Dancing Dogs (8 page)

He crossed himself and said a silent prayer, and then, using the butt end of the shovel, he pushed the coyote into
the grave, covered it with dirt and moss, and then carried a dozen rocks and boulders over to put on top of it. The old coyote would have some dignity. Kipper lay alongside him all morning.

“Old dog,” James said, “rest in peace.”

He and Kipper walked down the hill, side by side, and then into the farmhouse, where James gave Kipper some fresh water and made some iced tea for himself.

He glanced over at a photograph of Helen, a portrait sitting on the table. He looked out the window, at the handful of sheep up on the hill. He gazed down at Kipper, who was staring at him intently, perhaps because James didn’t often sit quietly like this.

Kipper was ready and eager for work, whatever it was, whatever was next.

To the dog, James said, “Kipper, I think we can’t be living like this anymore.”

To himself, he wondered what life off the farm might be like. He wondered if there could be another kind of life. Could there be fun? Warmth and comfort? An easier life for him, and for Kipper? A smaller place? Might there be another companion for him, someone to share life with him and Kipper in the time left?

Somebody from the community college over in Argyle had asked him if he might teach a noncredit course in farming and hay management for the kids there. His hay was legendary around the county for its nourishing quality, its long life. They had a small stipend—$1,000—that they could pay him.

He had said no, but now, he wondered if he might not like it. And they were looking for a judge at the county fair,
for the cows and the sheep. He would enjoy that too, putting to good use what he knew, working with kids.

And somebody had called and offered to pay him to do some sheepherding demonstrations at the new organic sheep-cheese farm down the road. Kipper would like that, and there were lots of other festivals and fairs that might be interested too. And he knew people would love to watch a three-legged herding dog. James had always said no, he was too busy, he didn’t have time. But now, maybe he did.

He was not into mystical mumbo-jumbo, but he couldn’t get the coyote out of his head, or shake the feeling that the coyote had come for him, not his sheep. He kept seeing his eyes, the way he ended his life. It had shaken him, opened him up.

He looked back over at Helen, a bit guilty maybe, thinking about a companion, but he knew what she would say because she had said it to him a few days before she died: “James, don’t die a grumpy old farmer. Be happy. You’ve suffered enough. Have some dreams. Take care of Kipper.” He felt his eyes well up. He got out his handkerchief to wipe them dry.

He looked back over to the photo. “I’m sorry, Helen. I wish I’d been a better husband, a better father. Sometimes, it feels like the farm just ate me up. Like life ate me up. But I still have some time.” The dog whined, and came over to him. Kipper looked confused, perhaps anxious, caught up in the tone of James’s voice.

“See what happens when you lie around, Kip?” he asked the dog, who looked at him curiously, tilting his head.

Then, James leafed through the phone book and made a call.

“Harriett?” he said. “You remember me? James Page.
Got the farm down on McLeary Lane? You spoke to my wife, Helen, a few years back about listing our place.”

She was so sorry to hear about Helen. She had meant to stop by. What could she do for him?

“Well, I’m thinking it’s time to sell the farm,” he said.

M
INNIE LISTENED TO THE HEART MONITOR BEEPING NEXT TO HER
bed. She knew it was slowing. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had already been to her room to say good-bye. So had her rabbi, the hospice social worker, and her cousin Fanny Lozow. Her small room, in an airy wing of a well-run nursing home, was bright and stuffed with flowers and note cards. The young doctor who came in every day, uttering his usual distracted platitudes about being comfortable and then leaving after a few minutes, stayed longer this morning. For the first time, he squeezed her hand.

She was ready to move on. She’d had eighty-three good years, no complaints. She looked forward to joining her husband, Jacob, in heaven, although she hoped he wouldn’t expect to be taken care of there as much as she had cared for him in this life. Minnie was done taking care of people.

But she had this other, secret wish that she had not shared with anyone. She feared her two daughters might
think she was a little crazy. She wanted to see Luther, her dog.

Luther was a mutt given to her by a Catholic priest whose parish had been closing. His visit to her that day many years ago was so strange that she still went over it often in her mind.

She had never spoken to a priest before and was startled when he knocked on her door that summer day. He was tall, very thin, and was wearing his clerical collar, but also a leather jacket and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. His red hair stuck out from under the hat and set off his bright blue eyes.

He was standing there along with a small brown and white dog on a leash. The dog was squat and ugly. The priest introduced himself as Father Matthews. “I’m here to ask you if you might consider taking my dog,” he said.

The parish, which had seen dwindling attendance in recent years, was closing. Father Matthews said he was moving to an urban parish in New York City, and Luther couldn’t go with him.

Minnie thought it was a joke, or a mistake, and just stared slack-jawed at the priest and this strange-looking little dog, who looked right back at her and wagged his tail hopefully.

“You’re not serious, are you?” she said. “We’re not really dog people.”

Father Matthews smiled, as if he knew that.

“You have the kindest face,” the priest said, “and I prayed that you would take Luther in. I hate to leave him. I had the sense that you two might be happy with each other. Call it a message.” He looked up at the sky.

Minnie looked up also, but she saw only clouds.

Even on her deathbed, she did not understand why the
priest had come to her. It was as bewildering to her as why she eventually agreed to take Luther in.

Father Matthews had stood silently that morning, giving her time to think. Luther continued to stare at her. It was as if he knew her, was waiting for her. The kids would be shocked. She had never allowed cats or dogs or rabbits or rodents in her spotless little house. But for some reason, she now felt her heart almost literally opening up.

Father Matthews said, “All my prayers brought me here. That means something.”

Minnie started to open her mouth to say no, but the word would not come out. So she said yes, and the priest handed her the leash, along with a bag of Purina Dog Chow. He leaned down, patted Luther on the head, and then walked away.

Jacob had a fit when he came home from work and found Luther dozing on the sofa, but his displeasure didn’t last long. Over time, Jacob came to love Luther too, although not as much as Minnie did.

Luther ate well, grew fat and happy. He fit into the household easily, as if he had always been there. Minnie hadn’t realized it, but since the kids had left, she was sometimes a bit lonely. And while she had nothing bad to say about Jacob, life with him could get a little boring. Mostly, he loved to read his paper, watch TV, and smoke his awful cigars. Luther brought a whole new focus to her life. After a few months, he was sleeping at the foot of the bed.

Luther lived with Minnie for thirteen years. Jacob had died six years after the dog arrived, and Minnie often said she would not have gotten through the loss of her husband if not for Luther. When he died, she called the New York Archdiocese,
tracked down Father Matthews, and told him that Luther had passed away.

She thanked him for bringing him to her. “He’s been a great comfort to me. You were right.”

“Thank you for loving him,” the priest said. “I will pray that you and Luther meet in Heaven.” She decided not to tell the rabbi about that prayer. Jewish doctrine was a little fuzzy when it came to Heaven, and the rabbi might be wondering what she was doing chatting with a Catholic priest.

Now Minnie felt very tired. It was so quiet. The room was empty. Then the beeping slowed, and the bed filled with light and warmth, and Minnie had the most amazing sensation of feeling young and light again. She felt as if she were floating out of her tired and aching body until she couldn’t hear the beeping any longer.

M
INNIE RECLINED
in a comfortable chair, her feet up on an ottoman. There was a small garden, the flowers rich and sweet-smelling. The air was crisp and pleasant. Songbirds were everywhere. Nothing fancy, just everything she liked.

Jacob was sitting next to her, holding her hand. They didn’t live together there, but they saw each other every day, took walks together, sat and talked about their children. Somebody else took care of him.

She saw her mother and father walking together at the edge of the green lawn. Once or twice a day they waved to her and smiled. They seemed happy. She hoped she would see her children here someday too.

The days passed easily and comfortably.

One day, there was a commotion by the gate, which
swung open, and a buxom, anxious-looking woman came in calling Minnie’s name. Minnie raised her hand, and the woman bounded over to her.

She was heavy-set, with curly brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses that were partially fogged up. She wore a green, blue, and red paisley cotton dress that came down to her knees. Even from a distance, Minnie could see dog hairs on it. Minnie was fastidious, and always noticed things like that. But most notably, the woman had wings. The wings were of badly frayed silk, and she wore knee-high rubber boots. She was holding an odd-looking wand, and she smelled like liver.

“I’m the angel Audrey. I’ve come to take you to meet Luther, as Father Matthews had prayed for.”

Minnie brightened. “Father Matthews? Is he up here?”

Audrey shook her head. “Not yet. But we text.”

“But Luther is here?”

“Yes, absolutely,” said the angel, wiping her glasses on the edge of her dress. “But the animals have their own heaven, and it’s different. The animals can’t come here, but you can visit them there. If things work out, sometimes people can readopt their dogs. Or the dogs can readopt their people. It’s a choice for both.”

Minnie jumped to her feet—it didn’t hurt at all to do that here; her knees were young again, bless them. She turned to Jacob, who was smiling, and said she would be back. She felt a flash of the old guilt, but that never lasted up here. She was free to come and go as she pleased. Jacob didn’t ask to come, and Minnie didn’t invite him.

“I’ve been assigned to the dog part of Heaven forever,” Audrey said. “I’ve never lived on Earth myself, and I love dogs, so it’s a good fit for me.”

Audrey held out her hand, and Minnie took it and closed her eyes as the two of them took off into the blue sky and sailed through the air and into the clouds. Minnie looked down on a vast, beautiful terrain. There were flat plains, woods, and on all sides rolling hills pockmarked with countless caves. Streams crisscrossed the valley. There were rows of thick brush with holes dug around the roots, and clusters of old sheds, shacks, and barns.

There were no streets, houses, or big roads, just a lot of dirt paths.

“It’s different,” Audrey said. “That’s why it has to be separate.”

They landed on a large green field, and the smell was so strong that Minnie held her breath for a second. “Dog poo,” she said.

“There are no cleanup laws up here,” Audrey said. “The dogs can go wherever they want. It can take some adjustment for humans.”

And Minnie could see that it was true, what Audrey said. All kinds of dogs, mutts of every size and description, Rottweilers, pit bulls, Afghans, Newfoundlands, Labs, shepherds, poodles, shar-peis, English bulldogs, beagles, hounds, and lapdogs wandered in and out of the caves and woods that lined the fields and bushes. There were tall and thin dogs, brown and white and black dogs, purebreds and mongrels, scary dogs and tiny loud ones. Some were dozing, others were running, growling, eating, barking, playing, or peeing or pooping wherever they pleased.

Minnie heard a familiar barking and squealing, and she turned to see Luther running up to her, wagging his tail. He shook, licked her hand, looked into her eyes. Her own eyes filled with tears as she sat down on the ground next to him.
Audrey beamed. Minnie put her arms around Luther’s ugly little head and kissed him on the nose.

He was clearly pleased to see her. But she also thought that he was somewhat restrained, not as demonstrative as she remembered him. Or as she expected him to be.

“Luther, Luther, my boy, my love!” she cried out, and kept on hugging her dog. Luther wagged his tail, and then backed up a bit. He came forward and sniffed her hand, licked it, then he moved away and out toward a path that led out of the field.

“He wants to take you for a walk. He’s excited to see you and wants to show you off to the other dogs. Just follow the path.”

Minnie was a bit disconcerted. Something about Luther was definitely different. Audrey sensed this.

“He’s been waiting for you, but he doesn’t have to perform for you now. The obedience and control thing is different. You know, the way dogs down there get you to do things for them. He doesn’t have to do that up here, he can do what he wants. He can just love you in the dog way.”

Audrey said she would be waiting when Minnie was done visiting and ready to go back to People Heaven. Minnie turned to follow Luther toward the dirt path to take a closer look at his new home.

“One last thing,” Audrey said. “Humans are not allowed off the path. There are all kinds of spikes, rocks, wire, and other obstacles that will sting and scrape you if you step off of the path. You’re not allowed to go where you want. When people do go off the path, they misbehave. They get out of control. They clean up the rotten food, shovel the dog poo, and fill in the mud holes. They just mess the place up. They can’t be trusted, really, to be on their own here.”