The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

  “Miss Mary Fassler. My soon-to-be award-winning reporter.”

  I must have appeared quizzical.

  “I entered your Marine wife story in the North Carolina Newspaper Editorial Excellence Competition. Or contest. Or judging. I forget exactly what they call it. But it’s a big deal if you win. The publisher comes out of his cave and hands you the award and grins at you like a Disney version of the crypt-keeper. You’ll find it all so fascinating when you win.”

  All of this was news to me. That phrase takes on a new level of irony if you actually work in a news organization.

  “But I never entered anything.”

  Kistler Hibbs waved me off.

  “Of course you didn’t. I did. You wouldn’t have known about the competition, and probably wouldn’t have wanted to enter even if you had. You’re just too nice, Miss Mary Fassler.”

  Southerners seemed to have a predilection for things with three names.

  “And besides, if you win, and I am pretty sure you will, that makes me look better—like a smart editor, rather than a slothful one.”

  He went on about the award ceremony two months away.

  “It’s up in Raleigh. At a deluxe hotel. Like a Ramada Inn. Big banquet with real chicken and real waiters and everything. No catering from the Waffle House for this affair. You can bring a date along. The paper would even pay for his entire $10 dinner ticket, I bet.”

  I must have made a face or looked like I intended to make a face. I thought that I kept most of my emotions—when it came to dating and all those romantic entanglement questions—under check. I remained impassive. I walked above the fray.

  Apparently not, at least when it came to Kistler Hibbs.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Fassler. I didn’t mean to touch a sore point. Truly.”

  This time, I simply waved him off.

  “It’s no big deal. I’ve dated. Once or twice. But at my age, it’s not easy. Things have a way of happening, I guess, that make relationships difficult. The older we get, the heavier the baggage.”

  We could hear Lucinda dealing with a customer out front. Her raspy, deep-toned growl was unmistakable. Something about a classified ad running for two weeks, which offered a much less expensive rate, or just one week. Lucinda was not our most skilled communications expert.

  Kistler Hibbs unwound himself from his prone position.

  “I am not one to give advice,” he said, seriously, and then barked out his punchy laugh. “Oh, who am I kidding? I love to give out unwanted advice. It’s my hobby, isn’t it?”

  I held up both hands, submitting to the obvious.

  “Let go, Miss Mary Fassler. Let go of whatever holds you back from living now. I won’t say that I understand how you feel, because obviously, I don’t. But if there is something you’re holding on to—a grudge, a hurt, unexpressed anger—then you need to let it go, or deal with it. It’s a lot of work to hold onto hurt. Takes so much energy to keep hidden things cooking away at a simmer. Too many things simmering, and you don’t have room to start a new meal. So . . .”

  I widened my eyes, as if expecting more.

  “So, I came close, right? I know I came close to the problem. Please tell me I did.”

  Kistler Hibbs behaved more like a clutchy, old, gossipy woman than most clutchy, old, gossipy women could ever hope to be.

  And he was sort of on the right track.

  I sighed. “You are close. I’ll think about it. Maybe you’re right.”

  And with that, he brightened as bright as a ballerina, and headed off to the front counter to undo whatever customer service damage Lucinda had done.

  I won the award. I was surprised. Kistler Hibbs had been sure of my win all night. I heard others say that it truly is a prestigious award, and that I may even be offered a raise because of it. The banquet and the official presentation were not until the beginning of October, so I had time to not find a date for the affair.

  Ava and Beth came to visit in August. I had invited them both to come at any time and they took me by surprise when they both agreed to come and decided to travel together.

  Politics, as well as expensive rental cars, make strange bedfellows.

  I set up two beds in the large room upstairs. The room filled up, much to my chagrin of my earlier impulse to leave it empty.

  Since I had to work, at least some of the day, both women were happy to take their beach chairs, books, and suntan oil to the beach, only two blocks away. Ava won the award for the best and quickest overall tan. Beth’s bathing apparel was much more modest. And she used up two full tubes of sunblock.

  We had a wonderful time together. We went to the Shark Shack three times. Beth found the local grocery store and made dinner twice. Ava ordered pizza for our last evening together.

  “They can’t make pizza down here,” Ava declared as she picked up her fourth piece.

  “It’s all right,” Beth countered, thus ensuring that their point-counterpoint dialogue remained in place for virtually every topic we discussed during their stay. “It’s actually quite good.”

  “Ketchup on bread dough,” Ava countered, and claimed that Chicago, and perhaps New York, were the only places to find edible pizza in all of America.

  Her disdain did not preclude her eating more than a fair share of the two large pizzas delivered from Luigi’s Pizza and Subs down the road from Atlantic Beach.

  Ava bought a six-pack of local beer from a small brewery in Beaufort, just up the coast. I knew of them only because I was scheduled to do a story on the two brothers who opened the business a few years ago. On my own, I seldom, if ever, partook. Now that Ava was here, perhaps I would relax—just a little.

  Beth all but sneered at the offer.

  “I’ll stick with Diet Coke, thank you,” she said, as crisp as starched linen.

  After dinner, we had some Key lime pie, and yes, Rufus had a small sliver. “That dog is getting fat,” Ava said. “I like that in a dog.”

  Rufus looked hurt by the accusation. I knew he would ask me about it on our walk tonight, unless all three of us went, which is what had happened all week. Except for the morning walks. Then we were alone.

  The three of us retired to the screened porch while Rufus slept on the sofa. Evenings could be warm and humid, but tonight, a breeze off the ocean cooled the air and kept the humidity at bay.

  Ava brought it up first. I was surprised that the subject had not come up before.

  “So, are you dating? What’s the manpower situation like down here? There were a lot of cute beefcakes on the beach.”

  Beth responded as expected.

  “Honestly, those boys were all in college. You’re old enough to be . . .”

  “You can stop right there, Beth. We were just talking. No one asked me out on a date.”

  “But you said you would have gone. That blond boy in the baggy blue suit looked to be only nineteen, right?”

  She surprised me by paying such close attention. She surprised Ava too, apparently.

  “Well, then, you seemed to be watching quite closely.”

  Beth blushed. She is not a blusher by nature, since she doesn’t do anything to blush about. In a clam-sized voice, she said, “He was awfully cute. I’ll give you that.”

  Ava all but slid off her chair. Beth hid her face in her hands, not really ashamed, but maybe a little. “Too much sun does that to me,” she said aloud into her cupped hands. “I can’t help it.”

  Later, after Beth had gone upstairs to pack (their flight from Raleigh departed early, and that meant leaving Atlantic Beach at 5:00 a.m.) Ava cornered me, figuratively speaking.

  “Is there a man down here? You mentioned that one—the one who worked on your kitchen. Is he still around?”

  I tried to describe, without emotion, the relational fiasco that Billy B had become. Ava listened, without comment, but her face did narrow, and her eyes grew harder, like a stern teacher, or a disapproving mother.

  I knew that would be her reaction, and was happy that she
had waited to the last day to scold me.

  “Mary,” Ava said, with some tenderness, “we love you.”

  I waited for the sympathy shower that had to follow.

  “But you drive both of us absolutely crazy.”

  I’m sure I looked shocked.

  Maybe a little hurt.

  “Listen, Mary, I don’t care about you praying, or not praying. I bet Beth does, but even she thinks all this is nuts. I don’t care if you believe or if you don’t believe. I mean that. I don’t care if you talk to God, or if you never talk to God again.”

  I wanted to say something, to lash back at her, to be mean in return, but I couldn’t think of how best to return her angry volley.

  “Just get over it. Please,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest. She winced. “Too much sun.”

  I broke ranks and smiled.

  But she continued to scold. “Make a decision, Mary. If you don’t want to talk with God, then don’t talk to him. But don’t keep agonizing over the fact. Don’t drive the car while staring in the rearview mirror, trying to fix the past. You’re going to get killed that way. You want to give up your faith, just do it. Give it up. If you want to believe in God . . . go ahead and do it. And that probably means that you have to pray. So quit feeling sorry for yourself. It’s like you’re wallowing in the mud pit of self-pity.”

  “I am not,” I said, skillfully opposing everything she said and cleverly refuting her intricate denouement of me and my personality and my behavior over the last few years and everything I believed in. Or didn’t believe in. “I’m not, either.”

  I am such a clever debater.

  Ava snorted. “It’s the fence-sitting that drives people crazy, Mary. And it drives men even crazier. Commit to one side or the other. You want the shoes? Buy the shoes. Don’t expect me to talk you into the purchase.”

  Ava shook her head. “Now, I’m quoting the foot doctor as a relationship expert. But he’s right. He said that to me after we got into a big fight at Nordstrom. I had forty pairs of shoes spread out all around me and I really, really wanted these wonderfully expensive, red, strappy things. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. I wanted him to talk me into buying something that I wanted that he could not care less about. For a foot doctor, he doesn’t care about shoes in the least. Go figure.”

  I hadn’t followed her logic. I don’t think she followed her logic either.

  “All I’m telling you, Mary, is that you can’t spend the rest of your life saying how bad God is, and then turning your back on him. If you think he doesn’t care, then act like he doesn’t care. If you want to ‘talk’ with him—then just do it. But don’t play games with the process. It’ll tire you out before it tires God out.”

  And then she did something that surprised me. She hugged me. Ava had never been much of a hugger. But she hugged me. And whispered in my ear, “Mary, you’re miserable. Talk to him.”

  When she released me, she obviously felt better, relieved.

  “I feel like I’m in sixth grade reporting to Bobby Deletora that May Ellen Fisher really does like him and that he should talk to her.”

  I sniffed a few times.

  “Did Bobby talk to her?”

  Ava grinned. “He did. They dated like forever. They eventually got married after college—and divorced three years later. What do I know about relationships, really?”

  There were a lot of hugs, and a few tears, when the two of them left the following morning. Even Rufus seemed more animated than normal, bouncing about, nosing about their luggage.

  Maybe he was making sure they weren’t secreting away his favorite squirrel back to Chicago or concealing a stash of crunchies in their bags. We promised to call and to write and to visit. There were hugs all around, twice, and Rufus even got his share of hugs, though he did growl a bit when Ava squeezed him.

  “Take care of her, Rufus,” she said. “Bite her if she keeps on complaining about God not listening. Okay?”

  I could have sworn that Rufus nodded. He later claimed that he didn’t, but it sure looked like it. And then they were gone, driving off into the early morning dark. We were up, so Rufus and I decided to take to the beach before the crowds descended.

  I could have let Rufus off the leash when we walked on the beach. I had tried it once. Rufus didn’t like it.

  “What if a wave comes in and sweeps me out into the ocean? How will you get me back to shore?”

  I tried to explain that would not happen.

  “I saw a big wave on television.”

  I believe he referred to the tsunami in Japan.

  “So you want the leash?”

  “I do. I am safer with a leash.”

  So we always used the leash. He seldom pulled on it, except for the occasional times when he saw a squirrel or another dog.

  As soon as we reached the water’s edge, Rufus turned to me and asked, almost confrontationally, “Am I fat? That lady said I’m fat.”

  I knew that question was coming.

  “No, Rufus, Doctor B said you have big bones and are not fat. Besides we walk a lot. And she just said that because you had Key lime pie. I don’t think she ever met a dog who likes pie like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rufus was certainly more insecure about his weight than I had ever imagined. I didn’t think a dog would care. Maybe he thought fat was something else entirely, something all good dogs should avoid being.

  “I am sure, Rufus. You are a good dog. And you are not fat. Not at all.”

  We walked along, the waves hissing a good morning, a few scats of gulls careening in the faint light of false dawn. I really did like the ocean. I really was glad that we had moved here. I really did think that this new life was the one I was meant to have.

  Now, if I were able to dismiss Ava’s comments as easily as I wanted to, everything would be perfect. I decided there was no time like the present to ask Rufus about it.

  “Do you think I should start to pray again?”

  Rufus looked up at me, confused.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, like praying. I sort of stopped talking with God . . . a long time ago. I told you about that.”

  “No. I don’t think you did. That’s not right—not talking to God.”

  “I did tell you that, Rufus. I am sure I did.”

  He stopped walking. He did that when confused or deep in thought.

  Then he slowly spoke. “I thought you meant you didn’t talk with him when we were walking. I think that’s what I thought. I never once thought you stopped altogether. That is wrong. I think I already told you that, didn’t I? Just now?”

  “You did. So I should just forget about everything that happened and pretend that everything is hunky-dory and start including God in my conversations?”

  Rufus made a wide half circle around a dead jellyfish, keeping his eyes focused on it in case it jumped at him. “Sure. You can do that.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I don’t understand. What is God supposed to do? Things are what they are. You start from here. You can’t change what happened in the past, to what you want. I don’t think it works that way. I know it doesn’t work that way with dogs.”

  We walked on. The sun edged up onto the eastern horizon. I wanted to yell at somebody. Ava had been right. I think Rufus had been right, as well.

  Rats.

  The earth did not shake. The sky did not fill with lightning bolts. I had no soul-shaking epiphany. The logic piled too high for me to dismiss any longer. What could it hurt? No, that’s not right. That’s being snarky. I knew Atlantic Beach had been the right choice. Sometimes you just know. And there is no buildup, there is no crescendo. It just is. And that’s what this was.

  As we turned away from the ocean, I simply whispered aloud, my words carried off by the breeze, no doubt, “Dear God . . . it’s me.”

  21

  If I had been expecting rockets, or earth tremors, or a choir of celestial beings
, all carrying amplified harps, I would remain disappointed.

  Nothing happened.

  I reintroduced myself to God, and said I hadn’t talked to him for a while, then I ran out of things to say. And by that time, we were back at the house. Rufus took his early-morning nap, and I had to shower and fix breakfast. I had an interview at the office at nine.

  Places to go, people to meet.

  Maybe I felt a little looser. Maybe I felt a little less down.

  I’m not sure. I once had a friend who first tried selling diet supplements, and then she tried selling dried blue-green lake algae, and finally, capsules filled with ginko biloba. She would insist that I try a week’s worth, or a month’s worth free of charge. Then she would call me every three days to see how much better I felt.

  I hated to tell her that I never felt any better after taking whatever it was she was selling. I mean, I never felt run-down or fatigued or particularly dull-witted and forgetful in the past, so perhaps the effects of the drugs or algae or whatever were more subtle. Every time, I would have to tell her that I didn’t think I felt anything. And she would respond with an ever-increasingly depressive, “Ohhhhh.”

  Maybe talking to God is similar to taking dried blue-green lake algae. Maybe it took a while to kick in.

  The interview went well. Kistler Hibbs asked how my recent visitors “from up north in Yankee land” liked Atlantic Beach and my new house. I said they really enjoyed themselves, and I enjoyed having them, but if I told the truth, I was happy to see them go because I liked having quiet evenings.

  “Don’t get too used to the quiet, Miss Mary Fassler. Pretty soon you’ll become that crazy old lady shaking your fist at the teenagers who walk down your street playing their music at all hours and much too loud.”