Nop's Trials

by Donald McCaig

  T.T. nodded his head, very slightly. Large moves hurt him.

  “I don’t want to give you the chain because I’m short on stout dog chains but I got some baler twine that’ll hold him.”

  And so, in not too long, Nop found himself on the floorboards of T. T. Raines’s Impala as it bumped its way out of Sally Gap. With his chin on the transmission hump and his nose full of the odor of this new master, Nop was real happy. Perhaps this man would take him to woolies. What could be better? Nop yawned his happiness and watched T.T.’s feet on the accelerator and brake.

  Out of the hollow, the jouncing stopped and the tires whirred on hardtop again. Politely, Nop remained on the floor, though he much preferred the seat where he could look out the window. The rumble of the drivetrain, the hum of the tires.

  Politely, he didn’t mention his hunger, though yesterday’s feeding had been particularly meager and no feeding this morning. Nop closed his eyes.

  T.T. drove, squinting against the pale winter sun. He almost had a headache. He almost had a bellyache. He was almost detached from the planet. He didn’t like his smell. He vowed he’d get to a Laundromat in Roanoke, first thing. He wished he was healthy as a dog.

  He kept his eyes on the road, taking the same back roads he always took to the interstate. Farmers feeding cows and sheep. Farmers towing manure spreaders behind their tractors. Several waved and T.T. waved back.

  He patted the seat. “Come on, Son,” he said. “You climb on up here. God knows I can use the company.”

  Neatly, Nop curled his tail around himself before looking out the window.

  He knew this place. This road. Knew woolies. Knew home. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, his ruff fluffed out like a peacock’s, his tail stiffened and he jammed his snout against the window glass.

  Nop’s nose confirmed what his eyes had told him and when he passed the entrance to the Burkholder farm, Nop went crazy. Wagging, barking, jumping from front window to rear window, howling his heart. He pawed at the glass. He yipped.

  Down at the Burkholder barn, Penny said, “I don’t want to go into this ewe yet. Let’s give her ten more minutes.”

  “It’s been an hour since she dropped her second water-bag,” her mother advised.

  Wincing, Penny got off her knees and brushed at the straw that clung to her coveralls. The ewe in the pen grunted her labor but nothing showed at her straining, pulsating vagina.

  “I don’t know, Penny.”

  “Just a little longer. I hate to pull lambs when the ewe’s still strong and trying.”

  Burkholder’s barn was corridors and lambing pens: short wooden structures where ewes could take care of their newborn until they were strong enough to face the bitter weather outside. Lights in conical shades glowed overhead. Heat lamps bathed pens where weak lambs gathered, roasting in the warm pink light like bathers on the Riviera.

  Beverly Burkholder said, “Listen. Is that a dog barking?”

  Penny cocked an ear. “I believe it is. Sounds like it’s coming from the road. Nop?”

  “I don’t see how it can be. Some dog in a car, most likely. It’s quit now.”

  “Well, I sure wish it was Nop.” Penny rubbed her sore knee. “Maybe Dad can take it when those big old ewes smash him against the feed bunks, but I swear I can’t. My knees are so sore now I could scream. I need some kind of dog to keep them off me. If he won’t buy a trained dog, I’ll start working Stink again.”

  Beverly tried to duck trouble. “Lewis will feed tonight. He should be back from the sheriff anytime now. Listen, there’s that barking again.…”

  “I can barely hear it. It’s gone down the road.…” She paused as the ewe groaned, strained and produced a perfect pair of lamb’s feet. “Well,” Penny said, “will you look at that. That’s the girl.” Penny was smiling.

  Half a mile down the road, T. T. Raines pulled off on the shoulder. His arm hurt from beating the dog. Fool dog had run around the inside of the car like a crazy thing, barking, scratching at the windows and clawing the door upholstery. Bad as he felt from his hangover, T.T. had landed some pretty stout blows. Dog hadn’t bit him but he lay on the floorboards now, panting and drooling, eyes hot with anger.

  “What the hell you mean going on like that? What got into you? I don’t need no crazy dog. I thought you and me was pals.”

  Nop bared his teeth silently.

  “Well, we’ll see about that! We’ll just see about that!” And if he hadn’t been so queasy, T.T. would have gone for the dog’s throat right then and there because he’d never had him a cross dog in his life and didn’t mean to start. But the way that dog was looking at him—well, it’d be a real fight and T.T. wasn’t looking for a fight. “You just wait until we get to Roanoke,” he said.

  Still eying the dog, T.T. jerked the steering wheel and pulled out right in front of a green three-quarter-ton Ford with a couple men in it. Another quick jerk to miss it. T.T. raised one hand—half wave, half apology, but Lewis Burkholder didn’t wave back.

  FIVE

  A Dog’s Work Is His Love and His Pride

  An hour south, T.T. pulled off the interstate and followed the signs to a Hardee’s Restaurant. T.T. identified with Hardee’s advertising. Hardee’s used stock-car drivers in its advertising and T.T. identified with stock-car drivers. He was glad to get out of the car and, tell the truth, if he hadn’t paid fifteen dollars for that dog, he would have left the door yawning open while he went in for his sandwich. T.T. was sick of the dog. Sick of the dog’s eyes.

  He ordered french fries (small), a burger (char-broiled) and a Coke (regular). He did drink the Coke and choked down a couple french fries. He went back for a cup of coffee. Since he wasn’t a hard-hearted man, he wiped the gunk off his burger and dropped the patty back in its plastic container.

  The sun was weak as yesterday’s dreams. Cold enough to see his breath. Hell of a time to be out of work. T.T. slipped through the door, leaving no room for Nop to bolt by. He broke the greasy patty into chunks and tossed them on the floorboards right in front of the dog’s nose. Nop just glared like the meat had no more appeal than hunks of stone.

  T.T. worried what he’d find in Roanoke. Except for the top riders and ropers, nobody ever made much money rodeoing and that was in good times. When the boot pinched, men like T.T. were always first to feel it. T.T. had always done something around the rodeo. Something. He’d been advance man, concessionaire, sold tickets and worked the cleanup. For a while there, he’d sold life and vehicle insurance, but the cowboys collected too often and T.T.’s insurance company quit writing policies.

  Sometimes T.T. scouted calves for the calf roping; sometimes he looked after the bucking bulls. Sometimes he took care of a rider’s string when the rider had to go home for a wedding or a funeral. Anything would do. T.T. was the first to admit it: he wasn’t particular.

  The rodeo was at the Roanoke Civic Center and the setup crew was bolting together the prefab chutes and panels when T.T. walked through the big arena, waving his how-de-dos. His headache was gone and his bellyache—well he’d had worse bellyaches in his day. He set his Stetson at a jaunty angle and hustled upstairs to the management offices like a young man.

  Like always, a bunch of cowboys standing around. “Howdy, T.T. How’s she hangin’?”

  “T.T., whatever happened to that little redheaded gal you had trailin’ you in Waco? Man, she was some piece.”

  T.T. stood as tall as his full height and nodded to some and stuck out his hand. Hell, ol’ T.T. knew everybody. Things were gonna be just fine.

  Good Ol’ Red Paulson, rodeo manager, alone in his inner office. T.T. heeled the door shut behind him.

  Good Ol’ Red was working through papers on his gray steel desk. He dabbed his calculator and wrote a few figures. He folded his hands and laid them on top of his paper. “T.T.”

  “It’s awful good to see you, Son. How’s the tickets moving? Remember when I did the advance work in Austin—must have been ’73—no, ’74—and
every ticket was sold before the first rider checked in?”

  Good Ol’ Red said, “Those were good times all right. How can I help you?”

  “I don’t suppose you got anybody handling the concessionaires?”

  “Jake Thornley’s doing that. Now don’t tell me, at your age, you want to start hawking programs?”

  “Well, I don’t know …” T.T. laughed too heartily. “I been with the rodeo most of my life.” Big laugh. “Hell, I don’t know how to do no honest work.”

  Good Ol Red didn’t crack a smile. “Hard times …”

  “Don’t suppose you’d need somebody for the cleanup?”

  Red’s headshake was a no headshake.

  T.T. didn’t want to hike up and down the aisles with programs or peanuts or those trays of soda pop, but man has to eat. “Maybe I’ll go over and see Jake. I done his job enough times.…”

  “It’s too bad you don’t want to be a clown no more. The crowd never gets tired of clowns.”

  “I never was no good as a clown. If I wasn’t almost gettin’ me killed, I was almost gettin’ some other poor son-of-a-bitch killed. I’ll go see Jake. I’ll bet he ain’t got his crew yet.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  T.T. had one hand on the doorknob before he turned around, “You ever see a dog used as a cutting horse?”

  “A dog? A cutting horse?”

  “Yeah. You know. A trick dog. I seen Buster Wilson once down in Mexico. Dog had a saddle, little lariat hanging from the roping horn and a monkey was the cowboy. He’d go out and round up calves, just like a miniature cuttin’ horse.”

  “Ain’t no dog can do that.”

  Okay. Probably T. T. Raines shouldn’t have bragged up Nop the way he did. He had nothing better than Grady Gumm’s word that the dog could work at all. But it was easy for T.T. to imagine himself hawking soda pop, the sticky drinks slopping over his hands. Threats like that make enthusiasts of us all.

  They released three roping calves and once those calves saw the big open arena, they hightailed it, slowing only when they were dead-center, equidistant from the roustabouts and forklifts that were constructing the physical rodeo.

  A forklift roared. Men shoved a piece of bull-proof panel into place. “You got to picture my dog with a saddle,” T.T. said. “Little red saddle like a pony saddle, only smaller. And the monkey on his back dressed up like a real little cowboy. You have to imagine that part.”

  T.T. knelt beside Nop and touched him like maybe some of his hopes would be transmitted right to the dog’s heart and intentions.

  Nop saw loose calves. He saw his work and waited for his command, trembling. After months without work, T.T.’s “Do it!” set him off perfect. He ran wide, he ran careful and made a perfect lift, working farther back on the three calves than he would have worked sheep. The calves tried to scatter but he outran the escape artists and turned them back. The calves trotted toward the two men, with Nop directly behind.

  “I seen Border Collies before,” Red said.

  “Yeah. But you never seen no Border Collie that was a cuttin’ horse, now have you? If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. The crowd’ll love it.”

  The calves were squeezing toward the two men, Nop swinging wide, far back on his balance point. T.T. yelled, “You quit now. Sit down. Dog, sit down.”

  And Nop laid down and watched the calves. Things were looking up.

  They named the monkey Festus. Festus had been raised by a suburban couple who thought he was cute as the devil when he was an infant until, at two years old, he systematically destroyed their living room, entry foyer and equity. The rodeo bought him for two hundred dollars. The monkey didn’t mind wearing the tiny cowboy outfit. He didn’t object to the diminutive cowboy hat. To Nop, he objected. Generations of monkey memories warned him about quick animals with long teeth. Animals like Nop lived on the jungle floor and ate animals like Festus.

  Festus screeched. Festus howled. He clawed at T. T. Raines’s shirt when T.T. tried to set him in the saddle. T.T. felt like quitting the whole idea but, like he said, he didn’t know anything but rodeo.

  Nop didn’t mind the saddle. So long as he was working again, Nop would have put up with almost anything.

  T.T. had a harness maker cut four wide leather straps which he fed through the girth strap, two to a side. He shot the monkey with tranquilizers: three cc.s. T.T. strapped the monkey’s legs to the girth strap and when Nop turned his head to snap at his rider, T.T. whacked him with his hat. “Dog, you’re gonna carry this buckaroo, so you best get used to the idea.”

  Festus and Nighthawk—THE LITTLEST BUCKAROOS—that’s how they were billed. Trainer: T. T. Raines.

  From their first appearance, they were a hit. After the rough shocks of the rodeo—the hard riders, the enormous Brahma bulls, the maddened bucking horses—the dog and monkey were a welcome diversion, almost like the rodeo was mocking itself.

  Nop didn’t care about the cheers, didn’t seem to hear them. The monkey thought they were great. Cheers woke him up and excited him despite the tranquilizers that T. T. Raines began to reduce once he thought the monkey would stay in the saddle. By Philadelphia, the monkey was wide awake and playing his part. He waved his little cowboy hat, he jabbed Nop in the sides with his heels, he slapped his rump with the hat. Nop went about his business gathering calves.

  The show started at 7:00 P.M. and lasted until 11:00. Weeknights and Saturdays and between shows Nop lay in a cage out behind the horse trailers next to the monkey cage. Festus jabbered at him and tried to provoke him by throwing scraps of food and other scraps too, more offensive than food. On the road Nop traveled in the back seat in a small airline cage. Except for his time in the arena, he was rarely out of the cage and never off a chain. T.T. never forgot that crazy moment driving down the road when the dog attacked the windows trying to get out. T.T. never trusted Nop after that.

  Throughout the long nights, Nop lived in his dreams. He dreamt of woolies, of the Stink Dog, of thrilling outruns on lovely foggy mornings. He dreamt about Sourball and whimpered and his legs jerked in his sleep. Nop accepted what the world had to offer. He didn’t have to like it, but he wouldn’t pine away.

  Lewis Burkholder was less realistic than his dog. Though his reward posters (LOST DOG $500) had tattered and blown off the telephone poles, though local storekeepers had tacked more recent announcements of church socials and yard sales over Nop’s photograph, Lewis wouldn’t stop looking.

  He and Mark were off at the sheriff’s office this cold April afternoon and, once again, the two women had the farm.

  Beverly Burkholder dried a dish and watched her daughter working the Stink Dog in the empty cornfield below the house. Stubble and mud. Lewis had grazed cows in the field and they’d churned it, the way they will.

  The dark sky wasn’t far off the earth and streamers of night were already falling around the clumsy woman and her broken dog.

  Beverly shook her head. “My,” she said, “oh my,” and turned away because she couldn’t watch anymore. Every afternoon, after her nap, Penny took that poor dog into the cornfield and turned in yearling rams. Oh my, how they tried.

  Beverly wiped the sink clean. Six o’clock. Though the nights weren’t so cold as they had been, Beverly kept a good fire going in the Home Comfort. She slid more sticks in the firebox and was pouring herself a cup of instant coffee (decaffeinated) when she heard Penny’s footfalls on the porch. Life was beautiful on the farm in the summer and fall but it was surely hard in bad weather. Two thuds as Penny pulled off her rubber muckboots.

  Penny’s face was ruddy as sunburn and her hands too. “You should use some of that cream on your hands,” Beverly said. “That Horseman’s Dream.”

  Mud spatters on Penny’s pants legs and, of course, the Stink Dog was mud to her belly hairs. Mud and ice balls. Beverly never was able to keep a floor clean in the wintertime. Each time Stink swung her muddy tail, she slapped the wall like a filthy mop. Oh well. “Water’s hot in the kettle,” Beverly sai
d.

  “Thanks, Ma.” She pulled off her yellow slicker and unzipped the quilted coveralls. Under the coveralls she wore another wool shirt and a neckerchief at her neck. All those heavy clothes. Beverly couldn’t wait until warm weather when they could peel some layers.

  “The ram lambs are yelling to be fed,” Penny said.

  “I guess the men will have to feed in the dark.”

  Penny said, “It takes twice as long after dark. By the time they get through feeding and dinner, it’s time to go to bed. Sometimes I don’t hardly know the man I’m married to.”

  When Stink scooted under the stove, her ice balls clattered like stones. She was too weary to clean herself.

  “Won’t it be nice when it starts getting lighter? I swear, when the days get longer, it feels like I’m getting longer too, like my body is stretching itself.”

  “Oh Ma, I’m so unhappy.”

  So Beverly took Penny in her arms like her daughter was still a baby girl. Directly, Penny pulled away and took a paper towel and blew her nose—honk. “I believe I’ll let Stink rest tomorrow. She’s keen but her hips pain her something terrible. When she’s fresh, you can see the dog that won the Bluegrass, but she gets tired and she tangles and shrinks and hurts.” Penny looked at the dog under the stove. Stink thumped her tail. “I wish Dad would come out and watch us. Just one time. Dad could really help.”

  “You know how he is.”

  Grimace. She sat down heavily and took a cup of tea. “Dad and Mark are pestering Sheriff Lohr again?”

  “I just don’t see why the sheriff can’t be around when he says he’ll be. Twice they’ve gone up there when he was supposed to be in his office and made the trip for nothing.”

  “Maybe the sheriff’s got other things to do. Maybe he’s tired of looking for a dog that’s likely been dead since Christmastime.”

  Beverly had a retort right on the tip of her tongue but didn’t utter it. No sense everybody getting out of temper. “Sheriff Lohr had some kind of new lead. That’s why Lewis went up there today. Lewis don’t give up easy.”