by Mike Ramon
OLD DOG BLUE
“I’m goin’ to tell you this jes’ to let you know
Old Blue’s gone where the good dogs go”
- Jim Jackson
Gus found him when he came down for a midnight snack. He tiptoed into the kitchen, not wanting to disturb Blue’s sleep; the old boy had been sleeping in the same spot by the door that led from the kitchen to the side porch for the past ten years, ever since the time he had sat there on his haunches one night and refused to budge, until Meryl had finally thrown up her hands and had told Gus to just bring the bugger’s bed to the kitchen--his bed being a big, open-topped box with some blankets laid in it. In the years that had passed since, the box had been replaced five times, the blankets four times, the last of the kids had moved out of the house, and Meryl had passed on. After that, it was just the two of them, Gus and Blue. For a while, on those first lonely nights after the cancer had taken Meryl, Blue had laid at the foot of Gus’s bed, sensing the man’s need for comfort and companionship. Even then, however, Gus would wake up to find that Blue had gone back to his own bed sometime during the night, while Gus was asleep.
When Gus grabbed the piece of Saran Wrapped cheesecake on it (courtesy of the widow Helmsley), he almost turned and walked back up to his room without delay. But something had nagged at him, something about the way Blue had been lying half off his bed. He set the cheesecake on the table and shuffled over to Blue’s bed by the door. The kitchen was dark, the scant illumination from the blue-white porch light not enough to banish all of the shadows. Gus reached over to the wall and flipped the light switch, and a warm yellow light immediately bathed the room in its glow. Blue didn’t move. Blue didn’t breathe. His eyes were half open, and they looked dull. There was nothing left there.
Gus got down to business then. He took off his robe and slippers and got dressed in a flannel shirt and an old pair of worn blue jeans. He went out to the toolshed and got the things he knew he would need--a pair of gardening gloves that had once belonged to Meryl, a shovel, a tarp. He had two tarps to choose between; he took the one that had fewer holes in it.
Back in the kitchen, he laid the tarp on the floor next to Blue’s bed. He lifted the dog’s body out of the bed and placed it on the tarp, then wrapped the tarp over it and lifted it up off the ground. The old boy was lighter that Gus would’ve thought. Then again, he had been getting thinner lately, what with his old age and his bad stomach. Gus shifted the weight to one arm for a moment so he could use his free hand to open the door, then he carried Blue outside, stepping carefully down the porch steps. He took the bundle to a spot near the side of the house that Blue had been fond of in times gone by. He had buried many a treasure around this spot back before his arthritis made it too painful to dig.
Gus set the tarp down on the damp grass, put on the gardening gloves, took the shovel in hand, and began digging. He back hurt something awful, and his knees popped from time to time, but he kept at it. Even with the gloves on, his hands soon became sore, but still he wouldn’t stop. After some time he stood looking down at the hole in the earth that he had made and was satisfied that he done it proper. He tossed the shovel aside and slipped off the gloves. It was too dark to get a good look at his hands to see if there were any blisters, but he didn’t doubt that there were at least a few.
Gus then picked up the tarp again (his back groaning in protest), and set it down gently in the freshly dug hole. He stood there for a moment, looking down at Blue and thinking that something just wasn’t right--and then it struck him. He went back inside, to the kitchen, and gathered up Blue’s blankets. He brought them back and covered Blue with them, tucking them around his body. There; that was how it should be.
The hardest part was shoveling the earth back in and covering Blue with dirt. But Gus did it, and when it was done, and all that was left was a little mound in the ground near where Blue used to like to bury his treasure, Gus took the shovel and gloves back to the shed. He snapped off the bare 60 watt bulb that was the toolshed’s only source of illumination, and went back inside the house. In the kitchen he found the cheesecake still sitting on the table, warm now and getting soft. He didn’t feel much like cheesecake anymore, so he tossed it in the trash, making a mental note to tell the widow Helmsley how much he had enjoyed it. He went over to the sink and rinsed his sore hands with warm water before bending down with a grunt and opening up the cabinet beneath the sink. Here was where he kept the last of his booze, a fifth of Wild Turkey, stashed behind a few bottles of household cleaning products so the kids wouldn’t see it when they stopped by for a visit (something that happened rarely these days).
He took the half-empty bottle and set it on the table, then rooted around for a proper glass. He finally settled on a small plastic cup with a picture of Superman on the side of it--whether it had belonged to one of his own children when they were young, or if one of the grandkids had left it after a visit, he didn’t really know. He sat at the table, poured himself a drink, and swallowed it down, the liquid settling like a warm fire in his belly. He considered another drink, but decided against it; one was enough.
Gus stashed the Wild Turkey away, washed out the plastic cup and set it to dry. Then he grabbed the phone off the wall, sat down, and considered who to call. Neither Tom nor Linda seemed appropriate. By the time Blue had come around, they had both already flown the coop, and were off building their own lives. Jack, then. He was the only one still living at home when Blue first came ’round, the only one of them that really had a relationship with the furryheaded bugger. Gus took his thumb off the button keeping the line closed and started to dial, then paused. He moved his thumb back to the button, closing the line, and looked up at the Felix the Cat clock hanging on the wall. The clock face glowed slightly in the dark; it was 1:34 in the morning. Gus stood up and took the phone back to its cradle on the wall, deciding that it would be better to wait until morning to make the call.
He climbed the stairs wearily and crawled back into bed. It was a bit chilly, so he pulled the covers up over himself and laid on his side awhile, one hand tucked between his face and the pillow, his eyes open and staring into the darkness of the room. Eventually his eyes slipped shut, and not long after that he was asleep. He had a dream about blue that night, but in the morning he would be unable to recall the details of the dream. All that would be left was a vague sense of loss.