The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

  “The water is warm.”

  “Because of the Gulf Stream, I think,” I said, then realized that it would be too much of an explanation for a dog.

  He bent down and nosed at the water. I guess he stuck his tongue out.

  He snorted.

  “This tastes like those pretzels you tried to feed me once. I didn’t like those pretzels at all.”

  “That’s okay, Rufus. You don’t have to drink this water. You shouldn’t drink it. There is salt in it.”

  “Why?”

  I hesitated. I might have known that once, in eleventh grade Earth and Space Science class taught by Mr. Riggens, who had just graduated from Indiana University of Pennsylvania. He was . . . Mr. Riggens, that is . . . how shall I put this politely? He was a pompous jerk.

  “I . . . I don’t know why there is salt in there, exactly. But it is salty. Most of the water on the earth is salty.”

  We continued our walk, at the water’s edge, where the sand felt firm and the walking became easy.

  Twenty minutes later, and perhaps a mile from the hotel, I stopped.

  “Time to turn around and go back.”

  Rufus looked up at me. At home . . . back in Wheaton, I mean . . . I guess we never turned around. We always walked in a long, loopy circle, bordered by blocks and streets. We never just stopped and reversed our course. I wondered if I had to explain this as well, but Rufus only slowed a minute when he turned, then continued walking.

  “I like it here,” he said. “It smells good.”

  “I like it here too,” I replied.

  “Are we going to live here?”

  “Well, not at the hotel.”

  “I know that,” Rufus said. Even he had the exasperated tone down. “I mean . . . here.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It is warm. And we are by the ocean.”

  “I like the ocean.”

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder, a furtive glance.

  “There aren’t any horses here, are there?”

  “I am almost positive there are no horses on the beach.”

  He snorted again.

  “I like the beach too,” he said. “We could live here.”

  Maybe I should pray about this. I hadn’t prayed about it. That was not unusual. I hadn’t prayed about anything for so long. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to start praying now. That would feel disingenuous and hypocritical—like I would call on God only when I found myself in trouble or confused or both. He and I weren’t talking and I felt pretty certain that that silence was fine with both of us.

  But not so much with Rufus. God and Rufus still talked. If you could believe Rufus, that is. I had a sudden rush that Rufus might merely be making a pretense of his piety and spirituality. But then again, he was a talking dog. No, that had to be something special, something out of the ordinary, something ordained . . . or something like that.

  “Did God say anything about this place? Did you ask him if this would be a place that we could live in?”

  Rufus bent to sniff a large clamshell, wedged into the wet sand.

  “That’s an empty clamshell, Rufus. Or oyster. Of some sort of shelled animal.”

  Rufus sniffed again and looked out over the darkening expanse of ocean.

  “I did ask God, actually. I didn’t think I would, or should, I guess. But I did.”

  I waited. I don’t think Rufus knew the power of a long, pregnant pause. But this pause proved most effective.

  “And?”

  “Well, he said it was a nice place. He said there are nice people here. And he said something about being victorious. Something like that.”

  “Victorious? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But I am sure that God likes the ocean. He made it warm and salty and beautiful. I like that. I think we should live here. He said we need to trust him again.”

  “Does that mean I need to trust you who is trusting him who said to live here?”

  Goodness. I do sound delusional, don’t I? But you know what I mean.

  Rufus hesitated, then snorted.

  “I guess. If that means we should live here, then yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. As long as there are no horses.”

  “They don’t allow horses on this beach, Rufus,” I said. I had looked it up on my phone earlier. “And no ATVs either.”

  Rufus snorted in affirmation.

  Victorious? Validation?

  16

  The next morning, after our early stroll on the beach, both of us enjoying it even more than the previous evening’s stroll, we came back to the hotel room. I took a shower and at 9:00 a.m., I called a local realtor, Janet Stout, from “The Star Team.” Janet might have been the senior member on the team. She had silver hair in a very sophisticated, upswirl flip, and looked every bit like a woman who stepped out of Southern Living magazine—at least as much as I could tell from her one-inch-square photo on the back of the free real estate listing catalog.

  When you are absolutely new in town, how do you start? I took a chance on a postage-stamp photo. Seemed like a plan to me.

  Janet’s accent dripped southern honey—the accent that northern people make fun of—but on the phone, it sounded natural and welcoming, and sounded just perfect.

  I took that as a sign.

  I told her I wanted to buy a house . . . today.

  Music to a Realtor’s ears, I would imagine. A symphony would be more like it.

  She had several properties in Atlantic Beach that could work for me, she said, and all in my price range. She would meet me at Robin Avenue, just a block off the beach. She gave me directions. It lay no more than five minutes from the Holiday Inn.

  Janet drove up in a black Lexus, I think. I’m not that good with car makes. She must sell enough houses to keep her in nice cars. And she wore a very stylish outfit, out of Town & Country. A Peck and Peck woman. Is Peck and Peck—or would that be, are Peck and Peck—still in business? They sell stylish, expensive outfits, from what I recall. I had never read a copy of Town & Country either, but her outfit is what I imagined them featuring. Fine, aristocratic women on a fox hunt. Or planning the charity ball at the country club, sipping frosty mint juleps. She extended a hand and the warmest of welcomes. Her entire face turned into a smile, her eyes almost vanishing when she did.

  “And what a darling dog,” she exclaimed, bending to Rufus. He turned his head, just a little, and sniffed, then allowed her to pet his head, which she did enthusiastically (for a well-dressed woman) for a long moment. “My lands, he is such a gentleman. A real sweetheart, he is. Terriers aren’t known for their sweet dispositions, now are they? He is a sweetie.”

  She stood back up, straightened her blouse, and grew taller somehow, then grandly gestured with her left arm. “This is it.”

  I loved her accent. I wished my mother had had that accent. No, I wished I had that accent.

  “It’s been a rental unit for two years,” she said. “The couple who own it moved to a condo over in the city and . . . well, the husband passed on last winter and she wants to sell both properties and move to California. She has a daughter there.”

  The address had a Cape Cod cottage located square in the middle of the lot. I think it’s Cape Cod. I’m not an expert on architectural styles. The Amish had simple homes—no ornamentation, no frills. Their houses were easy to write about. Amish styles . . . well, they didn’t have any. I mean, none that changed over time. They had bonnets and long dresses and I had their fashions down pat. But—back to the task at hand—the house on Robin, a small Cape Cod, faced east, with two dormer windows, a screened porch, green shutters on the windows that looked like they really closed, and a picket fence around the yard. The house and fence were mostly white, but faded white, and chipped. It all needed painting—but I knew that painting was a comparatively cheap fix. (I watch home improvement shows on TV. A can of paint and voilà!—a new look.) From the front of the house, you could actually see the ocean peek
ing through between the oceanfront properties. Perfect.

  We walked up a half-dozen steps to the screen door. It squealed a welcome as the Realtor shoved it open.

  “The listing sheet says that the roof is four years old, and the mechanicals, furnace and air conditioning, are five years old. That’s good.” She looked around. “You’ll have to paint, for sure, and repair the screens, of course. I’m not sure if I remember what it needs on the inside. TLC for sure. Maybe it’s the bathrooms that need gutting. I think that is it. But that’s not too bad.”

  We entered the front room.

  “A bit musty. I don’t think anyone has been in here since the fall, other than the rental company’s caretaker. I called him before I came. Just to make sure that the place was in showing condition. No raccoons taking up residence without paying rent,” she said, enjoying herself.

  The front room ran the width of the house, and appeared more than spacious with lots of large-paned windows and hardwood floors. One side featured two mismatched sofas; a few end tables; a coffee table; and a huge, old, analog television set. On the other side, was a dining room table and chairs. I liked the openness of the space.

  Janet sniffed, but not an entirely dismissive sniff. My mother could dismiss an entire year’s worth of writing with a well-timed and well-toned haughty sniff.

  “Not horrible. You could do something with it.”

  She assumed that I had a sense of style. Sheer flattery—and it worked so very well.

  Rufus walked at my side. He sniffed discreetly, perhaps to spare me any anxiety.

  The rest of the first floor consisted of a kitchen—smallish, but quite serviceable and in need of new counters, new cabinet doors, and appliances; a nice-sized bathroom, which did need gutting—ancient tile and fixtures, clean as a whistle, but not “good” old, not good retro old, just plain old and ugly; and a master bedroom, a large airy room big enough for a king-size bed, dresser, and sitting area.

  “There’s hardwood floors under this old carpeting,” Janet said.

  The upstairs was one large room, with wide, pine planked flooring, that had eight single beds lined up in it, and a second bathroom.

  “Snow White could have lived here,” Janet said, laughing as southern ladies are reputed do, with a sense of decorum and grace. I loved this woman already.

  I lifted windows, tested doors, flushed toilets, turned on the water, switched on the gas range, flipped light switches, stood in the kitchen and tried to imagine if my cooking style would adapt to the new layout.

  “Does it flood? Has it ever flooded? Like during storms. Or hurricanes?” I asked and tried to sound neutral. Rufus looked up at me when I said the word hurricane. His eyes showed a new level of concern. We both watch the Weather Channel. He knew what hurricanes were. Darn that all-knowing Jim Cantore. Now, besides horses, Rufus would have to contend with the threat of hurricanes. “That you’re aware of, I mean.”

  “Sweetie, if a hurricane hits here, everyone floods. You just pay your flood insurance every year. Get good insurance. I can help you get the right coverage. You live near the ocean, you have to live with what the ocean brings you. But you can be victorious over Mother Nature, if you’ve a mind to, and if you plan ahead.”

  Victorious?

  “I’ve lived here my whole life. We’ve had a few hurricanes over the years. Topsail Beach down the way gets washed away because they built it on a sand dune. Atlantic Beach has always held its own. They built it on higher ground. On the ocean, a few feet makes all the difference. But here is what you have to do: you listen to the radio. If they send out a warning, you pack up your sweet dog, make certain that your insurance policy is paid up, and drive to Raleigh to wait it out. Do some shopping while you wait. Get a manicure. Go to a spa. That’s what I do.”

  That’s the most sensible response to a hurricane evacuation that I had ever heard. Even the good dog Rufus seemed to be assuaged by her answer.

  “Now, let me show you the yard.”

  The house sat on a quarter-acre lot, which Janet said was large for this size house. The grass, such as it was, was flat sea grass, she called it, and didn’t need mowing much.

  “You can get a service to do that for you.”

  The fence ran the perimeter of the property. It was bigger than my lot back in Wheaton.

  “Of course, the fence needs to be repaired. Or taken down—your preference. A thousand dollars should be enough to get it fixed. Add some painting costs, of course. Fifteen hundred. Two thousand, tops.”

  Labor must be less expensive in the south.

  We had made our way back to her car. I looked at the house from there. I could imagine myself on a porch swing, on the screened porch, with an iced tea in my hand, listening to the surf. I could just hear it, if I listened. And there were patches of blue water visible from the porch. The sun would be behind me in the evening—no squinting. A sidewalk ran the length of the block. I could see people strolling by, offering a genteel wave, perhaps. Rufus could keep guard from there. We could take our walks under the glow of streetlights, walk to the ocean, only a block away, stand in the breeze and put the day to rest—or greet the dawn.

  It felt right. I looked at Rufus. He offered his best, and most practiced, serene, untroubled look, as if he foresaw no problems or concerns with my decision.

  “What about the neighbors?”

  She nodded. “The houses on either side are owner-occupied. They’re full-time residents here. Maybe half the homes on this street are full-timers. That’s good for home values. There are a few summer homes, used all summer and some weekends the rest of the year. And a few rentals. Nothing too rowdy. Families. No swarms of boisterous college boys from Duke, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”

  “A little.”

  I wondered what the right decision would feel like. In the past, I had a husband to ask. In the past, I had prayers to offer. I could wait, back then, for divine revelation, divine reassurance. I didn’t have those options now. Neither of them. Rufus may have. Perhaps that’s why he appeared serene. I could take a chance on my own human free will. Rufus said I had free will, right? Rufus said God wasn’t all that concerned with my housing situation. Something like that.

  “Is the price a fair one?” I asked.

  A serious look came over Janet, a member of The Star Team. She pursed her lips and leaned closer to me, conspiratorially.

  “I would offer 10 percent under the asking price. Maybe even 15 percent. Trust me. The market is slow here. I think she would take it.”

  I waited a moment, waited to feel something. Trust? Victory? I don’t know anymore. Trusting in a dog to help guide me on my odd pilgrimage?

  “Okay. Let’s write up a contract. How soon could we close? I’m staying at the Holiday Inn and let’s just say that the charm is wearing off quickly.”

  We met later at a Starbucks on Highway 70 in Morehead City. “They have an outside patio so your sweet little dog doesn’t have to wait in the car,” Janet had said.

  I signed the paperwork for the offer, and asked about a home inspection, suggestions for contractors, and where to change my driver’s licenses—all manner of Welcome Wagon queries. (Do they still have Welcome Wagons?)

  “As for a closing date, the owner is very flexible,” Janet said. “I called her agent on the ride over. She also said that since the place is a rental, and if the closing gets held up for any reason, well, you could move in today and pay rent until the closing date. I’m sure whatever the rental amount is will be less than the Holiday Inn charges.”

  I could move in today.

  “Do you have enough supplies to do that? Sheets and towels and things like that?” Janet asked.

  “I do. What I don’t have, I can pick up at the Walmart. Does Morehead City have a place that delivers mattresses?”

  Trust. Is that what all this was? I couldn’t be sure, but I simply moved forward and that felt right.

  My offer was accepted twenty minutes later—no bargainin
g back and forth. I signed the paperwork—lots of paperwork—and met the owner’s agent at Janet’s office for the keys to the house.

  “Listen,” the seller’s agent said. (She wasn’t anything like a southern belle. I would have guessed a Boston accent, if any.) “The owner is just glad to sell it. She’s not going to charge you rent or anything like that. She just wanted to be sure you weren’t bringing in any Picassos or rare art since she said her insurance wouldn’t cover that.”

  I assured her that there were no Picassos under the dog crate in my car.

  While at the Star Team Realty office, I called for a mattress delivery, trash removal service (since I wouldn’t keep any of the house’s furniture), a contractor to remove the old carpet in the master bedroom, a cleaning service to do a thorough cleaning (including windows and gutters), and two contractors—both recommended by Janet to meet me at the house later that day for estimates on painting, redoing the bathrooms, updating the kitchen, refinishing the wood floors, and replacing the screens on the screened porch. While there, I took some quick measurements of the windows and ordered wide white wood blinds for all the windows.

  By the end of the day, everything had been arranged. Janet had been right when she said that contractors in the area are really hungry for work. Thanks to a bad economy, I would have a livable house in seven to ten days, bathrooms and kitchen included, if everything went as planned. I could camp out at the Holiday Inn for seven to ten more days and enjoy the beach.

  I stopped at Walmart and bought enough towels and two sets of king-size sheets, a four-piece dish set, and soap. I stopped at an appliance store and priced washers, dryers, and kitchen appliances.

  I kept a running total in my head for all my purchases and potential purchases and scheduled services—and it added up to tens of thousands of dollars less than I had estimated spending on a new home when I had done my original budgeting back in Wheaton.

  I would still need to get a job. That I had anticipated from the outset. I guess I could apply at the Shark Shack. I had spent two months as a waitress between high school and college and in all honesty, I was terrible at it—shy, insecure, with a bad case of jitter-induced short-term memory loss. I forgot to return to tables with water, or ketchup, or more napkins, or the check.