Journal of a Living Lady #212

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

          The phone rang just as I was locking the back door. Buddy had left for church earlier. It was his month as a greeter. Frowning at the inconvenience, I hurried back inside. Perhaps Buddy had forgotten his Bible or had on mismatched socks again.

 

“Hello,” I answered.

 

It was a female voice. Her tone wasn’t particularly friendly.

 

“To whom am I speaking?”

 

          “Whom were you calling?” I asked tersely.

 

          “Somebody just called this phone number, got my answering machine, and left no message.”

 

          My heart sank. Modern telephone technology had snagged me. In-coming numbers can be identified easily these days with the push of a touchtone button.

 

“Did you post a lost dog sign in Cornelia?” I asked, fearing the worst.

 

          The voice took on a more pleasant quality. “Oh. The dog. Yes, we have lost our dog.”

 

          “Can you describe your dog? Male or female?”

 

          “Male. Red dachshund.  Ragged ear. No collar.”

 

          “Sounds like our Tyson,” I replied, trying to conceal my disappointment.

 

          Charlie had called me earlier that morning. He spotted a poster about a lost dog on his way to church. Though I hoped our oldest son was teasing, he wasn’t.

 Previously I wrote about the little red dachshund that appeared in Charlie’s carport. The pup was starving, sickly, and had a badly chewed ear. He needed attention. Buddy and our friend, Deacon Arnett, drove nearly 3 hours round-trip that very night.

 We fed Tyson, wormed him, deflead him, gave him shots, and even had him neutered. His thin ribs soon filled out and his red coat glistened.

Buddy displayed as much fondness for Tyson as I did. He spent most of two days customizing the house. Buddy cut a rectangular hole in our den wall, installed a small doggy door, and then painted a long board for an exit ramp. Tyson loved his freedom. He could attend to his affairs without any human intervention. Tyson was constantly in motion and a mood-lifter on the dreariest of days.

When Charlie called that Sunday morning, for a brief moment I regretted teaching him how to read. Reluctantly I wrote down the phone number as he carefully recited each digit. I tried to justify ignoring Charlie’s call and the poster he had seen.

It had been a month. Why was the owner just now posting the notice of a lost dog? What if Tyson had been abused?

Conscience won. It was the right thing to return a dog to his legitimate owner. I dialed the long distance phone number, but breathed a sigh of relief when nobody answered. The reprieve I felt was short lived.  In less than three minutes, I got the ring-back.

The lady attempted to explain the time lapse. Seems she and her husband had gone on a trip. The dog that they called Rusty, which we now called Tyson, was mostly an outside dog. He ran freely with the neighborhood canine pack. Though she and her husband had left plenty of food and water, Rusty was nowhere to be found when they returned. The couple didn’t panic, confident that Rusty would find his way home again. He had roamed before.

Nobody knows for sure how many days Tyson wandered before showing up in the carport. He was hungry, wet, sick, and obviously injured.

I don’t regret taking Tyson. I do regret losing him. He and I were buddies. When Tyson heard me jingle the car keys, he shot through his personal door and dashed down the ramp. At the slightest opening of the car door, Tyson propelled himself inside. He was determined to go wherever I was going. Most of the time he succeeded.

Later that Sunday afternoon, the lady and her husband arrived to claim their dog.  The young couple appeared genuinely happy to have Rusty back. They assured us that they would hereafter keep a closer eye on him.

I miss Tyson. Someday there will be another little red dachshund in our lives. I want one that nobody can reclaim later.

Writing about Tyson revives painful memories of the times when our foster children were returned to their own families.  Over a period of more than twenty years, Buddy and I fostered a dozen children. We adopted the last boy who was ten at the time. Bobby is now married and has two precious children of his own.

 When God gave us Charlie, flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone, it was the happiest day of our lives. Nobody could take him away. Except, of course, Tori. But that doesn’t count for a loss. We didn’t lose a son. We gained a daughter.

Gradually the days of our lives become years which merge into decades. Then comes the twilight years. The Bible says it all concisely, “For what is life? It is even as a vapor that appeareth for a little while and then vanishes away.”

For each of us, the metronome is ticking. The melodies of life are changing to a slower pace. Yet, the nostalgic sound of happy children is concert music for the soul. So is the arf of a grateful dog.

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nancyk@alltel.net