The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

Perhaps. That would be validation . . . right?

  I am not a gypsy. I don’t like traveling. I just decided that I don’t like this at all. I’ve been in three hotel rooms . . . and I don’t like it.

  So if I find a place . . . how will I know that I found the right place? How will I be able to tell?

  I pulled my sweater a little tighter. A sliver of crispness in the air kept everything fresh and clean smelling.

  Maybe there’ll be some sort of sign.

  Rufus snorted again.

  Yeah, that’s what I figured too.

  We made it across the sound. Rufus appeared to enjoy the ferry ride. I know I did. We got into the car and drove on, now into the early afternoon. We had skipped lunch today. Well, I had skipped lunch. At home—which doesn’t exist anymore, I know, I know—Rufus had food available to him all day. He would nibble on it now and again. But I needed more definitive and better-timed feedings than that. I wanted food. Rufus had already eaten a few bites from his bowl of kibble in the car.

  After a short distance, I noticed a sign that read WELCOME TO ATLANTIC BEACH. (Weren’t all the beaches I had been seeing Atlantic beaches?) Under that was listed a population count of just over 1,800. I liked the sound of that. Pretty small for a town, but the idea just appealed to me. I pulled over for just a moment to check my map. A larger city lay across the sound—Morehead City—connected by a long bridge. That meant a place for grocery stores and merchandise all well within reach.

  Hmm . . .

  I drove slowly. There would not be a lot of impatient beach traffic this early in the year. No wall of condos faced the ocean. Just homes. Some duplexes, I think. The tallest building I saw could only have been two stories high—three if you counted the parking area underneath—since most of the homes were up on pilings or stilts or whatever they were called. Spider leg construction. To be honest here, I felt certain that I could not afford oceanfront regardless of the number of stories . . . but a street or two back from the water? Maybe. The houses were smaller, more modest—some obviously rental units, some looking lived in, with current residents.

  Hmm.

  Okay, this was the first possibility I had encountered so far on my trip. I know I was anxious to find a place I could label as a “possibility.” I turned down a street a block off the ocean, a street of modest homes—some on stilts, some not, some cottages, some more substantial places. And a few with FOR SALE signs in front as well.

  But my stomach growled again. That always proved to be a very bad influence on my decision-making abilities. Never go grocery shopping when you’re hungry, right? I never did shopping of any type hungry. I would buy things just to get out of the store so I would be able to go elsewhere and find food.

  A few blocks further on, I saw a sign for the Shark Shack. There were picnic tables out front—a restaurant perfectly suited for a dog if I’ve ever seen one.

  I sat at an outside picnic table, under an umbrella, and ordered the grouper bites and the shrimp. Rufus sat on the ground beside me, sniffing and squinting in the sunlight. For April, it was nearing t-shirt warmth. I liked that. A lot. Rufus liked the grouper bites. I know—I’m a bad pet owner. But he was hungry. And I am sure he had never tasted grouper before.

  The waitress—Cindi, her name tag said—came out and asked if I wanted anything else.

  “Coffee, please, with cream and sugar.”

  “What about the dog?” she asked and smiled.

  “I think he’s had enough for today. And he doesn’t drink coffee.”

  She returned with a large, thick mug.

  “Do you live around here?” I asked. I seldom engaged in conversation with strangers. But here, well, I played the role of the stranger.

  “I do. Well, across the bridge. Over in Morehead City.”

  “Is it a nice place to live?” I asked. Then I added, “I’m thinking of moving . . . well, I am moving . . . and wondered about what this place is like.”

  I didn’t want to appear like a stalker or anything weird. I wanted to sound normal.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s okay. I’ve only lived here for five years. My husband is a drill instructor at Camp Lejeune. You know—the marine base.”

  I had heard of it, but I didn’t really know where it was—until now.

  “You don’t live on the base?”

  “No. Base housing is pretty awful. We rent out a condo over there. That’s why I’m working here. Help pay the bills and all. But this is a nice place to work. I’m outside a lot. Get a good tan in the summer. People are nice. It’s pretty much okay. For now.”

  I smiled back. Not a ringing endorsement, but she didn’t say it was terrible either.

  “What about hurricanes?”

  She put her hand on her hip. “Well, the way I figure it is that every place has something terrible about it. We lived in Kansas when we were first married. Really hot. And flat. With a regular sprinkling of spring tornadoes. My sister lives in New York City. There you have . . . well, New York City to deal with. Rude people—or maybe they’re all just in a hurry. And it’s really, really crowded. Here . . . I guess we get hurricanes every now and then, but doesn’t every place get something? And if it doesn’t, it’s either too expensive or there’s too many stuck-up people that live there. Everyone around here is pretty normal, you know. Some pickup trucks and all that. But otherwise normal. I like normal people. So, I guess this place is pretty much okay.”

  I thanked her, sipped at my coffee, and stared out at the street. Not much traffic in April. I am pretty sure that during the summer it would get really jammed. But then again, there weren’t any huge resorts for people to come to. Even if all the houses filled up, it wouldn’t be that bad.

  Hmm.

  Validation? Sort of. Maybe a little.

  I drove down the road a bit further south. Rufus fell asleep. I passed another Holiday Inn—this one on the beach. I stopped, reserved a room, and then continued my drive. I doubled back and drove down the side streets. Atlantic Beach was not more than five or six blocks wide and a few miles long, with the standard beach resort apparel and accessory stores along the way. I need to ask someone just how many bamboo beach mats could one place possibly sell?

  It was late afternoon by now. I went back to the Holiday Inn, and Rufus and I settled into our room. Standing on the balcony of our third-floor room, I could see the ocean. When I left the sliding glass door open, I could hear the ocean. I liked that. The beach wasn’t a mile wide, but neither was it a narrow strip of sand. Fifty yards across? I’m no good at distances like that. But the distance was comfortable. With sort of a sand dune-like area, spotted with shrubs and sea grass, dividing the beach from the houses, I’d call the view pretty. Not Hawaii pretty, but . . . well, I liked the view. Very pretty. The beach, flat and level, would be good for walking. Some beaches have an extreme slope to them, so you need to have one short leg and one long leg to walk comfortably—but that would only be good in one direction.

  I lay down on the bed. Rufus jumped up and snorted around, moving the pillows with his snout. He does that a lot. It’s not like dogs had pillows way back when; his behavior is just instinctual—like he was moving grass around with his nose and wallowing out a place to lie down. After a moment or two, he felt settled and flopped sideways on the bed. He stared at me, looking like he wanted to talk. He didn’t. I surmised what his conversation might be: he wanted to know if we would live here and that he had grown tired of traveling already, and do any horses live here.

  I knew the answer to one of his questions—the horse question. And I had grown very tired of traveling too.

  When I began planning for this trip, when I made the decision to uproot Rufus and me from everything we had known and loved, I thought it would be easy. I thought it would be fun. I thought that I would spend a month or two or three exploring all the small seaside towns between here and Florida. I thought it would be enjoyable. I thought I would be okay with traveling—like that guy on the public broadcasting channel who i
s always traveling all over Europe. He seems to enjoy it. I thought I would too. But I didn’t. Not at all. And what made it more uncomfortable is that I thought that this is probably what Jacob would have wanted me to do—after he was gone, that is.

  Now, less than a week into it, I wanted it to stop. I am sure Rufus wanted it to stop.

  What could I have been thinking? Did I really think that I would be magically shown where I was supposed to settle? Did I think that God would have neon signs pointing out MARY’S NEW HOUSE? Did I really think that life worked that way? And I sort of expected, at least a little bit, that the Almighty would swoop in like a superhero and point me to my new Eden. After all, isn’t he in the business of protecting Rufus? If Rufus had protection, wouldn’t that mean that I would be protected by default? I can’t believe how stupid all this now sounded. I can’t believe I had listened to a dog. How could he really help me now? And what alternative do I have, now that I started in on this journey?

  I switched on the power on my cell phone and dialed.

  Ava picked up on the third ring.

  “How are you? Where are you? I miss you so much.”

  I explained where I had landed for the day. I told her about Rufus and the colonial horse.

  “That is just so adorable. It really is. Poor Rufus. You should have been filming it. Doesn’t your camera have a video record option?”

  As if I knew. And if I had known, as if I also would have figured out how to use it.

  And then I told her of our drive down the barrier islands and our ferry ride.

  “I am so jealous. It snowed here last night. In April. Snow. Can you believe it? I can’t stand it here any longer. Find a place quickly, so I can visit. Some place where college boys go to for their spring break, okay? I could come down for spring break. We could have a really good time, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew what she meant.

  “Spring break is over, Ava, isn’t it? I think it’s already happened this year.”

  “Well, then find a place with a college nearby. That will ensure a beach filled with potential.”

  “I don’t think there is a big college anywhere near Atlantic Beach.”

  “I bet there is a branch of some big school nearby. That’ll be good enough for now. When can I come?”

  I took a deep breath. I tried not to sigh.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked. Ava knew me well.

  “I don’t know. I’m tired of traveling.”

  “Already? It’s only been a few days.”

  “I know. I’m not a gypsy, I guess. I want to be somewhere already.”

  Ava did not answer.

  “I shouldn’t have done this.”

  No response.

  “Maybe . . .”

  No response.

  I had to pose the question. I had to have her take on my situation, on what I felt “Maybe I should come home. Back to Wheaton.”

  No response.

  “It would be the sane thing to do . . . right? Back to my friends.”

  No response.

  “Ava, are you there? Can you hear me now?”

  I heard the sigh. I think she practiced at sounding exasperated—perhaps more perturbed than exasperated.

  “Listen, Mary. I gave you a going-away party three weeks ago. You don’t get a welcome home party until you’ve been gone . . . I don’t know . . . two years. You’re not coming home.”

  “Why not? If I made a mistake.”

  “You didn’t make a mistake. You’re just scared. And maybe a little lonely. Maybe that’s a good thing. To be lonely for a while. By yourself lonely. Without friends to supply you with the drug of sympathy. Sympathy is the most addicting drug there is. You need to be away from that. And you’ve never been on your own.”

  I wanted to shout at Ava to shut up. But I didn’t, because I was too nice. And, in that moment, I sort of realized that she might have been telling the truth. I had been alone—but not by myself. Maybe I needed to be alone. And by myself.

  I did like sympathy as well. How did she know that?

  “So, is this Atlantic Beach a nice place?” Ava asked, changing the subject, having given me all the advice she had to give.

  “I guess,” I said. A little tacky in spots, but mostly nice.”

  “Hey, every place by the ocean is a little tacky. Unless you move to Hawaii—and you can’t afford to move to Hawaii. I am right, aren’t I? You can’t afford a place on Wakawakawaka Beach, right?”

  “Yes. I can’t afford Hawaii. But I think I could live here. I think. I picked up one of those free real estate catalogs at the Shark Shack.”

  “Shark Shack?”

  “A restaurant that I had lunch at. Fish bites. They were good.”

  “See, what did I tell you? Every place by the beach is a little tacky.”

  I scowled at Ava and ignored her snideness.

  “If I buy a few blocks off the beach—then I can afford it. A small house. It would cost a lot less than what my house in Wheaton cost.”

  “Are there places to eat there—besides the Shark Shack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a Walmart nearby?”

  “Yes. I saw the sign for it on the highway. Three miles, it said.”

  “What’s the beach like?”

  I described it to her.

  “Then buy a place there already.”

  I swallowed.

  “Really? Here? Just like that?”

  “Mary, you picked up and moved. You were my best friend. Still are, I think. But I knew you had to go. It was time. You need to start a new life. I don’t think you could do that here. Too many people thinking that they had you figured out. Thinking that they knew what you needed. Thinking that you had to fit into some sort of preconceived idea of a person—like go back to church and marry a deacon.”

  “Elder.”

  “What?”

  “They are called elders at the church. The church I went to.”

  “Former church, then. And I don’t care what you call them. It wasn’t who you were. Trust me.”

  “Then who am I?”

  “I don’t know. But you don’t know either. I love you like a sister.” She laughed. “I take that back. I have a sister and we don’t get along at all. But I love and care about you, Mary. You need to do this. You do. Forge a new life. You have to trust me. Atlantic Beach sounds like a good place to do that. If you look up and down the coast, looking for a more perfect place, you will never settle down. Make a choice, Mary. Make a choice and live with it. Your new life will find you there. In Atlantic Beach. It will find you.”

  Is that validation? I couldn’t tell anymore.

  “Okay. I’ll look around some. But if I don’t find the right place . . .”

  “You’ll find the right place. A little cottage with a picket fence and a screened porch, and when the wind is right you’ll be able to hear the ocean. Trust me, Mary. You have to do this—even if you don’t want to.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. And call me tomorrow. The good Toe Doctor is due here in five minutes and I’m not dressed—which he would like, but not tonight.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Trust me, Mary. Things will look better in the morning.”

  I hung up and listened to the ocean.

  What’s up with all the “trust me” stuff. Is that some sort of sign?

  That night, I drove down to Mosquito Amos’s for take-out ribs and chicken. I got the ribs, which I brought back to the hotel. Rufus danced about once he got a sniff of the meat—the puppy-food dance, I called it. The ribs were excellent—huge and juicy, with amazing barbeque sauce. The coleslaw just sweet enough, and the baked potato was as large as Rufus’s head. Everything tasted great.

  Maybe this is a good place.

  I gave Rufus two rib bones. He thought they were delicious, too.

  After darkness had settled in, and after I washed the barbeque sauce from my fingers and hands, I snapped
on Rufus’s leash and headed to the ocean. A small wooden walkway led over the sand dune, through a thicket of brush and sea grass and down onto the beach. The moon was full, and the beach as well lit as any of our walking paths back in Wheaton. The heady salt air washed over us as we climbed down the steps and onto the sand. The wind had gone soft now, the waves a gentle lapping at the shore. Rufus stopped at the edge of the beach and looked out over the water, a million stars reflected in its calm surface, like diamonds dancing on slow-moving Jell-O. (Yes, I used to be a writer. Slow-moving Jell-O? Please.) The moon hung at my shoulder, nearly full, gibbous, offering enough light to read a book—if the type was large enough, that is.

  He looked down at the ground.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Sand. It’s what beaches are made of.”

  He took a few tentative steps.

  “It feels funny on my paws. Like warm snow.”

  We walked north along the beach. A trio of pelicans came by, flapping more noisily than I thought they would be.

  Rufus stopped and stared.

  “What are those?”

  “Pelicans. They eat fish.”

  “Not dogs?”

  “Not dogs. Just fish. They scoop them up from the water in their beaks.”

  He turned to watch them fly on, courting the edge of the sea and shore, glistening in the moonlight.

  “I don’t like them,” he said with finality.

  I walked us closer to the water’s edge. We stood, just beyond the farthest reach of the waves.

  “Does it always do that?” Rufus asked. “The water at home never did this.”

  He meant the pond behind our house.

  “They’re called waves. I think it has something to do with the moon and the wind.”

  Rufus looked up at the moon, and then back at me, as if I was toying with him, trying to make him feel stupid or foolish.

  “But I’m not sure,” I added. “Sometimes the waves are bigger. Sometimes smaller.”

  Rufus took one step forward. At home, or, rather, back in Wheaton, he avoided puddles. Some dogs seemed oblivious to casual water. Not Rufus. He didn’t like it. He let the wave roll in and wash over the edge of his front paws.