I’ve never bonded with Lucky’s dogs, and had no intention of getting involved with Pace, but last fall was the most beautiful Indian summer I’d ever seen. The trees changed color without dropping their leaves, the rains were warm and steady, no torrents swelled the Guyandotte and caused flooding — and the temperature stayed even; we didn’t freeze in the mornings and burn up in the afternoons. I don’t think I’d ever really looked at my surroundings, but my blinders came off. It was both humbling and exhilarating.

         I couldn’t stay indoors, despite the monster in the far -right kennel; Lucky’s Fila scared me down to my toes. I could feel his eyes on me when I was weeding, planting bulbs, but especially when I turned my back to hang sheets on the line. To me, there’s nothing better than pulling back a quilt and smelling fresh wind, and that fall I washed every sheet in the house.

         I was happy and oddly satisfied until the day Pace let out a howl that pierced my heart and, like lightening, struck the same spot again. I was accustomed to barks and growls, but this was different. Grief was pouring out of his very core, high, wild, and when I thought the worst was over, it echoed up the holler and came back again. 

         This Fila Brasileiro was made of tough fiber. Everything in that dog had been bred to bond, to protect and serve and now his instincts, deprived and risen to the top, were killing him. 

          I’m not exactly sure how the Good Book regards animals, other than we are to treat them kindly and look after their welfare. I’ve always been taught that animals don’t have souls, but since that howl, I’ve believed otherwise for the same sound was in my heart. I also realized another thing. That dog had courage, even in grief, and I’d never had the courage to express mine. 

         Pace’s water bucket was mostly empty until Lucky came home, and that’s the first thing I decided to change. 

I began with caution. 

I fashioned a long wire made of coat hangers, leaving the last one with the hook still in place. When I approached the run, Pace lifted his head, growled, then plopped his muzzle on the concrete so hard, the impact could have broken his jawbone. He was too low to pay me any mind.

         His water bucket was easy to lift out, but it was only after I’d filled it that I realized my mistake. As soon as I lifted the full bucket, my contraption fell apart. I stood there with a thirsty dog in front of me, water all over the ground, and didn’t know what to do.

         Then, I did.

         I filled the bucket again, unlatched the gate and walked three steps into the pen. I set down the bucket and literally ran out of the pen, forgetting to latch the gate. I had to go back, shaking like one of Lucky’s hounds when they bark too much and he hoses them with cold water.

         Pace wasn’t aware of my approach. He was furiously lapping. 

         If someone would have asked me right then why I did what I did, I wouldn’t have been able to answer because I was scared and fear is not something you can talk about when it’s inside you; you have to wait until the fright calms down. Nor could I have said what caused me to make another resolution.

 I was going to feed him.

         Bravery leads to strange things, both on the side of the rescued and the rescuer, and that is how I fell in love with a Brazilian Cattle Dog.

         The next morning, I didn’t wait to clean up the breakfast dishes (I’d never done that in my life) but started taking food out of the refrigerator. I piled everything in a cast iron skillet – the roast beef from last night, chicken from the night before, macaroni and cheese, devilled eggs – there was so much I can’t remember it all. Lilyanne scarcely eats and Lucky doesn’t notice what’s on is plate unless he doesn’t like it. I piled everything in the skillet and heated it until it was palatable, dumped it everything in a big bowl, and marched out to his run.

         I’ve always been a good cook, have cooked too much, and someone or some thing as Lucky had recently referred to Pace, was going to benefit from my labors, even it if was a dog that made my knees knock. Now, I realize that behind my fear was pity, behind the pity was love and behind his wail of desperation was need.

         The hounds were going crazy, but I didn’t care. Hounds are dirty and have no sense. They run in mindless circles when they’re freed from their pens until Lucky uses a leather strap on them. Then, they cower and hunker down in the truck bed. Nor does it matter what you feed them, they gobble it down and are ready to eat again.

         When I walked out with the bowl that morning, Pace was the only dog that didn’t bark. He was watching me, and raised to all fours. Would he attack? I didn’t know, but the thought of actual confrontation perversely gave me courage and I unlatched the gate, dumped the food from my bowl into his and shoved it under his nose. Pace sniffed, then looked at me as if waiting for permission. I said, 

         “You’re not going to get this every morning. I stay busy. This place looks good, but without me it would fall apart.”

         When I finished speaking, he began to eat. Then, I did something I’d heard Lucky warn Lilyanne countless times not to do: Never disturb a dog when it is eating or chewing a bone. Even the gentlest will turn on you. 

         I disregarded his words like he’s always disregarded me, and patted Pace on the head. I don’t know how many times I did it because my hand was fluttering too fast to count, then my hand slowed, but I couldn’t stop. My fingernails dug behind his ears and Pace gave a growl, but it was a deep, satisfied growl, and he didn’t look up but kept eating and wagging his tail.

         I went inside with my bowl and cleaned the kitchen, then rushed out again to get Pace’s bowl. Lucky must never know I was doing this. I scrubbed it in the sink, then placed it on the top shelf of the dishwasher in case there were any niches I’d missed. When the cycle was over, I returned to his pen. Pace was lying on his side in the sun, belly distended. He raised his head and licked my hand.

         I started feeding him every day. Lucky began to wonder why he was gaining weight yet wouldn’t touch his Gravy Train, so I started getting up earlier and emptying the dry food in the trash. Lucky had no clue.

         Not only did I start giving Pace left-overs, I started cooking for him, too. Anything Lucky didn’t finish was fair game and then I began to fix extra bacon and fry bread in the drippings. I also mixed in raw eggs which would make his coat shine. Lilyanne’s twig and bark cereal went down the disposal because Pace is smart and would have nudged it out of his bowl. Then, I’d have to spray the kennel.

         Pace and I became friends. Actually, more than friends because our hearts were knitted together by a love that sprung from grief. Sometimes, I’d sit on the floor of the kennel — whether in my day clothes or still in my robe and nightgown—and talk to him. Pace would put his head in my lap while I scratched behind his ears. Some days I talked sense, some days I talked nonsense. Nothing I said was wrong because the warmth of his body told he was inclined to my words.

         I still kept the house clean and the meals cooked. No one had ever asked me what I did during the day, anyway. I’d like to say my interest in Pace cured me of my addiction to Contempo magazine or that I let my subscription run out, because I didn’t. It did cure the obsession. I was able to open it and browse like a normal person. I didn’t have to wipe the sweat from my palms first or spend the rest of the day wanting to kick apart antiques. Little by little, my habits began to change.

         The weather held into October and I spent even more time outdoors. I planted a hillside in daffodil bulbs and quit cleaning altogether. No one noticed except Lilyanne. She looked around and said, “Mom, this place looks normal. Can I have some friends over?” 

         One morning, when I was talking to Pace, I abruptly heaved his head out of my lap and walked out of the pen.

         Pace was a big dog and I knew he needed exercise, but I had to force him out of his run. Even when I left the kennel door open, he whined until I went back inside. Again, I decided on a course of action. His heart could hold much, but his heart also needed to be free. 

         There are many things I don’t know about life, but I know this much: life is loss and eventually you lose all. You lose your youth, the first flush of love, your kin; dreams go down the drain and sometimes your children go with them. They grow up, leave, and when they do, you know they’ll come to the same conclusions, though by a different path. Yet you keep going, day after day, because God wills it so.

         Pace needed to love something other than me. 

to be con’t.

©Joan Spilman, 2023. All right reserved.