.
Lewis accomplished the walk-to-heel training with flying colors. Alex could walk him down the block, cross the street, even encounter a yappy, pocketbook dog on the way, and Lewis would not once break stride. He knew his place was to always remain at the side of Alex.
Of course, Alex kept a pocketful of small dog biscuits in his right pocket as well—the size made for toy-sized dogs. For Lewis, a single biscuit would be one chew, maybe two, and a swallow. Lewis did love dog biscuits. In order to keep the biscuits coming, Lewis behaved himself and tried to follow every command Alex gave him.
When Alex smiled and said, “Good boy,” Lewis smiled in return.
It was obvious even if he did not get a biscuit, he would have been happy.
But the biscuits helped.
Lewis knew the truth about learning and following and being true, even as a puppy. Biscuits lubricated the process, but Alex’s smile would be reward enough.
4
George spent weeks upon months after Hazel had . . . well, after Hazel was gone, researching RVs, visiting RV sales lots, checking prices, making long lists of pros and cons. After all, he had trained as an engineer, and engineers are nothing if not methodical and precise.
Besides being methodical, he was also frugal.
His wife often teased him about being “cheap,” saying he tossed nickels around like they were manhole covers. George took all of it in a good-natured way. He considered himself thrifty.
When it came to his wife’s medical needs, however, George had spared no expense. They had gone for second and third opinions. If the doctors suggested it, there would be no treatment beyond their reach. When the time came, he brought in the best hospital bed on the market. He had arranged for nurses to come in frequently and, at the end, for nearly six
months, to be there twenty-four hours a day. His being frugal—or cheap—offered George the freedom to spend money when it had been necessary.
Alone now, George had more than enough. There would be no financial worries or sleepless nights over the thoughts of outliving his resources.
Running out of money as a possibility simply never entered his thoughts and considerations. It was as if George knew what would happen in the future, of when his end was due. He did not worry, not now, and would not worry into the future.
After a long period of careful, and sometimes, agonizing consideration of RVs, George pulled the trigger. It felt good to have finally ended his quest.
He had purchased a three-year-old, nineteen-foot MVP Tahoe, cab-over RV. Easy to drive, comparatively speaking, with good gas mileage, also comparatively speaking of course, with a shower, toilet, small kitchen, couch, TV, A/C, heater, Wi-Fi accessibility, and a full bed over the cab area.
George said it looked like a truck camper on steroids.
And he had no plans on being electronically connected during his travels, but the Wi-Fi was not a costly item, and he had no reason to remove the required wiring and whatnot.
Even as a young man, George was not the most comfortable and intuitive driver, so an easy-to-handle RV had been a critical component of his decision. A month prior to his purchase, he took a bus-type RV for a test drive—a forty-foot monstrosity with multiple beds and with a kitchen bigger than the one he had at home—and being in traffic had terrified George every minute he was behind the massive steering wheel. While he didn’t actually love driving the compact RV, it handled almost like a car—not quite, but almost. George imagined he would eventually get accustomed to the bulk of the new vehicle.
“The former owner only used this one for three summers,” the RV salesman, “Call-me-Chuck,” had told George as they sat at his small desk at Jerry’s RV Sales Depot to discuss the deal. “It’s a problem with a lot of buyers in the mobile recreational vehicle market. They don’t do their research. They don’t think things out fully.”
Call-me-Chuck had complimented George on his clipboard with pages and pages of questions and requirements. “You’re a man who knows what he wants, am I right? Am I right?”
“I’m driving across country. I want something easy to drive, easy to service, big enough to feel comfortable in, since I plan on being on the road for twelve months.”
George had looked at several compact RVs before settling. A three-year-old model would have lost some of its original value, at least on paper (better for George), while not losing much of its mechanical integrity and longevity.
“A good choice, my friend,” Call-me-Chuck had stated. “You will be one happy camper with this model.” Then Call-me-Chuck nearly doubled over in laughter. George did not think it was the first time he had used the joke.
First off, as the new owner, George had his new RV painted. He liked black cars. He had always owned black cars. So he had the RV painted black with just a bit of white pin-striping.
“I hate all those swoops and flourishes on most RVs,” George told the body shop. “And they all seem to be beige. I don’t like beige. I just want it painted black.”
There was a truck-and-auto repair shop in Gloucester offering RV “refreshment.” George had the refrigerator replaced, a new mattress installed in the bed area, a new couch, a new gas stove, and a new toilet system.
“I don’t want anything to break while I’m traveling.”
The shop’s mechanic poked and prodded, tested and tightened, and declared the motor and transmission to be in almost-new condition.
When George had brought the RV home, back to his condominium, he’d placed a decal on the back of the unit—a white outline of the continental United States, each state outlined individually. Then, using a white paint pen, he’d filled in the area of Massachusetts, his starting state. He thought it made perfect sense, since it is, by definition, a state he had been in when he started driving his RV.
An armful of road atlases and travel guides were stacked on the dining room table in George’s small apartment. He had made pages of notes, working on a tentative itinerary, looking for RV parks in the areas and locations he planned to visit.
I have ten months until I leave. In ten months, I can be totally ready. I want everything settled as well—all the legal matters to be signed, sealed, and delivered. I don’t want my daughter to have to deal with anything unexpected or unpleasant. She won’t know what to do about estates and wills and everything—so I’ll have it all taken care of. It’s the least I can do.
George, methodical as ever, wanted everything to be as normal and as usual as possible—even if it wasn’t.
“It is what an engineer does. Plans for every eventuality.”
George looked out the window to the darkening western sky.
Even death.
5
Will you be home for dinner tonight, Lyle?” Trudy called out from behind the open refrigerator door. She could hear Lyle rushing about, always in a hurry to leave for work, almost always forgetting something—briefcase, car keys, lunch, wallet, whatever. Today was no exception. Trudy tried to view this hurry-hustle-bustle-lost-and-found-and-agitated as a charming quirk of her husband’s—and not simply a habitual passive-aggressive form of forgetfulness.
“Probably. Have you seen my wallet? Did Alex move it? Or did Lewis take it out in the backyard and bury it?”
Lewis also stood by the open refrigerator, patiently waiting for some sort of food to tumble out, food he would gratefully snatch and eat. When he heard his name, he looked up at Trudy. Trudy would have sworn there was a hurt look in his eyes from being falsely accused.
“It wasn’t you, Lewis,” she whispered to him. “He was just kidding.” Lewis responded by looking relieved.
“It’s up on the dresser in our bedroom. Where you left it.”
She heard the fast clumping as her husband ran upstairs and the fast clumping as he hurried back down a moment later. She heard him muttering, “I didn’t put it there.”
Of course you did, Trudy thought and shook her head.
“How about chicken tonight?”
“Sure. Fine. Chicken.”
She heard the back door open.
“Have a good day, honey. You too, Lewis.”
The two of them looked at each other with a knowing look. At least, Trudy imagined Lewis to have a knowing look.
She found a package of frozen chicken breasts and put it into the refrigerator to start to thaw. She noted the packages of frozen corn and lima beans—Alex loved corn and lima beans. There were potatoes in the pantry closet.
“Dinner is set, Lewis. One less thing to worry about.”
She nudged Lewis to back up. Lewis liked the refrigerator, especially when it was open, and didn’t want to back up—not without getting some food out of it—but he did so, a little grudgingly, perhaps.
Alex had boarded the school bus a few minutes earlier, with Mom and Lewis at the door, Mom waving, Lewis wuffing in farewell. And now with Lyle gone, the big house grew still and quiet.
Trudy set about making herself toast and coffee for breakfast. She seldom ate before her crew departed. Too often, she would come back to cold toast and tepid coffee after searching for homework or the right color sock or the yellow necktie or the disappearing briefcase or helping a semi-frantic Alex with his unfinished homework from the night before.
She had learned, over time, it was best to wait a few minutes until after the morning squall had passed over.
Lewis seemed to like these quiet moments with Trudy as well. He would sit near his food bowls and watch her butter and add jam to the toast, add the cream to the coffee, and then, after she sat down at the table, he would rise and slowly, deliberately, make his way to her side.
Apparently, Lewis had learned Trudy was a soft touch—especially when Lewis put his deep-set eyes on their I’m-still-hungry setting, his head nearly at table height.
Lewis shambl
ed over to the table, sniffing in deeply. He was a dog who loved the way food smelled. She could hear him, after she put his breakfast in his bowl: instead of eating it immediately, he would stand there, his nose inches away from the kibbles—inhaling deep breaths, as if he was truly savoring the scent of his first cup of food of the day. Only then would he eat. He was a careful eater, not a dog to wolf down his food like a hungry . . . wolf. He chewed with thought, slowly, enjoying each morsel. She could hear him eating as she prepared Alex’s bagged lunch for school. She would hear him as she made the coffee for her husband. She could hear him as she returned from the front of the house carrying the morning paper.
And as always, Lewis would watch Trudy as she ate, studying each move with devotion, bordering on passion, watching each bite and each swallow with undisguised envy.
“Lewis, they say bread isn’t good for dogs,” she explained, perhaps for the fiftieth time. And every time, Lewis would snort in reply, as if to say “they” had no idea of what a dog needs to eat.
Trudy’s resolve softened by the second slice, and she handed Lewis a corner of the toasted bread, thick with butter, carrying a thin smattering of peach jam as well.
Lewis, like a surgeon, carefully took the treat and chewed it slowly, enjoying the human tastes.
After he ate and realized all Trudy had remaining was the warm liquid in the cup—a liquid Lewis wrinkled his nose at—he simply sat back on his haunches and watched Trudy sip and read the papers.
After a moment, Trudy looked down at Lewis.
“I can see why Alex loves you, Lewis. You think I’m the most interesting person in the world, don’t you?”
Lewis wuffed in response, his shoulder moving up and down with the sound. It was not a bark. It was not a whine. It was a ruffling sound, like he was clearing his throat, like he was agreeing with what she had said. When Lewis disagreed—with the food in his bowl, with a piece of broccoli offered to him—he would snort loudly and shake his head. Wuff meant yes, as far as Trudy could tell, and a snort meant no.
