A Dog Named Christmas

by Greg Kincaid

  “The twins look good.”

  “Yeah, they do,” I answered back.

  “Old Two Stubs looks thin. Do you think we should worm her again?”

  “Probably,” I concurred, readying a mixture of corn and sorghum to pour into a long cylindrically shaped aluminum trough. The calves bawled as the larger cows jostled for a front-row seat. There are no manners in the feedlot. The biggest always win.

  Todd stopped in his tracks as if he remembered something important. Surrounded by hungry, jostling animals but without the least bit of fear, he worked his way out of the corral. He closed the distance between us and then stood six inches from my face and just stared at me. I had no idea what was on his mind.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  “The cows are fine, Dad.”

  “So?”

  “Could I call—now?”

  “Todd Arthur McCray, enough about the dogs. Okay?”

  He frowned and walked toward the house. Todd was such a good kid, but I needed more time to think about this one. If I decided against it, Todd was going to find it difficult to accept, but I knew I should not let disappointing Todd get in the way of making the right decision.

  Truth was that I missed having a dog, but there were a lot of reasons to move slowly on this one. Certainly, it would make Todd and his mother happy. In fact, I knew darn well that if I let Todd or his mother so much as look at a dog, it would own the farm by sunset and I’d be lucky even to have a place at the dinner table. I could picture the chaos that would ensue.

  “Where’s your father, Todd? I don’t believe I’ve seen him for two or three years now.”

  “What do you mean, Mom? Dad is still here. He’s been out on the back porch for the last couple of winters. You know, where you put him after we got the dog.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now.”

  “Todd, get the dog and come to dinner, we’re having prime rib. You know how Fido just loves prime rib. If there is any left over, put it out on the back porch for your dad and do tell him hello for me the next time you see him.”

  When it was time for dinner, or what my grandfather called supper, I walked past the porch on the south side of our home and into the mudroom at the back of the house. I sat on a bench and took off my muddy boots and overalls. I could hear Todd and Mary Ann talking at the kitchen table. He had started dog campaigning with his mother. As I expected, it took very little convincing. To her credit, she waited at least ten or fifteen seconds before she sold me down the river.

  “Yes, Todd, I can see why you want the dog, and no, I don’t understand why he would not want you to have one. Like you said, it’s just for a week and then you can take the dog back if it doesn’t work out for you. I heard the whole thing on the radio and it seems like such a nice thing to do for those poor dogs.”

  “I would take good care of him, Mom.”

  “Of course you would, Todd. Your dad knows that too. We’ll just have to work on him, won’t we?”

  “Is there some reason I shouldn’t have the dog?” I heard him ask.

  “None. None at all,” she said.

  The discussion I wanted to have with Todd had just occurred in my absence. Our home is not a democracy. It is a benevolent dictatorship. Queen Mary Ann had spoken.

  From the mudroom bench I stood up and walked into the kitchen, took off my leather gloves, set them on the kitchen counter, and jumped into the conversation. “I know there are lots of reasons to give this dog program a try, but I still am not sure that it’s a good idea.”

  Todd was not too worried about my concerns. “The radio said it was a good idea.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the radio thinks it’s a good idea, but still I want to check into it myself. Can you two wait for me to do that?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Todd said with no conviction.

  I smiled at him and said, “Hard time waiting, huh?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Big rush?”

  He knew I was teasing him and he smiled back and said, “Can’t wait.”

  “They’re closed tonight. Do you think we should call the emergency number to check on this program or could you and your mother hold off until morning to discuss this further?”

  He paused and it was clear that he was seriously considering calling the emergency number. “Todd!” I said.

  He pondered his options and finally said, “I guess I can wait.”

  That night, after Todd went to bed, the dog issue was discussed further. “Mary Ann, I am willing to consider the Christmas dog program, but I need more details.”

  I took a deep breath and continued on to a more sensitive subject. “The way you handled this whole thing with Todd irritated me.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” she said with the innocence of a spring lamb. This was a diversionary strategy the debate coach saved for those rare occasions when she knew I was right.

  “Todd and I needed to talk about the program together. Reach an understanding about this. You know, have a discussion.”

  “Did I stop you from having that discussion?” she asked, knowing full well that she was avoiding the real issue.

  “By the time I entered the room, you and Todd were pouring puppy chow in a steel bowl and you know it.” I did not enjoy confronting my wife, but I was quite sure that what she had done was not fair.

  “George, what are you talking about? I never did any such thing. I was just acknowledging Todd’s feelings. You just need to admit that you cannot say no to Todd and please do not blame me for your inability to be tough with him.”

  I recognized a sly switching of gears in her attack. “What are you talking about?” I asked with an accusing tone in my voice.

  “I am tired and I am going to bed. Perhaps tomorrow we can have a more civil discussion on this subject. I do not feel like being yelled at and unfairly accused.” My wife pushed her nose to the ceiling in mock indignation and left the room. I had seen this act before and there was no way I was going to fall for it this time.

  I followed her into the living room. “You know I’m right, don’t you?”

  Cornered, she had to concede the point. “Well, perhaps I did give in a little too quickly.”

  “Five seconds?” I asked.

  “I tried to make it to ten.” Mary Ann then switched tactics again and said what was really on her mind. “Oh, George, why can’t you just let Todd have the dog?”

  “You know why, Mary Ann.”

  “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but your bad dog history was a long time ago. Believe me, you would be better off to forget about it and try again.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I grumbled, and went into another room, sat in a chair, and rested my face in my hands and tried to think about something I didn’t like to think about—my history of dog experiences.

  When I was twelve years old my father was killed in a tractor accident and his parents—my grandparents—moved back into our house. Not knowing what else to do for me, my grandfather came home one day with an Irish setter puppy. I grew up with the world’s best dog, Tucker. No other kids lived near our farm, so Tucker became my best friend. We hunted, explored, and understood each other. No rabbit, quail, rattlesnake or prairie chicken was safe from me and Tucker.

  He somehow got me through what would have otherwise been a very lonely adolescence.

  After I graduated from high school, the United States Army gave me a one-year, all-expenses-paid Vietnam vacation. Tucker, now an old man of a dog, patiently waited for me on the back porch for months, just like I was going to come home from football practice any minute. My grandmother wrote to me on April 7, 1969, to tell me that Tucker died on the back porch waiting for me to come home. His collar and tags still hang from an ancient nail in our barn. I missed him, but given where I was, I just moved ahead and tried to stay alive.

  In June 1969, our patrol made its way into a village. The last and only living thing left was a half-starved dog of indetermin
ate breed. It was against regulations, but I kept that dog with me for the next four months. I hoped he would replace the empty space that came from being so far away from home and losing Tucker. We made him our platoon mascot and, after considering several worthy nominations, settled on the name “Good Charlie.” He became my new best friend and the only sane and kind creature in a part of the world filled with brutality. He saved my life, but it cost him his own when he bounded ahead of me and stepped on a land mine.

  It took me a very long time to get over grieving for Tucker and maybe even longer for Good Charlie. Not just because I missed the dogs, but also because they became important landmarks in my journey through the ugly war memories that are hard to shed. I still don’t talk about either dog. Not even to Mary Ann. Some people may think I’m a dog grouch, but it isn’t that simple.

  I wanted to leave memories of guns and dogs back in Southeast Asia. My grandfather insisted that it was not safe to be on a farm without a rifle, so I kept his, a World War I .30-06 with five bullets, buried deep in my closet. Though I knew how to load and fire the old gun, I hoped it would never be needed. My dog memories were buried even deeper. People wonder why I don’t have dogs on the farm. I let them wonder. Another dog was likely to bring back a flood of dark feelings, of losses and pain and lives cut short.

  Lost in thought, I did not hear Mary Ann enter the living room. She startled me slightly with a hand on my shoulder. “George?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, without looking up.

  “I’m sorry. We can forget about it this year. I should not have put you in this position. It was insensitive of me.” She paused and then added, “I’ll tell Todd that this is a bad year and we’ll consider it next year. Maybe you’ll be ready by then.”

  I reached out and held her hand. “No, Mary Ann, you’re right. It’s been almost forty years. That’s long enough. It’s time for me to get over this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, but there are still a few concerns I want to discuss.”

  “Like what?” she asked, without pushing.

  “At the end of the week, we take the dog back. It’s a one-week experiment. A nice thing to do for the holidays. Nothing more.”

  “Yes, George, I understand. That’s how the program works. If you want to take the dog back, you can.”

  “You’ll support me on this?”

  “Of course I will. What else?”

  “I want Todd to handle this responsibly. He feeds him and takes him out for walks, not you or me. Also, I think this is the perfect opportunity to get him to clean his room. No clean room, no dog.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  “Settled?” I asked.

  “Done,” she said.

  I was inclined to give it a try. I felt better having an understanding with my wife. We had learned long ago that all couples fight, or at least argue from time to time. Mary Ann likes to say that it’s not conflict itself, but unresolved conflict, that causes problems in life and marriage.

  She grew up the daughter of the local banker and I wondered if getting everything she wanted as a child made it harder for her to say no to Todd. While I was in Vietnam, Mary Ann received her teacher’s degree from Kansas State University. Between homework assignments, she wrote to me every day, and she was ready to marry me when I returned, shot up and crippled as I was. I quipped, “You only want me for my disability pension.”

  “That makes us even, George.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You only want me for my teacher’s salary.”

  I never questioned Mary Ann’s sense of loyalty. She promised to be the best wife and the best mother any woman could be. She never let me down. We just did not always see things exactly the same way when it came to Todd.

  This was going to be one of those occasions.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Todd was dressed and in the kitchen earlier than usual, trying to keep his excitement under control. After breakfast, Todd and I made our way through the corral and down to the barn. I took out the scrap of paper with the number on it and picked up the phone extension that I kept on the south barn wall. From the barn, I could call the shelter without any interference from Crossing Trails’ debate coach.

  A hundred reasons for not making that call raced through my mind, but I dialed the number anyway and tried my hardest to forget each and every one of them. At some level, I suspected that Todd and Mary Ann were right. However uncomfortable it might make me, it wouldn’t hurt me to have a dog around the house for a week.

  Todd’s life was hard. It seemed that every day we had to choose between trying to make his life better or just accepting that there were things in his world that we weren’t big enough to change. Like the Christmas dog, the choices were not always easy.

  The fact that Todd came to us so late in our lives sometimes made raising him more difficult. Every doctor we visited came up with a different diagnosis. I believe most were trying very hard to avoid telling us that Todd was mildly retarded. It’s an ugly-sounding word. Nobody likes to say it. So, we heard autism, learning disabled. We heard prenatal stroke, developmental delay, epilepsy, and probably more. Truth was he just did not function at a high level. An exact diagnosis really didn’t matter that much to me. All the doctors agreed that Todd would never get better.

  He may have struggled at T-ball, soccer, and spelling bees, but we loved him and accepted him just the way he was, so what difference did it make? He needed us and we needed him—perhaps, even more.

  Todd enriched our lives in countless ways, teaching us kindness, acceptance, and patience in a thousand little daily lessons. We came to understand what a special gift he was to us. When Todd was born, we vowed never to allow “I’m tired” or “I’m too old” to get in the way of doing what needed to be done for him.

  I reminded myself of this vow as I dialed the phone.

  “Cherokee County Animal Shelter,” said a voice from the other end of the line. “This is Hayley.”

  I suspected that it was Hayley Donaldson, a former student of Mary Ann’s and classmate of my daughter’s. Clearing my throat to bring my mind back to the task at hand, I responded, “Hayley, this is George McCray. My son Todd is interested in something he heard on the radio about a Christmas dog.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re Hannah’s dad, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  “Todd’s given me a few details, but I want to make sure he understands.” I glanced over at my boy. His eyes were beaming. And although it warmed me to the core to see him this happy, I was already getting an uneasy feeling about adopting a dog.

  “Over the holidays, many of us like to do kind things for other people,” Hayley began. “At the shelter, we offer animal lovers an opportunity to extend that holiday spirit to an animal. You come by anytime from around December eighteenth on and pick out your dog. You keep him until at least the twenty-sixth. We’re pretty flexible on the dates. We’re more concerned that the Adopt a Dog for Christmas program works for your family and that you have a good time with our dogs. You feed him and give him lots of attention, then bring the dog back if you want. Otherwise, our dogs stay in a three-foot-by-six-foot steel cage for the holidays. At this time of year, with so much of our staff off, there just isn’t time to do much more than give an occasional pat on the head.”

  I raised my voice slightly for Todd’s benefit and then carefully asked, “There is no obligation to keep the dog, right?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Are there enough volunteers?” I realized the question was absurd.

  “No, Mr. McCray. There are never enough volunteers. It seems that we always have more dogs than good homes for them.”

  I could see how Adopt a Dog for Christmas might work for us, but many questions still ran through my head. Was this just a scheme for the shelter’s employees to get a few days off? How could the dogs possibly know that it was Christmas? Wasn’t this a holiday for humans?
Would I feel guilty when I returned the dog? Would Todd understand and accept the transitory nature of the program?

  Ultimately, it was one of the times in my life when I took a deep breath and trusted that it would work. I was never one who believed that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. In fact, I believed just the opposite to be true.

  “We’ll come and take a look,” I said, suppressing a sigh of reluctance.

  “That’s great. If you decide to adopt a dog for the holidays, there is some paperwork, but we know your family, so it’s really just a formality.”

  “Thanks, Hayley. We’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

  Todd was obviously pleased that I made the call. He smiled, nodded his head, and walked away from the barn to conduct the latest in his series of painstaking experiments to determine just how well paint adheres in December. I assumed that after seven years on this experiment, Todd Paints was on the verge of releasing the shocking results of this research to the public: Paint does not adhere particularly well, or spread with ease, when it’s nearly freezing outside.

  It was cold for early December that year and we had an abnormally large amount of snow. Winter weather triggers pleasant memories for me. My grandfather had a very important job in Cherokee County. He drove a maintainer, or what we might call a grader today. The title of County Road Maintainer, which was only slightly less prestigious than “Your Honor,” was bestowed upon him. At first, the maintainer was pulled by two large draft horses, named Dick and Doc. They were lavishly housed in giant box stalls in our barn. Later, the county acquired a maintainer that was powered by a diesel engine that was extraordinarily reliable.

  It was my grandfather’s job to keep the gravel roads graded in the summer and clear of snow in the winter. When I was a boy, a big snowstorm would cause our family to spring into action with tremendous urgency.

  My grandmother would make coffee and put it into an old thermos. I could tell by the smell of the pot brewing in the predawn hours that it was a snow day. She would make up a sack of sandwiches and cookies large enough to feed my grandfather for several meals straight.