The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

  But after eliminating a long swath of northward shoreline, I had a still-too-large path of potential waiting for me. How would I find the “right” place to live? How would I find a house in a nice neighborhood? It took living in Wheaton for years to know what areas might be considered less than desirable. Now I would have to make a decision in the matter of a few hours or days.

  So my thoughts remained jumbled and unfocused, unable to rest on any topic, any event, any incident for long.

  I did not like the feeling.

  And every moment that I remained unsettled became another moment when I had time to almost regret the decision to leave Wheaton and head into a much more unsettled future. I mean, I could be making things worse by moving, rather than better.

  I suppose I could go back to Wheaton. I mean, I could tell people that I just didn’t like the East Coast. They would welcome me back. And they wouldn’t think ill of me for returning. People do it all the time—admit that they made mistakes. It’s not irrevocable.

  Then those thoughts would leave me for a while.

  But never for good. At least not during these first few days.

  We made it to Williamsburg, Virginia, that day. I was tired of driving. Baltimore and Washington were like one big suburb with lots of traffic, all the time.

  Rattled would be a good descriptive term for how I felt. Just rattled—emotionally as well as physically. Rufus seemed none the worse for wear. That evening, as we walked around the hotel, he admitted that he had slept most of the day.

  “I liked that place with the food,” he said. “We could stay there.”

  He meant the McDonald’s. He was trying to be helpful.

  We were staying at an Embassy Suites Hotel, a few miles from Williamsburg. Rufus appeared impressed when we entered the suite, sniffing it very carefully.

  “No, we are not living here,” I explained again. “We are only staying for one night.”

  I had room service deliver a hamburger. Room service can be expensive and I wasn’t all that hungry. Rufus had a third of my burger. These were not great dog-feeding habits, but my stressful situation made it hard to keep to a healthy routine. For some reason, in a hotel, I lose the willpower to deny him a bite or two when he stares up at me while I eat. I’m a wimp, I know, but I was also tired. Very tired.

  The next morning, I felt much better. I helped myself to a very large breakfast. I brought Rufus back a small serving of scrambled eggs, which are supposed to be good for his coat.

  Since we were only a few miles from historic Colonial Williamsburg, I decided to stop and walk the grounds. I had never been there before. Apparently, you have to buy a ticket to enter some of the locations, but you can visit the stores and restaurants without a fee—other than facing the lure of souvenirs.

  I packed up the car, parked in a city lot, snapped on Rufus’s leash, told him to be on his best behavior, and began to walk down the main street of colonial Williamsburg—a terrifically impressive collection of old homes and shops and government buildings from the time of our nation’s founding. I had already explained to Rufus that we would just be visiting and we would drive to the ocean later in the day.

  Early April brings about a beautiful spring in Williamsburg, I observed. A scattering of trees and shrubs had begun to blossom and I could smell the early sweetness of bayberry bushes. Their scent feels historic. The skies were clear and the sun warmed my shoulders.

  Then, all of a sudden Rufus stopped cold and scurried behind my legs, almost tripping me in his haste. A half a block away, turning the corner, and coming toward us was a roan-colored horse, his rider in Revolutionary-era garb. As they came closer, Rufus pulled away further, and found himself at the farthest limit of his retractable leash. Rather than risk his slipping out of his collar, I went toward the side of the street and bent down to the frightened dog, putting my arm around him, and held him as best I could.

  “It’s a horse,” I whispered to him. “I bet it’s a real friendly horse too.”

  Rufus would have none of it and tried to claw his way out of my grasp. I held tighter and the horse and rider slowly walked past us. Rufus’s eyes were wide in fear and his heart thumped, almost audibly to the unaided ear.

  “He won’t hurt you. He won’t step on you. I promise.”

  He eyed the animal as it made its way down the street and turned a far corner.

  I hadn’t expected encountering any horses today, but since this was a historical site, I suppose I should have expected it.

  We walked around for another thirty minutes or so, Rufus never more than a foot or two away from my legs. His closeness made walking difficult, and nearly dangerous.

  I enjoyed what I saw in Williamsburg. But when something is not shared, it is never as poignant, or as meaningful, or as beautiful as it might have been if it were shared with someone.

  I gathered Rufus, still apparently nervous and concerned about the possible reappearance of the big animal, and got him into his crate in the car. He did settle down somewhat, protected in a familiar environment.

  I headed south and east, and plotted the route so I would come into Virginia Beach from the north side. There were some bridges to cross to get there. I did not like long bridges. I never have. Consider it an unnatural fear. I suspect I was afraid of twisting the wheel of the car and launching myself into space. Unnatural, I know. But the fear lay there, hiding deep in my subconscious.

  I managed to find the route through the city that roughly ran past the ocean. I tried to rouse Rufus to look at the water, but he didn’t want to stand up as I drove. Maybe it made him feel unsettled as well. Virginia Beach is probably a lovely city, but I wasn’t sure where I was going, and between the ocean and me was a wall of condos that only let me see the ocean in short gaps as I drove. On the other side of the street were restaurants, stores, and jungle mini-golf places with volcanoes and wrecked pirate ships with Jolly Roger flags fluttering in the afternoon spring breeze.

  This isn’t what I wanted. Not at all.

  At a red light, I stopped to turn around and look at Rufus. His head was resting on his front paws, and his eyebrows went up as I turned. I tried to read his eyes—always a difficult task. I thought I saw discomfort, or some sense of impending doom. He looked like he did whenever I had to take him to the veterinarian or groomer: scared, resigned, dark, and morose.

  I didn’t want to see him this way.

  A horn behind me sounded. The light had turned green. I drove farther down the street, hoping that as I left the city behind, I would find something that resembled home.

  I didn’t.

  We made it as far as the south end of the city, several miles from the main drag of hotels and condos. I saw a Holiday Inn on the other side of the street—meaning it would cost a lot less than if it were really on the ocean. Still only early afternoon, I felt more tired than I had been in months and months. I didn’t ask, as I checked in, if the place considered itself pet-friendly or not. Rufus would be a quiet guest, quieter and cleaner than many human guests. I asked for a room away from the street on the first floor. When it’s not summer at the ocean, hotel guests can be more selective.

  I carried Rufus into the room, dragged my suitcase in, pulled the decorative bed cover off the bed, and lay down, feeling most exhausted. Rufus clambered up onto the bed and lay down beside me, his head on one of the pillows. He didn’t look all that comfortable that way; maybe he simply mimicked what I did every night.

  When I woke up, the sun had been down for a long time. I looked out and the darkness had descended. I hurried outside, retrieved my box of coffee-making supplies, and made a large mug of very hot coffee, with three spoonfuls of powdered creamer. I sat in the lone upholstered chair and sipped. Rufus sat close by me, closer than he ever did when we were back home—the home I no longer had or could ever go back to.

  I had imagined all those validation points, hadn’t I? None of them were really validating my stupid choices right now.

  I had three pack
ets of cheese crackers “Made with Real Cheddar Cheese.” (How much real cheddar cheese could there be in these tiny snacks?) I ate those, sharing them with Rufus, who didn’t seem to like them any more than I did.

  I was so tired already. Tired of traveling. I felt sure I had made a mistake, but did not know what to do to rectify it. Do I simply go home and look for an apartment for me and Rufus? But what of my . . . our plans to find a warm place to live? Do I turn my back on that?

  I gathered up the leash and Rufus and I walked down the well-lit sidewalk that ran along the street. A cluster of lights glowed farther south. Maybe there would be a soft-serve ice-cream stand there. I felt a desire for a chocolate cone dipped in chocolate topping.

  “What was that big thing? This morning. The big thing that scared me.”

  “That’s called a horse, Rufus. I told you that already. Before people had cars, they rode horses everywhere.”

  “Do horses live at the ocean?”

  “Some do, I guess. But no more than anywhere else.”

  “There weren’t any horses at home. I never saw a horse there.”

  “I am sure there were horses in barns nearby—we just never went to any of them.”

  “If there are horses at the ocean, I’m not sure I want to live there,” he said, more firmly than usual. “I don’t like horses at all. They smell funny. And they could step on me.”

  “They wouldn’t step on you. I promise.”

  “I don’t like them.”

  We walked on another block. The lights grew brighter. I think it was a 7-Eleven and a gas station. Maybe I could get a Slurpee instead of a cone. I wanted something bad for me, something unnourishing. I wanted . . . I don’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted at all.

  Rufus stopped and sat down.

  “I want to go home,” he said.

  I could have asked him if he meant home as in Illinois, or back to the hotel, or back in the car and his crate. I didn’t want to ask him. I didn’t want to know what he meant, even though I was pretty sure he meant home in Illinois. I hope he knew that we couldn’t go back to that life. That life did not exist anymore. We needed to find a new life.

  “Did you ask God about this?” I asked Rufus. “About wanting to go home?”

  Rufus remained sitting.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No.”

  “Why? I thought you talked to God a lot.”

  “I do.”

  “Then are you going to ask him?”

  “No.”

  “Rufus,” I said with a note of exasperation in my voice, “Why not?”

  “I don’t like horses. Not at all. You said that some of them live at the ocean. I don’t want to go there, then. You never told me about horses before. Trusting has nothing to do with horses. Nothing at all.”

  I bent down to him. Both his sitting and talking and my bending close to him were unusual. We always talked as we walked. Neither of us made a fuss about the process.

  “Rufus, there are a lot of big animals out there. Cows, for one. They’re almost as big as horses.”

  “Do cows live at the ocean?” He looked over his shoulder, toward the ocean, toward the muted sound of the waves.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe somewhere, but not around here.”

  “I don’t want to be here. I want things the way they used to be. I want my bed down by the kitchen. We don’t even have a kitchen anymore. Nothing is like it was. I don’t like that. And now, you tell me about horses and cows. I don’t like surprises like that.”

  I stood back up. Talking to Rufus at close range felt abnormal.

  “I’m sorry, Rufus, but we can’t go back to the way things were. We can’t go back to the old house. A new family lives there now. We have to find a new place, with a new kitchen and a great place to put your bed—where maybe you could lay in the sun during the day.”

  “What about the horses?”

  I sighed. Rufus made me sigh often. How do you calm the heart of a dog—an intelligent dog—but one that just can’t grasp enigmatic complexities of the world, like horses and cows and the threat of being stepped on.

  “Rufus,” I said in my best parental voice. “We have to keep moving. Maybe we’ll find the right place tomorrow. Wherever it is, there will not be any horses around. I promise you that. But we can’t go back. We have to go forward. We have to give up what we can’t have anymore. I think you can understand that. You said we have to trust God. Right? You said that.”

  Rufus stared at his front paws.

  “I guess. Maybe. But I don’t like this change. I liked the way things were. Except for the cold. And the snow. And getting run over by cars. Other than that, I liked it. And there were no horses there at all. None at all.”

  This time I bent to him, not to hear him, but to hug him tight to me.

  We were both lost and alone and dislocated and we wanted what we had before and would never, ever get back.

  “God did say to trust him,” Rufus added, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “I don’t know what that means exactly. But I think he will show us what he wants us to do. Right? He does that sort of thing, right?”

  “He does, Rufus. I’m pretty sure he does.”

  I was too tired to tell Rufus that I am still not on speaking terms with the Almighty. Once you stop talking, starting up a conversation is all that much harder. Silence begins to solidify, like concrete. Once it is set, it is terribly difficult to break up. But Rufus talks with him. God will protect Rufus, right? And if Rufus is safe, doesn’t a little of that spill over onto me? I think it might. I hope it does. I guess we’ll see . . .

  I stood up, and then we walked back to the Holiday Inn, both of us quiet. I felt better. I felt tired, but I felt better.

  Just before we got to the hotel parking lot, I said to Rufus, “Tomorrow will be a better day. And there won’t be any horses at all. I promise.”

  It was a promise that I hoped I would be able to keep.

  15

  I had to drive back west, toward Norfolk, to go south again, into North Carolina. A very thin, red line ran down the sliver of land—the Barrier Islands. At the end of a very long stretch of land, a dotted line crossed a blue expanse of Pamlico Sound. It indicated a ferry, and I checked with the desk clerk at the Holiday Inn and asked if that ferry ran all year. He assured me it did. It had better. If it didn’t, it would mean a long ride back north, to get to a bridge that crossed the sound as it narrowed, close to land.

  I guess it really didn’t matter. I had nowhere I had to be. But I sure hoped that the ferry was operating.

  I wonder how Rufus would take to a ferry voyage—even a short one. Would he treat it as an unwelcome surprise—like horses?

  Using my handy road atlas, I found my way to the two-lane road that ran down the center of the barrier islands. I passed Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head and the site of man’s first powered air flight. I drove past lots of small towns with homes that I knew, without stopping or asking, were so far out of my price range—multistory places with lots of glass and cedar siding and swimming pools and a great expanse of seashore and palmetto grass and endless views. I suppose if I was rich, I might have stopped and looked at some of the places that featured FOR SALE signs, gently clapping into the strong Atlantic breeze.

  But I wasn’t rich. Not even close.

  I drove through the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. My stomach reminded me of the time—lunchtime—but there were no McDonald’s along the pristine seashore. Nor had I expected any. I arrived in Ocracoke and found the ferry.

  It did operate, and the last ferry of the day would be departing in less than a half hour. The ferry, the brochure claimed, would hold fifty-three cars. Upon departure, there were twelve autos and one small truck on board. The very nice young man who took my ticket said I could take the dog out on deck, as long as he remained on a leash.

  I decided to let Rufus decide.

  “Rufus, we’re on a boat th
at will take us across the sound, which is sort of like the ocean, but not quite as wavy or bumpy. You can walk around with me out on the deck if you want. I’ll open up your crate. If you want to come out for a walk and look at the ocean, come out. If not, you can stay in your crate.”

  He looked at me, then peered out the side window. He looked at me again.

  “It’s very safe. No horses. No cows, either. And all the cars are stopped.”

  Gingerly, he stepped out of the crate. I snapped the leash on him and led him from the car. The ferry started with a loud whooshing sound, as the propellers bit into the water. Rufus snugged himself against my leg, but did not try to retreat to the car. He tried his best to be brave, I guess.

  I led him up the steps to the top deck and an open deck space, with a scattering of benches that looked forward, facing the wind and the sun. The ferry rolled and swayed a bit, even though the waters of the sound were calm—at least to my non-nautical eyes.

  “Rufus, the boat will bounce a little bit. The water is not as smooth as a road. But it is nothing to be afraid of.”

  We walked a little closer to the rail, Rufus sniffing loudly.

  “That’s salt water you smell. And maybe some fish.”

  He snorted once, then again, then he sat down, facing the wind, his ears slightly back, half-flapping in the breeze. I could plainly see he enjoyed it. At least that is what it looked like to me. His eyes were half-closed as well, as if he were deliberately sunning himself.

  You could see where we were heading: a small green thickness of land some miles to the south. From there we would continue south, past Morehead City and on to Wilmington. From there we would travel on to Myrtle Beach. I knew people who disparaged Myrtle Beach as the “Redneck Riviera,” but perhaps there was a patch there of cute little houses, and a home waiting for us.