The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

  I laid a road atlas on the front seat, a traveling mug for coffee in the cup holder, and my iPod securely plugged into the car’s audio system. I had sunglasses in the door compartment, a baseball hat to wear if I rode with an open window, and a bag of hard candy hidden in the glove box. (Rufus has long ago decided that he expects to taste whatever it is that I am eating. I don’t think he should be eating candy—and if I keep it out of sight, so much the better.)

  I had filled up the gas tank the day before, had the oil changed a few days before that, had all the fluids checked and filled, and had the tires properly inflated. I had the owner’s card and the insurance card in a little leather-like folder in the glove box. I had the emergency kit my husband had given me years ago—flares, signs, a flashlight, tools, bandages, blanket, jumper cables, tow rope—tucked away in a small storage nook at the rear of the car.

  Every item on the exit list had a “go” status attached to it.

  I put the key in the door. I had my hand on the key. I looked up at the house that once held my hopes and dreams and my life and my husband and my son and I could not stop it—the tears began to flow. I sobbed and sobbed. My heart tightened. My throat tightened. My cheeks grew wet. I began to sniffle as I sobbed, the tears just flowing, unexpected, unbidden. Rufus had been lying down in his crate, his head nestled between his front paws. He raised his head, startled, I imagine, at my outburst. Then he stood up and pressed his little snout between the thin bars of his crate. His impatience or anxiety was marked by his slight movements, shifting his weight from side to side, raising one paw, then another. Then he growled. And then he barked. I am pretty sure I mentioned that he did not tend to bark, so his bark came as a surprise to me. Then he barked again, more emphatic this time, and again, trying to get me to pay attention.

  What if I was doing the wrong thing? What if all this turned into a huge mistake? My friends are here. My life had been here—is here still, right? The remnants are still here. Why am I running away from it all? I should find a small apartment here. I could stay here. I could do freelance editing work again. I could go back to church again, and I could join the singles group. I know people here. I have a history here. What am I doing, really? Maybe Beth was right that I am simply running away from my past. Am I doing that? Have I not accepted what happened yet?

  All this raced through my thoughts at a million miles an hour, amid my sobs and wailing and tears.

  Rufus barked again, louder this time, more heartfelt, if a dog’s bark can be described as heartfelt. I turned to him and placed my fingers through the opening. He stuck his nose against my flesh. Then he backed away a little and just stared at me. His eyes were worried, but not really. Concerned, perhaps. Wondering what had upset me so much.

  Then he did something he rarely does. He licked my fingers. Rufus, unlike other dogs, other slobbery and obnoxious dogs, did not lick much. He just did not do it. Maybe people tasted bad to him. He would sniff, but not lick and slobber, like the big knuckleheaded dog we were leaving next door. But this time he did, gently, delicately, as if he were trying to reassure me somehow by doing something completely out of his character.

  I sniffed loudly. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand. I took a deep breath.

  At least I wore no mascara that would run and make my face look like a zombie-woman.

  “Is it okay, Rufus? Will it be okay? We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

  Rufus pushed his forehead against my fingers, still wrapped around the bars of the crate.

  I took another deep breath.

  “I guess we’re doing the right thing. We are.”

  I switched the engine on and backed carefully out of the driveway. As I began to drive away, an unfamiliar car approached. The car held the handsome couple and their son. The boy saw me, I guess, and pressed his face to the window and waved. I waved back. I could see the excitement and happiness radiate from his parents.

  This adventure I embarked on, this exit and entrance—it was the right thing to do.

  In the rear view mirror, I saw little Tyler jump from the car and literally hop toward the front door. He was home.

  Validation.

  Note to readers: you can skip the next six thousand words or so. Really. I won’t mind. And maybe you should. The next few days in my life are a pitiful, wallowing, depressive maelstrom, awash with doubt, anxiety, seller’s remorse, mover’s remorse, self-recrimination, depression, and more regret and self-pity. I became paralyzed, certain I had made a mistake. I was certain that I would or should move back to Illinois. The only amusing and interesting event that occurred during these few days of gypsy-like travel is that Rufus became terrified by a horse, and then became fixated on the potential threat of horses invading our new home. For a dog that once stood nose-to-nose with a barking Great Dane, that surprising streak of fear surfaced in my good dog. But other than that, it was all bad. But I have to write those words. I really do. It’s the only way the story is complete. But skip ahead if you like.

  Things get better. They really do.

  14

  From my childhood, I remembered Bedford, Pennsylvania, a stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, being advertised on billboards beside the highway as the “City of Motels.” As I neared the exit, I wondered why that would be so. Bedford appeared like a pleasant small town, with a fort or a tavern or something or other dating back to before the Revolutionary War. But that would not explain the plethora of motels in the middle of that state. Perhaps, back when cars went slower, when people traveled slower, a few hundred miles out of New York City brought you close to evening and a need to stop and sleep, and by then, you were in Bedford. Traveling times have diminished over the years. I could leave Chicago early in the morning, stopping only for coffee and gas, and be in Pittsburgh in time for an early dinner. If I pushed, I could make Philadelphia while restaurants were still open for dinner. I had never done that, but knew that I could, if pushed, and if I didn’t get too nervous at setting cruise control at seventy-six miles an hour. Or maybe seventy-nine, and taking a chance at being stopped for speeding.

  So, I imagined, Bedford did not have the same stopping power it once had. But still, there were a lot of motels right off the turnpike. I had Googled the place before I left and found one motel that advertised itself as “pet friendly.” I had made reservations, just to be safe, just for the first night. From then on, I would be fancy-free and let the highways take me—us—where they would.

  Rufus made a show of stretching and shaking when I opened the crate door. I carried his food and water into the motel room, and told Rufus I would be right back, since I feared he might get nervous in the new surroundings and start to bark, then I went to retrieve my smaller suitcase and cardboard box with coffee-making supplies. I went back to the car for my pillow. I have always found it difficult to use strange pillows. They were either too soft or too hard or smelled odd.

  I led Rufus out of the room and down the hall and outside, to the large field behind the motel. One could hear the muted rumble of the turnpike only a block or two away. Perhaps that’s why this motel was more than reasonable.

  “Is this our new house?” Rufus asked as he sniffed a thicket of tall grass. “It smells funny out here.”

  I anticipated his question. He had no frame of reference. He could live in a hotel room, as long as he got daily walks and crunchies.

  “No, Rufus, this is just for tonight. We have a ways to go to get to the ocean.”

  “The ocean is far.”

  “Did you mind the ride? You slept for a while, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. The car wiggles . . .”

  “Vibrates.”

  “Yes, that. It makes me sleepy.”

  “So the ride wasn’t as bad as you thought, was it?”

  He scratched at the dark Pennsylvania soil with his back legs.

  “No. Since I’m in my crate and all.”

  We walked back to the Johnson Motor Court and Lodge in silence,
the hum and thrum of the turnpike just audible as the breeze carried it along, a constant backdrop. Rufus stopped more often to sniff and examine. It was all new to him. Every morning and every night for a while would be new to him.

  I looked up at the stars, only a handful visible through the ground clutter of neon and sodium vapor illumination that pocked the area around the turnpike exit. And I tried to prevent the soft, insistent rise of a nameless dread that slowly unclenched its fist under my heart.

  I am doing the right thing. I know I am.

  We walked across the parking lot, Rufus’s nails clicking with each step.

  Then why am I so terrified?

  I used the keycard to unlock the hallway door. A faint odor of disinfectant and cigarette smoke lingered.

  I’m making a mistake. I am making a mistake. I should have never sold my house.

  I attempted to push the thoughts from my mind, but the more I tried, the louder their thump and drumbeat became. Rufus circled around a dozen times at the foot of the bed, sniffing and nosing at the orange blanket. He looked up at me several times.

  “I know. It smells funny. But it is only for tonight. We keep going right after breakfast.” He settled in a small coil of blanket, rested his head on his paws, and stared at me.

  I knew what he was thinking. Or maybe . . . I just projected my fear onto him.

  Why did you bring me to this terrible place?

  I felt certain that I could not bring Rufus with me to the motel’s breakfast room, though I bet some owners do, their yappy, fussy, scrabbling mini-dogs tucked in their purses or coat pockets. I had a yogurt, a glass of what might have been orange juice, a banana, a toasted bagel with two packets of strawberry jam, and two cinnamon rolls (they were on the small side). I had two cups of coffee, which actually tasted quite good, surprisingly. I toasted one slice of white bread and layered on two slabs of butter. Rufus liked toast. I took a third coffee with me in a cardboard cup and presented the toast to Rufus, torn in four pieces on a small paper plate. He ate it eagerly.

  The sun had already risen when I took Rufus out for our morning constitutional. He may have questions or observations about the trip or the motel or my rising anxiety, but he did not speak, as is his norm. Just as well. I didn’t think I could answer any of his questions without developing a hitch in my voice, some tremor that would lead him to other questions—and further worry for both of us.

  No, silence was good. Especially for today, for this morning.

  We got back on the turnpike and headed east. I planned on turning south at Harrisburg, toward Baltimore and then Washington, D.C. From there I would drive to Richmond and perhaps a little further for today. Then I would stop somewhere for the night. It wasn’t that far, but much of the route went through or around populated areas with lots of beltways and route changes and decisions to make every few miles. A spiderweb of decisions. Decisions made me nervous—or at least driving decisions did. My new Volvo had a built-in GPS system that I programmed first for Baltimore. I would stop there and tap in a new destination. The problem lay in the fact that there were multiple ways to arrive at my final destination, perhaps dozens upon dozens, and the GPS may have picked the shortest, but not the easiest or the one with the fewest turns. All I could do was select the option for “Maximize Freeways.”

  I suppose if I were being an astute, observant writer, I could use this GPS method as a metaphor for my life—multiple paths to one specific goal—without a clear “Best Route” as an option. There are many ways to reach paradise. Not the Christian paradise—there’s only one way there—but a temporal paradise . . . you know what I mean, right? Find personal satisfaction and self-worth through working—or not working. It’s the same destination, satisfaction, but there are two very different routes to take to get there.

  To get to Baltimore and beyond, I had reviewed the route I intended to take on my road atlas and marked down, on a four-by-six card, every highway I thought I would need to be on to get there.

  South from Harrisburg, it would be I-83, into Maryland, and to the north side of Baltimore. Then take 695—either west or south—around Baltimore proper, to 95 South. A second road paralleled that route that didn’t seem to be a labeled as an interstate, but was marked with 295, and a different color than 95. Was this route faster? It might be, since it angled more to the east of Washington.

  How do you know what’s best? Unless you live there, there is no telling what route works better.

  Like life. That’s the GPS metaphor again. Maybe I could write an article about that for some magazine. Maybe. I would need to remember all the nuances I was considering now, yet at the moment, I was getting more nervous about my choices, even though they were miles and hours distant.

  From Washington, it would be 95 around the city and on to Richmond.

  Rufus had settled into his crate nicely, hardly stirring when I took the ticket at the start of our turnpike segment. We drove on, into the sun, into a chilly but clear day in Pennsylvania.

  I wondered when it would be warm enough to drive with the window down.

  I stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s somewhere west of Baltimore. Rufus stirred and stretched as the car came to a stop. He sniffed the air. I am sure that he could smell the grease, thick in the air around the fast-food restaurant. I know I could, and I’m not a dog with a sensitive nose. I put some water in his bowl, a handful of kibble in his dish, let him out of the crate, and left both front windows open a crack. It was still very chilly and quite cloudy—so, please, no hate mail from readers telling me I am a negligent pet owner for leaving poor Rufus in a sweltering car. Besides—I was going to eat quickly, keeping the car in full view the whole time. It’s probably not enough for my more militant readers, but when you’re alone and with a dog, you do what you have to do.

  I ordered the two cheeseburgers meal. I bought a third burger on top of that, which I would share with Rufus. I timed my lunch. From start to finish: fourteen minutes. I know, it’s barbaric to wolf down any meal that quickly, but when they hand you your food even as you finish ordering it, that’s not a fast time.

  I came back to the car, split the third burger with the good dog Rufus, and then took him out into the field behind the restaurant.

  “We are not going to live here,” I said, knowing he would have asked if he were to speak, which he wouldn’t do—that I could be sure of. “We’re going to get back in the car and drive a few more hours until we stop for the night. Okay?”

  Rufus looked up at me like he understood.

  Even if he didn’t, it was what I intended on doing.

  I reset the GPS for Richmond, studied my road atlas for a long time, got gas, and continued on my trek.

  In the past—while a widow, not when I was with Jacob—I liked driving to Pennsylvania to visit my mother. I had a destination, I knew the route, I knew where I would get radio reception for the NPR stations along the way, I knew to wait to stop for lunch until Ohio. So the drive to Pennsylvania—some ten hours in length, depending on the weather and how fast I felt like driving—was . . . like going on a silent monastic retreat for me. No talking. No arguments. No instructions on the proper technique of passing or staying in the right-hand lane. There was no one who would look askance at my stopping for Starbucks every forty-five minutes or so. And since the route and all the environments were so well known, I could switch off my conscious thoughts and set my mind to autopilot. I loved that feeling of letting my mind go free, reliving incidents from the distant past. (Like my senior prom. That came up often. Go figure.) Solutions and options to current situations would appear in my thoughts, almost miraculously. I could daydream a hundred different scenarios and no evil inner voice would interrupt, saying that I had a deadline to meet, or a floor that needed vacuuming. No, I really enjoyed the long, desolate stretches of driving alone. A solitary road trip became great therapy, and inexpensive—only dependent on the price of gasoline, I guess.

  I looked forward to that same carefree drive this
trip.

  It was not happening. Not in the least.

  At first I blamed the newness of the route, then the newness of the car, then the fact that good dog Rufus traveled with me.

  None of that mattered, I decided, somewhere to the southwest of Baltimore.

  The unsettled feeling, the dislocated feeling, I think, all stemmed from the fact that I had nowhere to be. I owned no home now—no more home base. I had no real destination waiting for me. I had become a ship adrift—and even worse. Eventually, even a wayward ship is blown by the prevailing winds into some place, some rocky shoal, some barren island. I was not like that ship. I could go anywhere and everywhere. Yes, we headed toward the ocean, but the east coast of America is like . . . well, like one long piece of possibilities. I could spend years looking and never find a home. True, I had narrowed the choices down—a little—by starting in Virginia Beach and heading south. I may not have mentioned that decision before. I did tell Rufus, I think, even though Virginia Beach meant nothing to him. It did have two names, which he liked.

  If one went further north from Virginia Beach, one could experience real winters, with gales and blizzards and snow tinted with salt. I wanted to escape all that, I think. Going south would not make one immune from storms, just the low temperatures of the dreaded nor’easters.