by Jeff High
CHAPTER 19
Rhett Butler
On the last Saturday in September I had decided to take a midmorning run out Summerfield Road, although I wasn’t running with much conviction. Watervalley’s Fall Festival was a week away and part of that event was the annual Tackiest Yard Art Contest. Locals would doll up their yards with everything imaginable, going well beyond the traditional pink flamingos and painted tires and invoking some very creative uses for discarded toilets and old washing machines. It was Watervalley’s way of poking fun at itself, and on my run I passed several inspired entries. It was amusing, but I tended to follow these events from a distance, quite comfortable to keep the world at arm’s length.
Eventually I made my way out to the more open farmland of Summerfield Road. Here the countryside was an orderly patchwork quilt of harvested crops, dreamy landscapes, and rambling vegetable gardens divided by crisp white fences and weathered rock walls. A soft gray overcast was painted across the wide canopy of sky. A cooler air had tumbled its way into the valley, offering an almost refreshing chill that was short of the sharp cold snap that presages the harsh days of winter. As I passed some of the farmhouses, an intoxicating smell of woodsmoke drifted in the air. After several miles Summerfield Road wound through a wooded section whose tall trees provided an awning over the narrow lane. I stopped in the middle under this cool, shadowy canopy to walk for a short way and catch my breath. I had taken a few steps with hands on my hips when I heard an odd sound, an eerie moaning in the thick greenery off to my left. I paused, staring and listening intently in the direction of the noise.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
Once again there was a low, nonhuman crying from within the dark shroud of undergrowth only fifteen or so feet away. An unease crept over me; I was uncertain of what was there but equally certain that I couldn’t just ignore it.
“Who’s there? Are you okay?”
Cautiously, I moved in that direction, carefully pushing back the undergrowth with each step of my advance. I heard a rustling a few scant feet away and froze. After a long wait, I took one more measured step and with some effort pushed aside a large tangle of thick hedge. That’s when I heard the growl.
What I had been hearing came into full focus. It was a large dog with big teeth and apparent anger management issues. He exploded into a chorus of vicious barks that sent me scrambling for safety back on the road. But not before I noticed he had no collar and a smear of blood and mud across one side of his face.
Before I could decide what to do, I heard the sound of a truck approaching. The driver slowed to a stop and rolled down the window. It was Hoot Wilson.
“What’s going on, Doc? You look like a bunch of hornets was chasing you.”
“Hello, Hoot. I was out jogging and heard a noise in the woods. There’s a big dog in there. I think he’s hurt.”
Hoot nodded his head with a wide-eyed look of understanding. “Well, let’s have a look-See.” He cut the engine and emerged from the truck, dressed in a warm farm coat, overalls, and his standard black-and-red knee-high rubber boots. With his generally unkempt appearance, bushy eyebrows, and thick mop of hair under his red co-op hat, Hoot exuded something of a homeless vibe. But he had an impregnable cheerfulness. His booming voice was mixed with a constant low chuckle that was amiable and accommodating. He rounded the back of the truck, rubbing his hands together, almost as if preparing for hand-to-dog combat. Without hesitation, he proceeded to push his way into the woods where I had just exited. I followed cautiously.
“Be careful there, Hoot. He doesn’t seem too sociable.”
Hoot moved forward undaunted. “Ah, he won’t hurt me much.” He paused for a moment as he worked back a stand of heavy thicket. He stayed keenly focused, speaking to me in a loud whisper. “I tell you, though, Doc. I know modern medicine has come a long way, but snakes have still got the edge in my book. Dogs are one thing, but you don’t want to get a snakebite.”
“Hoot, I wouldn’t advocate getting any kind of bite. Be careful now. You’re almost there.” I spoke the last words in a low voice, as if somehow the dog wouldn’t be able to hear a three-hundred-pound man stomping aside the bushes as he approached. Hoot pulled back the last of the undergrowth, revealing a full view of the animal lying before us. Again, the dog bristled and let out a low growl.
“Ah, heck, Doc—that’s just a big ol’ golden retriever. He ain’t going to bite nobody.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Hoot. It’s not like they’ve signed a treaty.”
He bent down on one knee and began to make a low humming sound, talking to the animal and calling it to come to him. “He’ll like us better if it’s his choice to get close,” he said.
I followed Hoot’s example and bent down. The poor creature was thin and muddy with matted hair. Eventually he lowered his ears and attempted to crouch-step his way toward us, but something was holding him back.
“Look at that, Doc. I think he’s got a piece of Bob-wire caught around him.”
“You mean barbed wire, Hoot?”
Hoot turned to me, offering a sympathetic, humoring grin. “That’s funny, Doc. I guess you don’t learn about farm things in med school. It’s called Bob-wire. Pretty sure some guy named Bob invented it. Anyway, looks like it’s got him tore up a little.”
I let this pass. Instinctively, we both started inching closer toward the pathetic creature. I reached him first and with some trepidation stretched to pat his head. The dog whimpered lightly, then yielded to the simple show of affection. Eventually, with some soft-toned encouragement, we were able to get him turned enough to see that a strand of barbed wire had gotten caught around him, cutting a small gash above his left ear and entangling his legs to the point where he couldn’t move. Hoot retrieved some wire cutters from the truck, which enabled us to free him. With Hoot leading the way, I carried him through the woods and laid him in the back of the truck. He was bony and muddy, with a thick, earthy odor of wet hair.
“This ol’ boy’s gonna need some TLC, Doc. Whatcha want to do with him?”
I looked at Hoot and then into the huge brown eyes of the wretched, smelly creature before me. There was really no choice.
“You mind driving us back to my house? I want to get him cleaned up, and I’ve got a suture kit at home to close up that cut. I’ll figure out the rest from there.”
Hoot was glad to accommodate.
We felt convinced that the retriever would lie quiet in the back of the truck for the short ride. So I climbed into the cab with Hoot and he turned around and headed back to town. Hoot explained that he had brought Wendy in to the library—her favorite place to visit on Saturday mornings—and was returning to the farm for a couple of hours before picking her up with this week’s stack of books.
“Doc, I got part of a chili dog here. Think he’d like to have that? Or is that just wrong, a dog eating a dog?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at Hoot’s earnest inquiry. “Probably best if we don’t put anything spicy in his stomach just yet.”
“Yeah, I imagine you’re right.”
“So how have you been feeling, Hoot?” It had been several weeks since I had seen him.
“Doc, ever since I got that ticker tune-up, I’m a new man. I’ve been walking around the track over at the high school. Don’t much care for it, but Wendy puts her foot down about it.”
I smiled. “Good for Wendy.”
“So I guess you like running out in the country rather than on the track, huh, Doc? You’re more of a free-range doctor?”
“Never quite thought of it that way, but, yeah, I guess so.”
“Hey, you like huntin’, Doc? Deer season opens next Saturday. I love huntin’. It’s like God’s grocery store ’cept it never closes. You ought to come huntin’ with me.”
I appreciated the kindness of Hoot’s offer, but simply had no experience to draw upon. “Hoot, I love being out in the woods, but I’m afraid I’m not much of a hunter. I don’t even have a gun—at least,
not with me. I think there’s a couple my dad owned back in storage in Atlanta.”
Hoot could do little to mask his surprise, having obviously assumed that everyone hunted. He grew silent for a moment. It was clear he wanted to be accommodating but was having a hard time finding a topic of common interest. I probably wasn’t helping much, being somewhat preoccupied with the dog in the truck bed and glancing back occasionally to check on him. Soon, however, a ready grin spread across Hoot’s face.
“Doc, I guess you’re probably spending more of your time huntin’ for two-legged animals.” He chuckled to himself, turned, and winked at me.
I exhaled a slow laugh. “Yeah, well, Watervalley is not exactly a target-rich environment. I guess maybe I’m a little too picky.”
“That’s too bad. Still, I don’t blame you for keeping your standards high. I used to be the same way. I wouldn’t date a woman who thought she was smarter than me.”
I nodded and turned to look out the window, stifling an outright choking laugh. As likable as Hoot was, it seemed to me the bar he had set eliminated dating all known women and half the animal kingdom.
“Yeah, back in the day I had lots of girlfriends. There were plenty of women chasing ol’ Hoot.” Again I kept my thoughts to myself, but the only scenario in which I could imagine a woman chasing Hoot involved security at a mall. Knowing the “after” picture, I found it hard to envision the “before.” We talked on during the ride back to my house and Hoot spoke openly about his ex-wife, his life, and the great delight of his life, Wendy.
All in all, I liked Hoot. Once you got past his large and loud nature and his rather sloppy use of the tobacco spit bottle, underneath his barbarous exterior were some pretty noble capacities. He was a single parent, his wife having abandoned him and Wendy when the girl was less than one year old. He worked hard and lived frugally and possessed an irrepressible hearty friendliness. Toward Wendy he was a devoted father—tender, patient, and encouraging, especially regarding her education, as witnessed by his clear pride at her love of books and her straight-A record. It also seemed likely that his bravado about his early dating life was a compensation for the residual pain of his wife having walked out on him years before. Yet like many of the folks in Watervalley, he had an unsparing generosity. Like so many I had come to know, he possessed an inexplicable optimism that kept a short memory of past setbacks and was able to look beyond an uncertain future.
After pulling into my driveway Hoot offered to help me get the dog inside and cleaned up. I thanked him but refused. The dog was going to be issue enough, but the prospect of Hoot’s muddy boots raising Connie’s wrath was worse. I ran in to grab a towel to wrap around the poor fellow. I picked him up, thanked Hoot, and returned inside, making my way upstairs to the bathtub.
The dog now had a completely submissive manner, staring at me through those large brown eyes and a most pitiful face. He stood obediently as I filled the tub with warm water. It took three rounds of scrubbing, rinsing, emptying, and refilling the tub, but I was finally satisfied that he was thoroughly clean. After the last rinse he must have thought the same, because he proceeded to initiate a systematic full body shake that splattered all four walls of the small room. Something in the action also cast off his lowly demeanor and he wagged his tail and perched both front paws on the side of the tub, looking at me with an air of exuberant anticipation. I exhausted every towel I had but finally got him dry. Meanwhile, he attempted to return the grooming favor by constantly licking and playfully pawing at me.
I examined the small cut above his ear and decided it would be best to put a stitch or two in it. I thought this would be problematic, but once again he stood obediently as I injected some lidocaine and managed to sew the wound.
The only thing in the fridge was some leftover casserole, hardly appropriate for a half-starved dog. I gave him a few pieces of bread, which he swallowed whole, and poured some milk in a bowl, which was consumed with equal vigor. Once finished, he looked up at me with the most innocent face, full of wonder and rapt attention. I never knew an animal could say so much with one expression. I was now a magnet for him. Every step I took he duplicated; he was constantly beside me, carefully placing himself only a few inches away without ever hindering my movements. I had a new shadow.
I never consciously chose to keep him. It was automatic, a foregone conclusion that he was, well, now my dog. On Monday I knew I would need to make some inquiries to see if anyone had reported him missing. But given his lack of collar and abandoned state, this didn’t seem likely. Meanwhile, I would need to buy dog food, a collar, and probably some flea and worm medicine. I loaded him up in the Corolla and we headed toward the Farmers’ Co-op.
Part farm store, part hardware store, part plant nursery, part men’s club, the Co-op was the last bastion of Southern rednecks. It had a distinctive smell of feed, leather, creosote, and fertilizer—a dank and robust aroma that likely hadn’t changed in fifty years. The Co-op wasn’t a place where you walked around with a shopping cart. You couldn’t buy anything without discussing it with someone. Even if you grabbed an item and placed it on the counter along with your money, the salesclerk felt obliged to politely quiz you to make sure you had made the proper choice.
I pulled into the large gravel lot, cracked the windows, and left my new friend to watch the world go by from the safety of the Corolla. The temperature was cool, so I was confident he would be fine. I remembered Nancy Orman had told me to always ask for Junior if I ever needed anything at the Co-op. I made my way inside, walked up to the main counter in the back, and caught the attention of one of the salesclerks.
“Hi, I was looking for Junior.”
Simultaneously, four men responded, “How can I help you?”
Not sure what else to do, I spoke to the group. “Where can I find some pet supplies?”
In the Farmers’ Co-op, every question was answered with a question. I was immediately bombarded with inquiries of what kind of dog, how big, if was he a drooler, what kind of hunting I was going to use him for, and so forth. There was no shortage of advice—not just from the salesclerks, but also from other customers who happened to be standing within earshot. This prompted infinite stories about hunting dogs, dogs that could climb ladders, dogs that could sing on cue . . . Eventually I was able to make an exit, with dog food, dog medicine, dog treats, and dog toys all in tow. My furry new friend was delighted to see me. Apparently he’d decided to pass the time by cleaning all the interior glass with his tongue, with mixed results.
That afternoon I began to feed him and get him started on the regimen of medications. Despite his thinness, the modest amount of food he ate seemed to propel a quick turnaround in his energy. We spent some time together throwing a ball in the backyard. The innate desire in his breed to retrieve anything and everything was a marvel. I could have thrown the ball till my arm fell off, and he would have endeavored with his last breath to bring it to me.
That evening, when I sat down to watch some football on TV, the golden came and sprawled at my feet, ever my constant companion. I hadn’t yet figured out a name for him, having had little experience in such matters. But how hard could it be? I pondered on it for a while, but nothing came to mind.
Engrossed in the game, I hadn’t noticed that he had slipped off. It was when I heard a plop at my feet that I realized where he had been. I looked over to see my running shoes sitting askew on the floor at my feet.
“Well, thank you, fellow. But I don’t need these right now.” I leaned over and patted him on his head, then grabbed the shoes and set them neatly on the end table beside me.
He disappeared and soon enough returned, making his presence known by another plop on the floor. I looked over to find my black dress loafers sitting neatly before me. Just as before, I leaned over, patted his head, and, after wiping off a little bit of slobber, carefully stacked them on the end table along with the others. He repeated this process until my entire inventory of shoes from the upstairs closet had been brough
t as tributes, including my heavy hiking boots, a feat he was able to manage only by bringing them one at a time. The supply exhausted, he finally lay on the floor with his snout on his paws, his gaze fixated on the pile of shoes on the end table.
I stretched out on the couch. Every so often, I diverted my attention from the game to scrutinize his vigilant focus on the stack of shoes. It cracked me up. That’s when the thought occurred to me. I already had a housekeeper; now I had a butler.
It was settled. His name would be Rhett.
CHAPTER 20
The Garage
“Dr. Bradford! Get down here and get down here right now!”
Connie’s voice was so loud and shrill, I thought she was standing beside my bed with a bullhorn. It was six a.m. on Monday and I had been dead to the world. Now I exploded out of bed and was tumbling down the steps on my heels, partially sliding and then scurrying toward the entry hall. I arrived to find Connie wielding her umbrella, standing defensively in a corner with a steely grimace on her face. Rhett was several feet away, crouched on all fours in a posture of complete submission.
“Young man, get yourself back upstairs and put some clothes on. This house isn’t some Chippendales review. What did I tell you about parading around in your boxers?”
Only now did I realize that I was still in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. “Well, what did you expect? You sounded like the place was on fire.”
Connie stared at me placidly, her scowling glare leaving little room for interpretation.
“Okay, just hold on a minute,” I said. I stepped into the living room and retrieved a quilt from the couch to wrap around my waist. When I returned to the entry hall, Rhett came over and crouched behind me. The big coward. He’d been perfectly happy to snarl when we first met, but in response to Connie he immediately capitulated.
Connie spoke in a stern, superior voice. “Dr. Bradford, it would have been nice if you had let me know that you had a houseguest.”