Wish

I listened to her walking across the kitchen linoleum. Any second now, the screen door will open, and she’ll interrupt my morning. I know she doesn’t intend to, but you would think after thirty years, she would know this is my place. Back porch, hot coffee, a cold English muffin, and sometimes a morning sky painted by the sun, fiery orange streaks crossing the horizon — that’s my place.

This morning the sun is lurking behind gray clouds. A promise of Christmas snow? It doesn’t happen very often, but you never know. A good snow would be nice about now, it might take the bite out of the unwelcome news. The heavy clouds are keeping Winter’s bite out of the bitter cold that rolled in Thursday night. I don’t like the cold anymore. Hot coffee used to be enough to lubricate, but the older I get, well, nothing shakes the cold away. I have my Carhartts on over my pajamas. My granddaughter would not approve of this muddle of fashions, but she’s not here — that’s probably a good thing — she’s not going take the news well.

The screen door hinge complains, proclaiming my wife’s arrival.

“You’re up early.” She chimes. She carries two fresh mugs of hot coffee.

I’ve been getting up at the same time for as long as we’ve been married. But I say nothing to her. Her memory is getting sicker every day. The doctor said it would be a slow process, the memory loss that is. He was wrong.

She hands me a cup and then plants a kiss on my cheek. Her hand comes up and wipes away lipstick that isn’t there. She believes it is, a habit of many years.

I don’t waste any time recognizing she will likely forget everything I say before lunchtime, “The damn dog is dead.” I say quietly.

She says nothing. She’s just sits there in the twin rocker, smiling at the morning.

That damn dog. It was a gift last Christmas, for my grandson. Becky, that’s my wife, was determined to get the boy his first puppy. She hadn’t taken sick yet, Christmas was still the most special time of year for her. The pup wasn’t much. It was free. Free was good. The past three years have been tough. The government makes it harder and harder for a farmer to make a decent living. I hoped things would be better when the republicans took over, and it was for a short while. But last years’ crop was hit hard by ear rot, no politician could stop that. Not much money was put in the bank.

Becky was at the Walmart when she first saw the dog. A little girl and her mama had the pups in an old cardboard box, there were six of them in that old tattered box. Of course, my wife would pick the runt. That little whippersnapper couldn’t run three steps without tripping over itself. But that didn’t matter to her, she wanted it for our grandson. We left there with one more passenger sitting in my pickup truck. That puppy pee’d twice on the way back to the house. I fussed about the smell, but she just rolled down her window a little more; her and her smile never parting ways.

I glance over at her, sittin in that rocker. She has that same smile on her face. She doesn’t understand that Wish is dead.

“Wish” was the name my grandson tagged the puppy with. His daddy, my son-in-law, the democrat, didn’t think the notion of a puppy for Christmas was a good one. It’s probably because he still lives in an apartment building that’s not big enough for a family, much less a dog. What my daughter ever saw in him is a mystery to me. But she appears to be happy, so I keep quiet. That’s harder to do than you might imagine.

Becky told him to pipe down. “It’s a Christmas wish.” She said. “A Christmas wish is the greatest wish of all. It’s made of snow that’s never melts, touched by an angel sent by God. Every child is granted just one Christmas wish, a hope that lasts a lifetime. Andy, (that’s our grandson) wished for a puppy. You can’t take away his one and only Christmas wish, can you?”

I recall watching my son-in-law squirm as I waited to hear his answer. That might have been the best part of Christmas day for me. He relented under his mother-in-law’s smile, agreeing to the puppy. The problem was that the puppy couldn’t go home with them. There was a “No Pets” policy at the place they were living. My wife, always smiling, said “No problem. Wish can stay here on the farm with us until you have a real home.” That must have stung a little bit, but I don’t think she did it on purpose.

That’s how Wish ended up staying here with us. He wasn’t much of a dog; looked like he was made up of a dozen different breeds. Mixed up like that, makes him a mutt. That damn dog chased me everywhere, always underfoot. I took him hunting with me once, maybe he could find a use. He scared every confounded turkey within a mile away with his prancing about. He would run back over to me, where I sat in the small make-shift blind, with that stupid dog smile on his face, as if he had just accomplished a great victory.

For a dog, he had no sense of direction at all. He got lost in the cornfield more than a couple of times. Becky would send me out before it got too dark to look for Wish if he hadn’t made it back by supper time. I ate cold potatoes too many times because of that damn dog.

Getting lost in the cornfield is what ended up killing him.

The dog also laid claim to my place. I’d come out in the morning and there he would be, all curled up in front of my rocker. I’d gently nudge him with the toe of my boot until he moved away, just enough to let me sit down. Wish would just sit, watching me drink my coffee and eat my muffin. He was waiting for me to drop a crumb or two; he’d be all over it in a flash. Wish was the only dog I ever met that liked orange marmalade more than bacon.

I guess you might say that dog adopted me. It wasn’t meant to be like that, but nature has a way of changing our path when we are not looking. I had never been much of a dog-person. For that matter, I thought pets were for those people who were trying to fill an empty spot in their life. And that’s a shame because sometimes that spot is empty for a reason. I think maybe God has reservations for that vacant parcel of land that now can’t be filled by his blessings because it’s occupied by a four-legged mutt that does his stuff on the floor and then watches you pick it up. I warned you I wasn’t much of a dog-person. I guess that’s why I scratch my whiskers trying to figure out why that dog loved me so damn much.

Our grandchildren came to visit us three or four times a year. Wish would greet them with dog kisses, jumping up and down like my old pickup with broken leaf springs. That’s the only time that damn dog wasn’t under my feet.

And now he’s dead.

“What happened?” She asked me, slowly rocking back and forth in her chair. Tears glittering under the morning sun rolled down her cheeks.

I thought she must be talking about the dog, can’t be for certain these days. I didn’t know how much to tell her. All she needed to know was that Wish was dead. Our grandchildren would be here later today. Wish wouldn’t be there to greet them. It was going to be hard.

I found Wish this morning. He had been out all night. I guess that was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and Becky hadn’t noticed that he was still gone come supper time, so she didn’t make me go find him. There are many things she doesn’t notice anymore — but I should have. It was one of those sudden path changes old Nature throws our way when our thoughts are muddled in something else. When he wasn’t sittin in front of my rocker this morning I headed out to the field. Last night the temperatures had dropped a few degrees below freezing. Not too cold for a dog. I’ve seen Wish jump into the pond, smack dab in the middle of winter, chasing after a shadow. No, not too cold.

If he hadn’t gone into that field…

But he did. That’s when the mountain lion got him. Wish was dead when I found him. It looked like he had given that big cat a helluva fight. The ground under and around his body had been trampled down to bare earth, the snow violently raked away. What remained was a dark red-brown mixture of muck. A lot of blood. Too much for one animal. I believe that big cat crawled off somewhere to die himself.

I buried the dog on the north end of the field. The soil there was soft and easy to turn. No crops would be planted there for at least two more years. I said a little prayer for Wish before coming back to my place. I don’t know if dogs go to heaven or not, but if marrying Becky Cross taught me anything, it’s that prayers have never hurt a thing.

“I still have mine,” Becky said. She had stopped crying and was looking out at the dwindling cornfield.

Where’s she at, I thought. Her mind tends to wander away from the moment without any warning. I placed my hand on top of hers. “You still have what, baby?” I asked my wife.

“My Christmas Wish.” She smiled.

For the next half hour, Becky spoke to me like she hasn’t since becoming ill. She told me about when she was a little girl. She said she always saved her Christmas Wish for the next year. Her family was dirt poor, farmers with brown thumbs. She always felt guilty when contemplating her wish. She knew she should wish for something her family needed, a good crop, money, maybe indoor plumbing. But the internal struggles always proved too much for a little girl and Christmas morning would come and go with an unused Christmas Wish. As she got older she stopped believing in Christmas Wishes. Before long she forgot about them altogether. Until now.

Finished telling me her story, she reached over and ran her fingers over my gray whiskers. She smiled, “I love that sound.”

Becky stood up and walked back into the house. I sat slumped in my chair, thinking about that damn dog and her story. The day was getting colder. A wind had picked up, making the brown corn stalks dance to and fro. The sound they made was soothing and my eyes felt heavy. I got a blanket out of the old cedar chest that sat next to the rockers and settled back down. I heard Becky moving around in the kitchen, she was singing a Christmas song that I hadn’t heard in years. I pushed back in the rocker and closed my eyes. I dreamed about my back porch and orange skies. I dreamed about my wife. I even dreamed about that damn dog.

I sat up too quickly, the old bones in my back cracking, startled by the sound of my grandchildren running through the house. I could hear the boy calling out, “Here Wish, come here boy”. Shaking away my nap, I remembered the dog was dead. I need to go in and tell them, but I didn’t want to. This is why I never wanted dogs! They die, and somebody will have to tell the children about it. That somebody was going to have to be me, and I didn’t want to do it. Damn dog!

I never heard him coming. I opened the screen door, seeing my daughter and her family standing in the middle of the kitchen. Becky was hugging our granddaughter, brushing her long blond hair out of her face. The dog ran past me, almost knocking me on my butt. “Wish!”, my grandson yelled. The dog jumped up onto the boy, (he did knock him on his butt) and slobbered dog kisses all over his face.

I could only stand there staring. The dog was dead. I was certain of that. I looked at my work boots, I could still see dirt from the north field. I had buried that dog. I couldn’t understand what was happening.

Wish had no signs of the fight he had lost to that mountain lion. His coat looked brighter than ever. My grandson was laughing, trying to push the dog off. My daughter looked at me and smiled, “Merry Christmas, Daddy.” she said. I just stood there with my mouth hung open like a bat cave. Becky looked over at me, her smile was so beautiful. “Christmas Wish.” She whispered. “Now, let’s make some pies!”.

∞∞∞

It’s Christmas morning. As I look across the field, I think about holidays passed. The lifeless corn blanketed in new snow. Christmas snow. It doesn’t come every year, but you never know. I’m happy it came this year. The coffee is extra strong this morning. My English muffin sits untouched. I don’t have much of an appetite.

Wish is curled up at my feet. He ignores the muffin and marmalade too. Dogs know things. I wait to hear her footsteps on the linoleum floor. She will come out, disturbing my place. She’s been doing that for more years than I can count. I guess truthfully it was always our place.

But she won’t be coming.

Two nights ago, the eve of Christmas eve, I guess, I was sittin right here wondering about the chances of a white Christmas. My grandkids would sure love that. I don’t think it ever snows in southern California.

I heard a crash come from the kitchen, then my daughter screaming, “Mom!”. She was on the floor when I ran into the brightly lit kitchen. I knew right away she was dead.

The doctor said it was a brain aneurysm. She probably didn’t feel a thing. That’s good, I suppose. She was baking Christmas pies, or at least she thought she was. The countertop was covered in flour, white as the Christmas snow. It was on her face and her apron too. Her pretty face. But there was nothing else. No pie fillings, no pie pans…nothing. She died thinking she was making Christmas pies. She died thinking about me.

A frozen wind blows across the porch. Wish moans and curls against my boots. I scratch the dog between his ears, “It’s okay, boy.” I soothe him.

I close my eyes trying to remember. I need to remember, you see.

It was too long ago to be certain—Christmas day, when I was just a boy, usually meant doing the work my old man was too drunk to do. If I did have a Christmas wish, I am sure I would have used it back then.

But what if I didn’t?

I close my eyes. I see Becky’s smile.

I wish…