Creola's Moonbeam

by McGraw Propst, Milam

  The one thing I enjoyed seeing was the occasional dog. I specifically liked coming across the big black ones. Black dogs with red collars would always tug at my heartstrings. I would look into the eyes of any black canine who came my way, and remember my own beloved Nestle.

  Leave it to me to name a dog after chocolate.

  I hurried back to the condo to work on that story.

  Missing Nestle

  by Honey Newberry

  It was a June night in 1995. Beau and I had enjoyed a quiet dinner out before Butlar’s high school graduation hoopla began. When we returned home, we expected Nestle to gallop through the kitchen and greet us at the back door with her traditional, tail-wagging frenzy. This night, however, the dog was nowhere in sight.

  Beau and I called for her. No pup.

  We walked around the block shouting her name. No response.

  We got in the car and drove around searching, whistling, and shouting, “Nestle, Nestle. Here, girl.” Nothing.

  Nestle could always be found in one of three places — on the deck, on the family room rug, or wherever in the house I happened to be.

  I phoned the neighbors. No one had seen her.

  Although Beau attempted to reassure me, and I him, we both became more and more frantic as minutes ticked by. Nestle had never been more than two or three houses away, and that was always with one of the family members in sight. It was getting very late, dark as pitch, and our dog was still missing.

  Butlar came in happily talking about a neighbor’s graduation party. “We had so much food! Everyone was there. It was awesome!”

  He called for Nestle. He suddenly noticed my tear-stained face. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Oh, Butlar!”

  Beau told him that our dog was gone. Reacting exactly like we did, our son bolted from the house to look for her. Like his parents hours before, Butlar searched first on foot, then from his car. Our son had loved Nestle since the sixth grade, when he had picked her from a litter born next door in the neighbor family’s tool shed.

  No one in the Newberry home got a minute’s sleep that night. Just after the sun came up, Butlar was sitting at the kitchen table pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. Unable to eat a single bite, he dissolved into tears, “Mom, I don’t care about my stupid graduation. All I want is Nestle.”

  We were shocked. Since the Christmas holidays, he’d counted down the days until he graduated. He’d thought of little else.

  Had someone stolen her? Not a chance. Had she run away? Never, not unless something had really frightened her. Nestle was terrified of fireworks. Had there been some that night? The answer was yes. Fireworks were shot off at the neighbor’s graduation party. Butlar blamed himself.

  For two days our search continued. By that time, Mary Catherine arrived home from college and joined in the search efforts. We contacted the humane society, the pound, and our veterinarian. The doctor’s staff alerted other vet’s offices all throughout the area. We put up signs with Nestle’s picture and name and our phone numbers. Night after night, we searched. Night after night, we grew more and more discouraged. The temperature climbed well into the nineties. On the front walk, our family’s yellow cat, Tasmania, stood sentry for his lifelong companion. In his opinion, the big dog was his mother.

  Day three, in desperation, I phoned a lady I hardly knew.

  “Mary, Mary Hannah?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure you’ll remember me, I’m Honey Newberry. Our daughter Mary Catherine went to school with your twins.”

  “Um, hmm.”

  “A couple of months ago, you kindly stopped your car to ask if my dog needed help. We were over by the country club entrance sitting under your neighbor’s tree. We must have looked pretty pitiful!”

  The woman hesitated, “I think maybe I remember.”

  “I explained it was terribly hot and that Nestle and I were just resting. You mentioned that our dog reminded you of your two Labs.”

  “Yes, I definitely do!”

  “Well, this time, I’m afraid we actually do need your help. Nestle does. She’s lost. We figured out that she was frightened by our neighbor’s fireworks a couple of nights ago. I’m hoping she’d wandered over your way.”

  It was a stab in the dark. Mary’s neighborhood was a car ride of some seven miles from our home.

  The kind lady tried to encourage me and promised to keep her eye out for our dog. Even so, two days had passed and the temperature was hovering near one hundred degrees. Water? Food? Would our dog’s intimidating size keep people from trying to get near her? Probably.

  Day four, I returned home to find a message on the answer machine. “This is Mary. I may have spotted Nestle! Call me right away!”

  Shaking, I could hardly push the telephone’s buttons. Mary answered, “Yes, I think it was, at least, I hope it was your Nestle. This big black dog was wearing a red collar.”

  I grabbed my purse and crashed headlong into Beau and Butlar. “Back in the cars! Someone’s spotted Nestle!”

  “Mom, I’m going with you,” said Butlar, jumping in my car. Mary Catherine hopped into the front seat of Beau’s.

  We wound through the quiet neighborhood, around a golf course, street after street. We stopped, quizzing anyone we saw. Fifty-five minutes later, there was still no sign of our dear dog. No one had seen her. At the traffic light onto the four lane, traffic-filled Peachtree Road, I turned to Beau. “Think she tried to cross?”

  “Maybe, Mom. Go for it!”

  I anxiously scanned the busy street fearing I would see Nestle’s furry black form laying dead in the gutter. No body. Whew. Relieved, I gunned the gas pedal and wheeled left into heavy traffic. Unexplainably, I believed we were going in the right direction.

  On the other side of the street, two ladies were taking a walk. I screeched to a halt and all 6’2” of Butlar jumped out of the car.

  Gesturing wildly, he likely terrified the women as he shouted, “Excuse me, have you seen a big black dog with red collar?”

  “Yes, we have!” The taller of the two turned to point. “We did see a dog like that down that way. You might know the area. It’s near those new condos on Roxboro Road. You’d better hurry though, the dog we saw seemed disoriented and extremely weak.”

  “Thank you!”

  We wheeled away. Tears of hope flooded my face. Butlar shouted, “Yahoooo!”

  One traffic light held us, then another. “Change light, change!” we chanted.

  Green! We were free!

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to plan how we’d react upon finding our traumatized pet.

  “Butlar, that women said the dog they saw was disoriented. We must try to act calm. If not, we’ll spook poor Nestle. We certainly don’t want her to bolt and run away from us.”

  “I understand, Mom. But do you really believe we’ll find her?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve believed that from the first night.” Just as I had done for the past four days, I was trying hard to convince myself as well as to convince my son. “Butlar, call your Daddy’s car phone and tell them where we are. I just have a hunch.”

  “Yes ma’am!”

  “Drat! Another light.”

  Suddenly, Butlar screamed, “Mom! Look over there. It’s her!”

  Our dazed dog stumbled out from behind a long bank of cypress trees. In her bewildered state, sweet Nestle was staggering farther and farther east and away from our home.

  Butlar and I leapt out of the car and ran toward her. Waving our arms, we shrieked her name, “NESTLE! NESTLE, GIRL, come! Nestle, Nestle!” Both of us were hysterical with relief. So much for our strategy of the cool, calm, and slow approach!

  Nestle stopped. She tucked her tail. Butlar and I grabbed our precious bedraggled animal and tackled her to the ground. About that time, Beau and Mary Catherine drove up. They rushed over and collapsed into our jubilant reunion. We five rolled around on the median as Nestle panted and licked her very relieved family. People in their c
ars stared at us. Some honked and others applauded.

  Nestle was alive!

  We helped her into the car. Butlar honked my horn in celebration all the way home. He hadn’t been that excited since the Atlanta Braves won the pennant. The exhausted dog lay shaking quietly on the back seat. She was confused and oh-so-weak. Her paws were raw and bloody; the pitiful pup was terribly dehydrated. Once safely in our kitchen, Nestle collapsed on the cool tile floor. I propped her chin on her water dish and she drank two bowlfuls without a pause.

  Beau drove to the yogurt shop. He returned with a quart of Nestle’s favorite flavor, golden vanilla. He sat on the floor beside the dog and fed her yogurt spoon by spoon. Her parched but eager tongue licked clean every bite.

  Nestle was home.

  Butlar begged to take the dog to his graduation, insisting that the ceremony was to be held outside in a football stadium. “Who would care?”

  I agreed with our son, but Beau thought better of our idea. Butlar’s grandparents, Aunt Mary Pearle, his cousins, his sister, Beau and me, and an enthusiastic contingent of friends would be audience enough for the occasion. But Beau was adamant. “Nestle will be just as happy to attend Butlar’s party, afterwards.”

  “With lots of yogurt!” said Butlar.

  “And no fireworks!” I added.

  Chapter 8

  I sighed at the sweet memory of Nestle’s homecoming as I waded out into the water and splashed my face. My eyes filled with tears. Just that past May, Nestle had to be put to sleep. A good old girl, she would have turned fourteen the following October.

  Nestle no longer greeted every visitor at our kitchen door, nor did she nap on the deck or on the rug in the family room. No longer did she wrestle with Butlar when he dropped by, nor did she follow me to every room in our house. Our beloved pet was buried in the far corner of Beau’s garden. Her favorite toy, a hot dog that squeaks, marks the spot.

  A white miniature poodle scampered down the beach toward me.

  “Hey, puppy,” I said, and waved at the owner. I petted the dog. He licked me in return. His tongue seemed so tiny in comparison to Nestle’s. I wondered if the poodle liked yogurt. Nearby, a feisty red dachshund frolicked with a beach ball twice his size. I called out, “That little puppy has no idea she can’t get the ball in her mouth.”

  “That doesn’t keep her from trying,” grinned the old gentleman who accompanied her. “Would you like to pet her? Her name is Hildebrand Von something or other. My wife knows the whole high falutin’ deal. I just call her Hildy.”

  I jumped at the chance. The dachshund rolled over on its back and let me rub her stomach. “So soft! You’re such a cutie, Hildy!”

  “Madame, you’ve made a friend for life.”

  When Mary Pearle and I were growing up, we had a little dachshund, a female, the only girl dog we ever had. Shortly after Creola took us to see the movie, “Peter Pan,” Mother surprised us with the puppy. The film fresh in my mind, I insisted we name the dog “Tinkerbell.”

  Tinkerbell loved to eat and we took great pleasure in feeding her. The poor dog got so fat that Daddy changed her name to “Cowbell.” Eventually, the name “Bellie” stuck. It suited her well.

  Beau knew well my love of red dachshunds. When Nestle died he offered to replace her with a puppy just like Bellie. I declined. It was dear and sweet of him, but for me, there’d never be another dog.

  “Bye, bye, Hildy.”

  I walked on. An older couple was headed my way. They never failed to greet me, he with his hearty, “Good morning, young lady,” and she with her sweet smiles. The two also never failed to be dressed in matching shirts. They were always holding hands. Not once had I seen them unmatched or unattached. I assumed the couple held hands not for safety’s sake, but because it came naturally.

  More than once, I almost stopped them so we could talk. I wanted to get to know them. I yearned to hear their story, their stories, to learn the secrets of such tender love and obvious devotion. I never followed through with my plan because it seemed intrusive.

  Rather, I delighted in making up fairytales of the couple’s life together; about how they had worked hard but happily toward their mutually determined dreams, and now, how they looked forward to every break of dawn.

  I knew they must surely appreciate music of every kind, along with literature, the classics for certain, and poetry, too. He likely tinkered with tools, woodworking perhaps? She, or better, the two of them, painted pictures of the shore. It was a given that they kept a garden.

  I fantasized that they had moved around the country, finally settling into a charming retirement cottage by the Gulf of Mexico, one overflowing with music, art, photographs, books, and fresh flowers.

  Creola whispered to me. Honey, you lazy girl, always making up stories are you! You should be writing.

  As if on cue, Beatrice strode up behind me. “Well, hello there!”

  I halted, startled. “And how are you today?”

  “I’m just fine, as fine as a fiddle, particularly because my darling Jennings is set to arrive anytime now. But, you Harriette, how are you?”

  “How could I be anything but happy on such a beautiful morning?”

  Beatrice looked at her watch. “Agreed! It is a gorgeous day, my new young friend, and I can see that I have exactly the perfect amount of time for a walk with you. What do you say we take a pleasant chat-walk?”

  “Chat-walk? Oh, I see. Sorta like a cat walk but with words?”

  “A clever play on words, dear. Off we go!”

  We strolled up the beach. “So Beatrice, what are your plans for your son’s visit?”

  “Well, I’ll just have to wait and see what he wants of me. Usually the poor boy is so exhausted when he arrives that he simply collapses on the porch in order to rebuild his energy and his creativity. Jennings is a starving artist, you see. Actually, he’s not starving. He works as an accountant in corporate America by day. Mercifully, he feeds his soul by night with his writing. I eagerly await someone’s discovery of him, a great talent is my Jennings.”

  I didn’t hear the last part; I was hung up with that word. “Writing.”

  Beatrice stopped, picked up a shell, and said, “Now, dear, take a look at this shell. Here’s a curious mystery for us to ponder. Don’t you just have to wonder what kind of interesting creature lives inside this lovely house?” She put the shell to her eye. “Anybody home?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her the shell was empty, that a seagull had probably eaten the inhabitant. This wise old beachcomber was idealistic in so many ways, ways that endeared her to me.

  Beatrice sighed at my smiling silence. “Sometimes I speculate that my house is but a shell, too. And one of these days a giant will come along and pick it up to peek inside. Most assuredly, that fellow will amuse himself with the lifestyle of a certain Beatrice!”

  “Will the giant find you at home?”

  “But, of course; I couldn’t bear to miss such an event!”

  “Beatrice, I’m very curious about your shell. I doubt you are among us ordinary condo dwellers.”

  “No, I’m not, but I do know how divine those condos are. Actually, they hadn’t begun to build condominiums when I started coming here. I came by ship with Ponce de Leon!”

  “You must have discovered the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Harriette, you are a honey.”

  “Okay, now I know you must be a psychic! My friends call me ‘Honey.’ My real name is Honey Newberry. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you that in the first place. Harriette is my given name.”

  “Bully then, Honey it is. I must add that you look more like a Honey than you do a Harriette. A Harriette would have to be stiff and superior, and most definitely, if you will excuse me, she might even be rather homely.”

  “You’ve described perfectly my Aunt Harriette, the woman for whom I was named!”

  “Oh dear me, I do apologize,” said a suddenly red-faced Beatrice. “I AM so sorry!”

  “
No offense taken.”

  “My dear, I meant that I am sorry for your aunt, that poor, dear woman!”

  The two of us giggled like teenagers.

  “So, please, Beatrice, if you will, please tell me more about your home. I’m a house person myself and relish finding out about my friends’ habitats. One’s home says so much about a person’s spirit. My curiosity is a bizarre and rather rude habit, but I can’t help myself.”

  “It’s not rude at all. I’m pleased that you’re interested. Mine is a cottage, one built around the turn of the century. That’s the LAST century, you understand! We bought it in the 1960’s or 70’s; I don’t really recall other than to admit I’ve come to this area for decades. My home is a mumble-jumble of mismatched furniture, the artwork of friends, books, and treasures from my travels. So crammed with precious memories is it that were the house a boat, it would surely sink.”

  “Sounds fascinating to me. One of these days, I may surprise you and pop by.” The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted my brazenness. It was not at all like me to invite myself somewhere.

  Beatrice put her hands on hips. “Jolly well, how about joining me for a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice on Monday morning? We can enjoy the juice and visit after our break-of-dawn constitutional.”

  Back-peddling, I stammered, “Gracious, I’ve never been quite so forward. Please excuse me!”

  “Forward? Sounds to me more like you’re being honest and interested. Honey, I like a lady with spunk. We’re set for Monday, then?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Besides, I’ll need company after Jennings departs. His exit always leaves me feeling rather glum.”

  We walked quietly for a minute. Suddenly she said, “I see a gorgeous diamond on your left hand. Should I assume there is a Mr. Newberry?”

  “Oh yes, his name is Beau; Honey and Beau. Think we could be from the South? I think ‘Honey and Beau’ sound as if we fell out of a magnolia tree in the sprawling front lawn of a white-columned home.”