Smoky, Come Home

       Smoky, Come Home

Smoky had come back to the levee often since Kyle’s death, but now he was finished with the river.  One of the dogs had told him it was a big worm.  It smelled like dead things, and the other strays who gathered along the levee were a committee of curmudgeons, lying in the grass yapping and yipping at one another and the world.  It had been weeks since the faculty of speech had left them, drifting off like mist in the night to wherever such things go.  But the levee gang seemed not to know it.  They seemed to think that each yip, yap, or woof carried deep implications for the future of the planet.  Dumb as a box of kittens, Smoky thought.  I’m out of there.

            So Smoky wandered up Dublin Avenue, sniffing again the spot where Kyle had died and glancing up at the stairs from hell.  Clouds ambled in from the gulf.  When the afternoon rain arrived, a soggy Smoky crept under the awning of a small porch attached to a yellow shotgun house.  Eventually the door opened a crack, its chain lock still in place, and he saw part of a woman’s head, its gray hair tumbling like mist across an eye.

            “Are you a good dog?”

She had a crackly voice, like a bag of biscuits being opened.  Not a bad thing, her sound, but it was tiresome how everyone worried about whether you were a good dog.  No, I’m a great dog! Smoky wanted to say.  Speaking had been cool, but those days were gone.  So he gave the trusty old tail-wag that always seemed to set humans at ease.

            “Okay, then,” the woman said. 

Her door closed, and Smoky heard the chain fall.  Then the door swung open and the old lady stepped out on the porch.

“Do you have a home?” the woman asked. 

She was a small person in an old-lady dress with pictures of flowers.  She wore fuzzy house slippers.  Smoky sat on his haunches and performed the gaze that follows the wag and completes the job of softening human hearts.

“You look so lonesome, and I bet you’re hungry, too.  You come in, then, and we’ll see what’s in the refrigerator.” 

He paused inside the doorway to sniff the mail on the floor.  He had forgotten about mail slots and their mysterious way of delivering a daily and delightful bouquet of scents.  In the kitchen, the woman removed something large from the refrigerator, peeled away the aluminum foil, and sliced some pieces of ham that she placed on a cracked plate.  She bent slowly and placed it on the floor, steadying herself with a fragile hand on the counter.  As Smoky made fast work of the ham, the woman drew water into an orange cereal bowl and repeated the slow process of stooping to the floor.

“There,” she said, “that will be your water bowl.”  Then she picked up a plate that was covered by a towel.  “Let’s go into the living room and meet my friend.”

Smoky followed the old lady to where she seated herself on a weather-beaten sofa, its cushions ripped and concave from use.  Her body sunk back into the mammoth flowers printed on the fabric.

“This is my friend Miriam,” the woman said.  “Would you like a cookie, Miriam?” 

The woman removed the towel from the plate, which did indeed hold cookies, and offered the plate to the air beside her.  Now that’s special! Smoky thought.  His previous owner's invisible friend had been a problem.  Nights of screaming stuck in Smoky’s memory like shards of glass.  And now Miriam?  I’m out of here.

But then the lady picked up a cookie and held it toward him.  Her hand was as delicate as an egg shell, and her fingers were translucent.  Smoky eyed the veins nervously, and then took the cookie.  Peanut butter!  He gobbled it quickly and looked up expectantly as the old lady talked to the air beside her.  Maybe, he thought, I’ll be out of here when the cookies are gone.

Smoky listened as the old lady explained to the place in the air called Miriam that her grandson visits often because her daughter is a single mother and must work.  Although he could no longer speak, Smoky remembered enough words to understand some of what was said.  He did not know “autistic,” but he did understand that the old woman had heard that dogs make good friends for children like her grandson.

“You will make him calm and happy,” she said, smiling down at Smoky.

Then she offered a cup of tea to the air.  Apparently the air accepted, and the old woman poured tea that was also air into a cup that was air.  Smoky might have been spooked had he not had similar experiences after the storm, but now he watched the lady’s pantomime with amusement.

“What’s that?  His name?” the woman asked the air.  “I just don’t know.  I’ll need to give him a name.  Now let me see . . . Fritz!  We’ll name him Fritz!  Here Fritz!  Here’s a cookie!”

Smoky took the cookie and weighed the cons and the pros.  Fritz sucked.  It really sucked.  But then what are the chances of finding a human who decides to name you Smoky again?  A stray has to go through the naming ordeal.  It’s the hand you’re dealt. 

The lady was nuts.  Her head was a tree full of birds, and there would be an ongoing problem about whether Smoky was sitting on or in Miriam.  But on the other paw the lady seemed kind, and an imaginary Miriam would mean more cookies left for Smoky.  Ham followed by peanut butter cookies added up to a very large plus, an excellent way to jump-start a relationship.  And there were no cats to scratch your nose.  The prospect was brightening.

No doubt it would come down to the grandson.  Is he a good boy? Smoky wanted to ask.  It would be nice to help a boy with issues, and Smoky would help if the boy didn’t hit him or pull his tail.  He knew the advantages of being friendly to humans.  “No tail pulling,” he tried to say, but all that came out was a whimper.

“Can you sit up, Fritz?” the lady asked, extending another cookie.

Well, here goes.  Smoky got his front legs under him and gave her the old, familiar look, the one that makes them think they’re gods.

Learn more about After the Floods at:
 http://www.losthillsbooks.com/
 Also available at Barnesandnoble.com and on Kindle, the digital reader from Amazon

Here is a link to the review of After the Floods in the New Orleans Times-Picayune

http://blog.nola.com/susanlarson/2008/02/feeling_minnesota_a_whimsical.html