The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

  I would have asked Rufus to speak to God about the lack of buyers, but he already said that house values were not a subject he felt like addressing with the Almighty. So be it. I did not press him. He appeared to be very interested in the daily temperature at Hilton Head. He had no idea where that was; he had no knowledge of distances and geography. He knew that Hilton Head lay on the ocean. I told him that it was one of the places we would explore. I would have showed him a map, but it would have had no meaning to him. I could trace our intended route to the ocean, but it would be all but gibberish to him—funny squiggles on paper that had no meaning. He remained happy to know that I knew the way and how to get to our Eden. He found contentment in that. But he did seem to like the sound of Hilton Head. I think he liked things with two names. He would ask if I saw the weather report on my computer for Hilton Head.

  “What is the temperature at Hilton Head today?” he would ask.

  I would relate what I had found . . . let’s say it was sixty-five degrees. It was often sixty-five degrees in the dead of February. How delicious that would be—to wear a sweater instead of a full-length parka with Everest-level insulation.

  “What is the temperature here?” he would then ask.

  “Fifteen degrees.” It was often fifteen degrees in Chicago in February.

  “Is sixty-five better or worse than fifteen?”

  “It is much, much warmer,” I would say. “I wouldn’t need gloves or a coat. I could just wear a shirt outside.”

  Then he would almost smile. As I said, schnauzers are not physically equipped to do much smiling, but I think he tried. It appeared that his steps were a bit bouncier when he discovered that it would be so much warmer.

  “And when will we move?”

  “When I sell the house.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When someone decides to buy it from me,” I would say.

  “Oh. Then I hope that person decides soon. We are missing out on warm weather, aren’t we?”

  We certainly were.

  During the first week of March, my Realtor brought me the news of an offer on my house.

  “That young couple from a couple of weeks ago. They really liked the house, but were afraid that they couldn’t afford it. They’re going to make an offer.”

  I wondered if that meant they would be making an absurdly low offer, hoping that I would be desperate.

  I wasn’t. Not yet, anyhow.

  The offer came in lower, but not absurdly lower than my asking price. I know, I know, I should have negotiated tough, played hardball with these people. But I wanted it sold. I wanted to start my life over. And the offer was close to what I wanted.

  My Realtor neighbor brought the offer in for me to sign that afternoon. I signed it.

  That night Rufus and I stopped by the pond, still a thin, reflective slab of ice. He stretched his front leg. The broken bone had healed, and the fur had grown back, yet he remained a little tentative at times, as if his muscles were still adjusting to the repaired bone.

  “You sold the house, right? Is that what that lady from across the street said?”

  “I did. I signed the papers. Unless something happens, I move out by the end of the month. We can move out.”

  “Did you make money like you wanted?” he asked as we started walking again. He limped now, ever so slightly. I could see the hitch in his step. No trauma goes forever unnoticed. No break or injury goes away without leaving a scar, a limp, a hitch, some reminder of the pain in the past. Perhaps the poor dog would always limp a little. I suspect we could never enter any dog agility trials in the future. We hadn’t done so in the past, so it was no great loss. Limping is better than disabled—and much, much better than dead.

  “Did you make money? You talk about money a lot.”

  I scowled. I did not talk about money all that much. Maybe it just seems that way to a dog. Money is a worry—especially for someone now no longer gainfully employed.

  “I sort of broke even, I guess. I didn’t make any money. I didn’t lose any money.”

  We went another block. Then he asked one more question that night. “But will you have enough money to buy my crunchies?”

  Early the next morning, my Realtor neighbor returned with a book’s thickness of papers, all relating to the contract and the expectations of sale and liens and taxes and mortgage approvals and who knows what else. I signed them all, thinking that no one reads any of it. Or do they? Perhaps I should have. But I didn’t.

  “Listen, sweetie, I know that I shouldn’t ask . . . an inconvenience, but . . .”

  “Ask what?” I replied.

  “Well, the couple who are buying your house are outside in my car. They wondered if they could come in and take some measurements of the rooms. To plan out furniture. That sort of thing. You don’t have to say yes. They can come back later.”

  Mounds of boxes still populated most rooms. I had packed up three-quarters of what I needed, but that was all. There remained a shambled, hillbilly-ish, as-seen-on-the-Cops-TV-show quality to the house. I remained a shambles as well, in well-worn sweatpants and a mismatched sweatshirt, my hair pulled back with a band, no makeup, a loose fuzziness of slippers on my feet.

  I know what I would have said two months earlier.

  “Sure. Let them come in. They do know I’m packing, right?”

  “They do. They have their little boy with them. Rufus is okay with little people?”

  I stopped for just a moment, just a fraction. I felt a cloud over my heart. I felt the familiar, and almost welcome tightness about my heart and throat.

  “Sure. He’s fine with them. He may bark some when they come in.”

  Rufus did not bark once. He did not jump or bounce or get excited at all.

  The young couple—a pretty couple, or should that be a handsome couple?—came in, excitement and fear and joy and anticipation radiating from them, like the northern lights.

  “Are you sure it’s not an imposition us being here?” the wife asked. “We don’t want to intrude.” I had been told their names, of course, but I did not want to know their names. I had been introduced, but I did not want to know who these people are or were or will be. This would be easier. “No problem,” I said. I smiled. “I hope you can overlook the packing supplies and the mess. It’ll be cleaned out when I leave—that I promise.”

  She was blonde, tiny, with deep-set blue eyes. Like a perfect Swedish princess, her eyes wide, her smile quick. He was darker. Taller. Handsome.

  The little boy . . . “This is Tyler. He’s four.”

  “Four and a half,” Tyler said, holding up four fingers.

  He had perfect blond hair like his mother’s and had her eyes and her easy, welcoming smile. He had tiny, little-boy jeans on with a sweatshirt and tiny, perfect black sneakers. He had his hands in his jean jacket pockets, as if his parents had instructed him not to touch anything and keeping his hands involved would help him obey.

  “I’ll stay in the kitchen with Maya. We can talk about the neighborhood and who’s putting their house up for sale. Take your time measuring.”

  “It’s really just the bedrooms. We don’t have that much furniture and . . . well, we want to figure out where it goes.”

  Tyler saw Rufus standing in the kitchen. The dog just stood there. This was most unlike him. He usually reacted vigorously, energetically, to visitors. Today, he remained impassive. He just stood there, like a perfectly positioned statue.

  “They have a dog,” he said, pointing to Rufus.

  “That’s Rufus,” I said. “Would you like to pet him?”

  Tyler remained solemn, but nodded in earnest. His mother said, “If it’s okay with you.”

  Tyler sat on the floor with Rufus, in the kitchen, as Maya and I sat in the two upholstered chairs and chatted about inconsequential things, like snow removal and lawn services and where I might be heading.

  Rufus had never been a fan of small children. He tolerated the few he had met, but would quic
kly make himself scarce after only a minute or two. Not so today. Tyler carefully and respectfully patted him, stroking his back and head, very gentle for a four-year-old. He was smiling, and I think Rufus might have tried to smile as well.

  It took my buyers nearly twenty minutes to do all their measuring. I was happy to let them have the time. The woman glowed with expectations of the future—here at this house, inside these walls, expecting to build a future, holding onto a golden promise of a shared life.

  “Tyler, are you ready to go?”

  Tyler obediently rose, patted Rufus once more, then walked to his mother, who took his hand. He leaned up to her and she leaned down to him. He whispered into her ear. She stood up, offered an odd smile, and said, “No, honey, he doesn’t.”

  She must have seen my expression.

  She looked at her firstborn son, with his perfect blond hair and blue eyes, and then back to me.

  “He wanted to know if the dog comes with the house. He loves dogs.”

  I saw the look in Rufus’s eyes—as if he had been afraid that he might have been a condition of the sale.

  I knelt down to Tyler and looked him in the eyes.

  My heart was breaking and I could not show that pain to anyone.

  “Tyler, Rufus and I have to stay together. Rufus has been with me since he was a little puppy. And he tells me things. We need to be together. But maybe, when you move in here . . .”

  I looked up at his mother before continuing. She shrugged as if to say “maybe—go ahead.”

  “. . . when you move in here, maybe you can get your own little dog.”

  Tyler brightened.

  “Really?”

  “We’ll see, Tyler,” his mother cautioned. I already knew the answer. So did Tyler, I am sure.

  I asked the perfect little boy one more question before I stood up.

  “What would you call your dog?”

  Tyler scrunched his face, deep in thought. Picking a name would be a big assignment for a perfect little boy.

  “I would call him Johnnie.”

  “That’s the name of his best friend at preschool,” his mother explained.

  I took a deep breath, then another. I would remain composed. I would. I looked square in the young boy’s eyes.

  “That’s a very good name, Tyler. A very good name.”

  Validation.

  13

  Estate sales should be held in the summer, when doors can stay open and no one tracks mud into the house. But I had to move now, and we were in the gray month of March—sleet in the morning and the air grew raw and angry by noon. The good thing about an estate sale in the winter is that you have so little competition. All the estate sale and garage sale addicts out there—and you know who you are—have been inactive for months and months now, at least in the north. Down south, I don’t think you face the same deprivation, but in Chicago, only the insane hold garage sales in the winter. So I knew I had a lot of pent-up demand going for me.

  I sold virtually everything that I had decided not to take with me. Two weeks earlier, I rented a pack-it-yourself storage container that a nice man dropped off in my driveway. I filled it with boxes, one sofa, two chairs, one table, four kitchen chairs, one bed frame, one relatively new HDTV, a few end tables, a wardrobe of clothes, and not much else. I would buy a mattress and box spring wherever I ultimately landed.

  People bought everything else that made up my previous life. Old framed artwork. Desks. Odd tables. Two complete silverware sets. Dishes. An overflow of books. Rugs. A leather sofa. Three televisions—one an ancient analog model. A display cabinet. A full set of furniture from the basement. Tools. Cans of old paint. (Really—a nearly full gallon of off-white sold for a dollar.) Wrapping paper. Towels. Sheets. Pillows. Bed frames. Bookcases. Candles. Lamps. A large dining room table. Fans. Another desk. Tell you what: walk through your house. Everything in your house was something that I sold in one form or another. Mixers. Mixing bowls. Measuring cups—I had collected three sets somehow. Place mats. Napkins. Candle holders. Vases. (I did keep one vase for myself—a Mother’s Day gift.) A box of scarves. A box of mittens and gloves. More glasses and mugs and plates than I could count. A full set of Waterford tumblers and wine glasses (which I had used perhaps six times in ten years). Serving plates. A toaster oven. Three coffeemakers. (I kept one.) A huge bag of Tupperware and Tupperware-like containers. Five plastic bins filled with Christmas decorations. An old camp stove that I had forgotten I had. An artificial Christmas tree. Three Christmas wreaths and one springtime wreath. Three bicycles. Two animal carriers—now too small for the adult schnauzer in the family. Shovels. Rakes. An electric tire pump (which I did not know how to use). Two garbage cans. Two large armoires. An exercise bike (which I never used). A treadmill (which I used once last year). An old cedar chest.

  I am certain that I have forgotten more items than I remembered.

  My head spins at trying to remember why I bought these things, when I bought them, and if I ever used some of them.

  I made enough money in two days of estate selling to pay for my new-to-me Volvo wagon.

  I began to feel lighter and more unencumbered as each person walked out of my house clutching some new addition to his or her life—and a subtraction from mine.

  Rufus had been sent to the realtor neighbor’s house for the sale. It would do him no good to have to face the hundreds of customers who tromped through the house.

  That night—the second night, after the estate sale had ended, and after the house had been emptied, and after I got Rufus’s leash and supply of crunchies—he stopped at the corner as we walked and asked, “What happened to all your things? The sofa thing that I sleep on in that sunny room is gone. What do I do now?”

  I had explained to him earlier how an estate sale worked, but I am pretty sure some of our human endeavors were simply beyond him.

  “I sold them all. We’re moving, remember? I don’t have room in the car for a sofa.”

  He walked along for a while, obviously digesting the information.

  “My bed is still there, isn’t it? I didn’t notice.”

  “It is. We’re taking that with us.”

  Another long pause.

  “Okay, then.”

  I gave him a treat, which he crunched up happily.

  “But where will I sleep in the sunny room? The sofa is gone.”

  “On the floor, if you want to sleep in there.”

  The room stood empty.

  “The floor? Really?”

  We turned the corner of our street.

  “Yes, Rufus. The floor. But we are leaving in a few days. Then everything changes.”

  He remained silent until we arrived at the driveway.

  “I don’t like change,” he said. “Change is bad.”

  Walking through the empty house was not as painful or emotional for me as I once feared. Stripped of all the mementos and trappings of my previous life, empty rooms were just that: empty. There were no ghosts of memories, no emotional trauma from seeing a reminder of my husband or my son. It was simply architecture, simply shelter. Nothing more than walls and floors and ceilings and windows and doors.

  The people who conducted the estate sale had come in and done a thorough sweeping and cleaning job as part of their process. They even filled all the nail holes in the walls with Spackle. Both the cleaning and spackling were codicils in the contract. (How often have you heard the words Spackle and codicil in the same sentence? Never, I bet.)

  Rufus and I walked through every room. I felt like I was leaving a hotel room and making one last sweep to ensure that I had not left a sock under the bed or my cell phone charger still plugged into the wall.

  I hadn’t done any of those things.

  Rufus sniffed about, checking corners and windowsills. I knew he would not talk to me during the day. (I kept promising myself to ask him why he remained silent in the sun, and I kept forgetting. Perhaps it is not important.) Yet I knew he could listen and understand most of
what I said.

  “So that’s it, Rufus. Everything is gone. The car is packed up. The things I am keeping will be shipped to us once I . . . when we find a place to live.”

  He looked up at me.

  “And yes, I have a bag of your crunchies in the car. And your bed.”

  I knew that satisfied him.

  A door had been closed on what had been my life. It was a door that I had chosen to close and not one that had been slammed in my face. I had some control over this, some degree of personal choice. It had not punched into my gut in the middle of the night, leaving me without breath, without hope, without a real life for so long.

  Now, I got to do the inventing. I got to do the creating. A new life, my new life, would rise from the ashes of this one, like a phoenix of sorts, a great bird arising from the detritus of an old life that no longer worked.

  The car was packed. I had two large duffle bags filled. I had a smaller computer bag—I now owned a very small laptop—which also held my cell phone charger and e-book reader. I had a small, unimpressive digital camera. Perhaps I would need to document some of this trip, but I didn’t plan on making it a scrapbooked adventure. There were three boxes, taped securely. I carried a set of sheets and towels, a minimum of dishes, cups, plates, spoons, forks, and an open box containing a toaster, an electric kettle, and the ingredients for making coffee. I had stayed at . . . well . . . less-expensive hotels in the past and the “coffee service” that is often included with the room is coffee in name only. There is always too much sugar, not enough coffee, and the “coffee lightener” only changed the coffee from a mud-black to a mud-brown. From the first moment, I knew I would bring my own coffee accoutrements with me. I would have packed them in their own suitcase, but I had sold all the rest of my luggage in the estate sale. A cardboard box would do just fine.

  I debated what to do with Rufus in the car for what might be weeks of travel. There are some who say a dog should be put in a halter and fastened to the seat belt, ensuring the animal’s safety. There are others who argue against it. Whenever he rode in the car before, Rufus would lie on the front seat, his head down, his eyes nearly closed, looking as if he expected to die at any moment—not from a crash or my terrible driving (which wasn’t true) but from his general heightened anxiety over being in an automobile in the first place. I did not want to put him in a harness and fasten him to the seat belt. I am pretty certain he would not have liked that. Instead, I placed his crate in the back of the car. Since it was only the two of us traveling, I had folded down the back passenger seats. I placed his crate snug up against the back of the front passenger seat and used a cargo belt to secure it to the floor, so in the event of an accident, the crate would remain secured. Rufus could see me from the crate, and I could turn and glance back to him as I drove. I hoped that being slightly confined would ease his anxieties. There was more than enough open space for a bowl of food and water to be placed down when we stopped.