Little mutt jumps at his chance, holds on to his dream

I had known the day was coming for quite some time. Old dogs really just get older, and there is no justice in a dog’s days versus those of a man.

In a perfect world, a man’s boyhood pal would be the same dog that greeted his children, watched them grow to leave the nest, and eventually saw them return on weekends and holidays with little ones of their own. If the clocks were adjusted equitably, a man and his dog, graybeards both, would be buried side by side. Maybe dogs are sent to teach us how to grow old with grace — in a lesson the length of a highlight reel.

I’m not sure how 12 years passed so quickly as my buddy Rex and I lived our lives. One minute I was a kid and he was an unruly lunatic of a pup, and the next he had spent a full decade as first mate in my duck boat. His enthusiasm for the season never faltered. As autumn approached each year, he displayed the same restless jitters as me — ears cocked toward an unseen call from the clouds, eyes turned skyward at every dawn and dusk, and a hopeful longing for the foulest of weather on any given morning. But I could see the coal black jowls fading to gray, a slower turn of an arthritic neck and finally a pale cataract haze over eyes that still tried their darnedest to pull the flicker of a wingbeat off the far horizon.

We took to the water on opening day of his 13th year, and Rex aptly boated a drake wood duck I’d dropped into a deep pool not far off the bow. He shook off all over me and the boat, but he just couldn’t seem to get warm again. Minutes later I gunned a mallard into the cattails, and Rex watched it fall, but that was it. He looked at me as if to simply say, “Nope, I’m done.”

I took off my coat, wrapped it around him and then waded in after the bird myself. We called it a morning and went home to build a fire. He spent the rest of the season warming beside that hearth, a privilege well-earned through a lifetime’s toil.

This story, however, isn’t only about the growth of a man through the lessons of an aging dog. It’s also about succession and the opportunity for the young to finally rise. Indy, our little mutt, had waited years as an unlikely understudy. Imagine the lead role in “The Black Stallion” being played by a miniature donkey. That’s what Indy was up against — big shoes to fill, but enthusiastic little feet ever willing to give it a shot.

The next outing I took to the swamp with Indy riding the bow like the carved figurehead of an 18th century schooner. Our launch was witnessed by a smattering of skeptics who clearly mistook the size of the dog in the hunt for the size of the hunt in the dog, but Indy’s mettle was proven outright when he launched from his perch as I cartwheeled a mallard into the drink. The little mutt paddled out to the bird and took it to mouth. Then while he made way back to the boat, it was as if the duck carcass was being propelled by some unseen force as the diminutive dog was completely hidden behind the body of the bird.

Indy was drawn aboard to a hero’s welcome with bird still in mouth. He spent the next two hours clutching that dead duck like a winning lottery ticket, never loosening his grip until we debarked at the shore and he found it difficult to sniff for rabbits with a mouth full of feathers.

The torch had been passed and with it another lesson learned. A dog’s life is short because each of a man’s best friends carries their own unique message. Indy’s was to rise to the moment and never let go of that dream.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John atjlorson@alonovus.com.