by Jim Kraus
Conversations with St. Bernard
Other Abingdon Books by Jim Kraus
The Dog That Talked to God
The Cat That God Sent
Nashville
Conversations with St. Bernard
Copyright © 2015 by Jim Kraus
ISBN-13: 978-1-68299-835-9
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Macro Editor: Teri Wilhelms
Published in association with MacGregor Literary Agency
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kraus, Jim, 1950-
Conversations with St. Bernard / Jim Kraus. — First [edition].
1 online resource.
Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.
ISBN 978-1-4267-9161-1 (e-pub) — ISBN 978-1-4267-9160-4 (binding: soft back : alk. paper)
1. Bernard, of Clairvaux, Saint, 1090 or 1091-1153—Fiction. 2. Christian saints—Fiction. 3. Christian fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.R2876
813’.54—dc23
2015001349
Printed in the United States of America
To Terese and Elliot—
who are my source of daily inspiration
Table of Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
PART TWO
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
Group Discussion Guide
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Prologue
Lewis snorted loudly as George let the RV rumble to a gradual stop.
“Too windy?” he asked. “Sorry.”
George glanced at the GPS system on the dash and scowled. Then he pulled out a map—a real paper and print map—carefully sliced out of a large road atlas and folded into sixths, so it would fit neatly under the visor on the driver’s side. He looked at the first fold, scowled again, then flipped it over.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The road behind the RV remained empty. He had time to survey his options. There had been little traffic on Route 6 as he navigated his not-so-large RV through the north central portion of Pennsylvania. He looked at the GPS again. An arrow, which George found annoying, pointed to the left. It also flashed every five seconds.
“Stupid GPS.”
George brought the map close to his face. At sixty-eight, his visual acuity was not what it had once been.
But then . . . nothing is as it was once, he thought, and his scowl was briefly replaced by a more curious expression, an almost smile, but not truly a smile, just a degree or two distant from a smile. When he almost smiled, from a distance, one might think of an aging Jimmy Stewart. Handsome, but unaware of the depth of his own appearance. Someone recently mentioned his cogent look, most of the time, aware, trim, and well-maintained.
Might be talking about shrubbery . . .
George looked up and tapped at the compass he had glued to the ceiling of the RV, next to the rearview mirror. Evaluating both the map and the compass, he realized the GPS unit was pointing in the right direction.
“Rats,” he whispered to himself.
George had hoped he’d caught the electronic gizmo in a mistake.
He had not.
For the past three days, since departing from Massachusetts, he had not once proved the GPS wrong.
“There is always a first time, isn’t there, Lewis?”
Lewis, in the passenger seat, did not reply. He had most of his head and right shoulder out the window, leaning heavily to the right side, breathing deeply. It was obvious Lewis had thought he had seen a squirrel in the tree next to the stop sign, but it must have been a leaf quaking in the breeze.
Lewis, like most dogs, appeared to be fascinated by squirrels. However, if the truth be told, he was more aggravated than fascinated. Scampering and chattering, with their scolding, imperious attitude, a squirrel could simply disappear from a dog in the blink of an eye. And Lewis, like all dogs, found it both perplexing and exasperating. That was the truth of squirrels and dogs. And Lewis was a dog who had great regard for the truth. Everyone who met him soon discovered Lewis was a dog who had a supreme reverence for the truth, and he appeared to tolerate nothing less from those circling his life.
The large dog wore a sturdy nylon harness attached to the seat belt, and which gave him mobility in the seat, yet would keep him mostly protected in the event of any traffic mishap. Lewis pulled his head back inside and looked over at George, his traveling companion. George tried not to smile at the dog’s naturally wise, avuncular expression. It was clearly apparent Lewis loved traveling—or at least riding in the RV, or perhaps in any sort of vehicle. Obviously, George imagined the dog’s fondest dreams had come true as they began to make their way across America.
The pair of them, as odd as they were at the moment, were headed toward Towanda, Pennsylvania, and Riverside Acres, an RV park on the south side of the Susquehanna River, just across from Towanda, their planned stop on the third day of their trans-continental journey.
But Lewis’s journey began just a year prior to this day. And George’s journey started many, many years before—more than a lifetime, it seemed.
PART ONE
1
Lewis had not been the largest of his litter. St. Bernard puppies are never small, yet Lewis was “smallish.” Lewis’s mother had been on the smaller side of the breed, as well, weighing in at no more than 125 pounds or so.
Lewis earned the name Lewis because of the Burden family—the family who had adopted him.
Alex Burden, the singular offspring of Trudy and Lyle Burden, sat on an old, modestly shabby couch in the base
ment of the breeder’s house, the upholstery covered with a thin veneer of dog hair. A slight boy, of average height, with a shock of brown hair with a mind of its own, Alex also had brown eyes, penetrating brown eyes, making him look older and wiser than his years.
Alex’s parents remained at the doorway, watching their son watch the puppies. Alex was a deliberate and careful child, observant to a fault. Six yelping, growling, jumping, tussling, happy puppies were among his choices. The Burdens had been promised the first pick. And his parents had declared Alex, and Alex alone, would make this decision, this puppy choice.
“After all,” they said quietly to each other the night before, “they are all St. Bernard puppies with a good bloodline. Alex can’t make a bad choice.”
So they agreed.
Alex had been a child with more than his share of troubles in his first eight years of life. There had been open-heart surgery, almost as a newborn. There had been a repaired heart valve at age three. There was the coarctation—a serious narrowing of the aorta—at age five. Other maladies had plagued his childhood. Surgeries and doctor visits had pocked his first years of existence.
But for the past three years, his health had improved, and his doctors claimed the most obvious dangers had passed and happily declared Alex to be a normal, healthy child, with no limitations on his activities. Mostly.
Just be careful. And observant, the doctors said. Once burned, you know . . .
“Normal kids have dogs,” his father stated. “I had a dog. We have twenty acres of woods behind us. Our house is big. We can handle a big dog. Alex would like a full-sized dog.”
So the three of them came to Clairvaux Kennels just west of the port of Gloucester. The breeder, Penny McAlister, a kindly woman of scattered attention, hovered behind the Burdens. She swatted at an errant strand of hair. Most of her hair was in strands, and most were errant. A personal style, but it fit her like a cold hand in a warm mitten.
“I know which one he’ll pick,” she whispered.
Trudy turned her head, just a bit.
“Which one?” she whispered back.
One puppy, the smallish one, the smallest of the litter, not actually called a runt, for no St. Bernard can truly be called a runt, the one who stood at the edge of the enclosure, his front paws at the top of the small solid partition, his eyes showing a fierce determination to scale the wall, to explore what none of his brothers and sisters had yet explored—or wanted to, apparently. The remaining members of his litter had been content to squirrel about in a large furry ball near their sleeping mother.
“Him,” Penny said with finality. “He will want the one who will try to do all the things he couldn’t do as a small child. He’ll pick it.”
Penny had been advised of the rudiments of Alex’s extensive medical history.
Trudy, wearing her most sensible sweater and Danish clogs, did not think he would pick the one at the edge.
A dog who likes to explore, his mother thought, and it could be dangerous. And Alex knows too much about danger.
“This one,” Alex said, pointing to the puppy who now had his rear leg almost to the edge of the partition, almost gaining a foothold, then slipping back and falling in a heap, only to scramble to his feet and try climbing the fence one more time.
Penny arched her eyebrows in celebration as she passed Trudy and retrieved the adventuresome puppy, then placed it in Alex’s arms.
The puppy did not squeal or squirm or attempt to get away. He seemed most content to stare at Alex, stare hard, as if he were memorizing his face, and sniffing hard, to memorize his scent. Alex stared back. He did not speak. He did not introduce himself or tell the puppy he was a good puppy.
There was no giggling. There was no whimpering. There was no nipping and no petting—not yet, at least. None of it occurred. The puppy and the boy just absorbed each other, silent, and nearly still.
After a long serious moment, Alex finally spoke.
“His name is Lewis,” he said.
“Lewis?” his mother asked. “Why Lewis? Do you know anyone named Lewis?”
She had read somewhere, in a newspaper, perhaps, young boys of Alex’s age would often try to name a pet after a friend in school. The experts said it was the equivalent of awarding a high honor.
“No,” Alex replied. “Other than . . . like in Lewis and Clark. You know, those guys I read about who explored America. Seems like a good name for an explorer. And there’s a Clark in my class. He wouldn’t like it if I named a dog after him.”
And what do the experts know? his mother thought, smiling.
This is how Lewis was named Lewis.
His more unusual abilities showed up later. Much more unusual than simply being adventuresome.
Lewis expected the truth.
And often got it.
Not always, but often.
2
George locked the front door and stepped back. He looked at the house, trying to see it as dispassionately as he could. There were memories inside—some good and, during the last years, not so good.
And now . . . maybe I’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep . . . away from here . . . and the memories.
The house had been completely empty for nearly two weeks. George had sold much of the contents in an estate sale, run by a quartet of too-chatty ladies who had bustled about the house for over a month in preparation. What did not sell in the estate sale, and was in good condition and usable, went to a local church charity resale store. What George felt guilty about donating to charity went unceremoniously into a trash bin. Old metal shelving, still serviceable, perhaps, a little dented and rusty—those went to the trash bin. A stack of National Geographic magazines. (George felt more than a little guilty when he threw them into the trash bin.) Box after box of cheap—inexpensive—paperback books George read while waiting. In the span of a year or two, the pages had already turned yellow and brittle. Even the local used bookstore had turned them down. An upholstered sofa that had seen better days. Odds and ends. Broken things. A ten-year-old computer. Two old analog TVs.
And now the house stood empty and broom-swept and ready to have the next family occupy it and make a life within its walls.
For George, his time was over.
It had been three years since Hazel had . . .
George did not like thinking about the last decade. Life’s final descent, for Hazel, had been a long and arduous and painful path.
No one should have to spend so much time and energy dying.
George knew it was coming, her ultimate end, and so had everyone else in their small circle of family and friends. He had waited almost two years before putting the house on the market. It had sold in two months, and for his asking price. He had rented a small apartment in Gloucester and installed the bare minimum of necessities.
His one major purchase since Hazel died had been a used RV—a recreational vehicle.
We always wanted to travel. And for the last ten years or so, we couldn’t. So I will go in her stead. Recreation? Maybe. Honoring a promise is more like it. A promise. A plan fulfilled.
Their one daughter, George’s only daughter, only child, Tess, lived in Phoenix with her husband, Gary. She called once a week, but with her mother gone, his wife gone, they had less to talk about than before.
She had been enthusiastic about her father’s plans for a trip across country.
“It will do you good to be busy and meet people.”
She sounded relieved. No decisions to make regarding his care. If he was able to drive across America, he was more than capable of taking care of himself.
George walked to his car and did not look back as he drove away.
“One chapter closed,” he said to himself. “And one chapter begins.”
He came to the stop sign at the end of Sumner Street, the street where he and Hazel lived for forty-five years. His heart hurt, just for the moment, upon realizing some chapters are more final than others.
Ain’t it the truth, he though
t to himself.
If he had any idea of how the concept of truth would change his life in a few short months, he gave no indication. He simply nodded to himself, agreeing with his own sage comment, and turning left, he headed to the west side of Gloucester and his new home on the second floor of the far west building in the Gloucester Arms Apartments and Condominiums complex.
3
The newly named Lewis sat quietly in the pet carrier next to Alex in the backseat of the Burden’s SUV. Alex slipped his small fingers through the wire bars in the front of the carrier. Lewis sniffed at them, making sure whose fingers they were, then laid down staring straight ahead. The small blue blanket had once been Alex’s, and it had been kicked to the rear of the crate.
Lewis did not whimper or whine. The breeder had cautioned them to expect it.
“They are leaving their families, after all,” she explained. “For some puppies, it can be quite traumatic.”
Alex knew Lewis would be fine. Lewis was leaving a family, of course, but he was entering into a new family. In truth, he was already in his new family. Perhaps dogs, over the centuries, have learned they are most often destined to be part of a human pack, rather than a canine pack. A human pack would offer more love, Alex thought to himself. And maybe a better place to sleep. And food at regular times.