I walked into the house and hugged my mom for the first time in 28 months. I was home for Thanksgiving although nobody had expected me. It felt good to be in the house filled with the smells that I knew all my childhood.
My father was stuck in Boston counting snowflakes in a blizzard that grounded his flight home along with the hopes of many families that wanted nothing more than to be together. My younger sister was out on a date and my even younger brother was working till midnight bussing tables.
The dog, Roxy, sniffed me suspiciously and stayed close to mom while we talked around the kitchen table. Mom had adopted her from the animal shelter to give Daniel something to do besides getting into adolescent criminal activities.
Roxy seemed worried. She didn't know me from Adam and viewed me as a threat. Noticing that the dog was apprehensive, I gave Mom plenty of space. Roxy was a purebred German Shepherd and although she weighed half of what I did, I sure didn't want to find out how sharp her teeth were.
Mom was flitting around a kitchen swamped with food awaiting her touches for the following day's feast. I could see the makings of every dish that had appeared on her table for the past 22 Thanksgivings. Even though my older brother and sister were half a country away, and Dad stuck in Boston, Mom plodded along preparing food as if they would be there. As I did then, I still wonder if every mom cooks Thanksgiving supper as if Patton's army is expected, and has the human genotype project identified the specific gene that impels the behavior.
A noise at the door made my heart thump about as fast as Roxy's tail wagged; Daniel was home!
Daniel and I were the best of friends and it was splendidly convenient that we were brothers. Little did I know that my brother now had a new best friend cause when I reached out to give him a brotherly poke on the shoulder, I found a vicious dog tearing flesh from my forearm.
A pandemonium broke out as I to climbed the drapes and Daniel fell to the floor belly laughing as Roxy tested the muscle tone of my backside. I was young, strong and firm, but Roxy's teeth penetrated Levis and glute's easily.
Daniel had grown since I last saw him and at 16, his size was impressive and I knew that some day soon in my life, I would be calling him, "sir". The last time I had seen him, I was bossing him around and telling him what to do... things were different now and Roxy contributed to that change.
Roxy and I became friends during the long weekend. Mom couldn't figure out where all the toll-house cookies were going, but Roxy and I hit it off well in the four short days. Roxy turned out to be a fairly intelligent animal that somehow knew she was with people that appreciated her cleverness.
I left the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend and went back to my life at the race-shop in Indianapolis. Did I say, "life"? I shouldn't have... the regimen of building and maintaining 200 mph Indycars sapped energy and emotion from me. To convince myself and my body that I was enthused, devoted, and dedicated to the "life", I abused amphetamines. Well into my fourth year of the one a day supplement regime, I decided it was wrong and left the whole mess behind.
I returned to my parent's house and explained what had been happening, what I was doing, and asked that they bear with me for a period while I de-toxed and restored some passion for living again.
It wasn't a pretty sight. Two or three months slipped past while I questioned everything that had been done, what I was doing, and what was next. I found work but was intensely dissatisfied by the requirements of the jobs and disgusted by the insignificance of everything I did.
Nights meant nothing other than darkness and few people to talk with. Finally, springtime arrived and I found relief and freedom walking with Roxy throughout the suburbs of Chicago while everyone slept.
Roxy and I had become close friends... Daniel was in his senior year in high school, worked long hours, and couldn't give Roxy the attention she was accustomed to.
Once, while at my uncle's house putting a roof on his house, I felt terror and fright from out of the blue. I carefully climbed down the ladder unsure of my bearings and foundation. His phone rang and my mother was frantic for me to come home and take Roxy to the vet after being hit by a car.
The trip to the vet was more curative for me than the dog who had only a scrape on her nose and a new dislike of Coup de Villes. The dog would be fine and so would I; I knew I could care again, and that was important.
From then on, everything started clicking again and I fell into a humdrum routine that satisfied me tremendously. I enjoyed that I could smile again. I saw the sunsets and looked forward to sleep... I was closer to normal than dread!
That dog saved me! Roxy stuck with me and accepted me when nobody else could, or should have... at least that's what I thought. Four years had past and I had finally regained what I had lost somewhere along the way.
I leaned over and thanked Roxy curled up next to me on the floor. She awoke from her sleep and groaned in a way that made me realize that even this was trivial to her. While I was busy questioning everything, she was accepting. When I was struggling to find veracity, she was amused by its simplicity.
I took a job I had been eyeing for a while until I could accept the challenge and responsibilities. I loved the work although it took more time than Roxy appreciated. Soon she began to wander the streets late at night without me. She had figured out how to open the basement door and leave through the cellar entrance.
Many times I sat concerned that she was lost, or run over, or picked up by someone. A few times, the police called to say they had her and to come get her. She was always glad to see me and grinned at me while growling at the officers as we headed out the station door.
She came home wet sometimes in the summer which amazed me in the fact that the nearest pond was miles away. More than once she strutted home with blood and rabbit fur on her coat. On the rare nights when I stayed out in the garage working on an antique restoration job, she would crawl under the old Model A and nip at me until I came in to the house. She was a smart dog staying awake so long as anyone with the ability to open the 'frig and possibly drop a tasty morsel her way was up.
Her late night ventures became more frequent and extended as the summer progressed. I went out after her every night she was gone too long but never could find her until I returned to the house where she was usually curled up on the back stoop. I was glad to see her, relieved she was ok, and grinned knowing she was having fun wherever she was going on her forays.
As I had dreaded and inevitably expected, Roxy didn't make it home one night. I was beside myself. I paced the alley, checked all the places I thought she might be, called the police, and finally took a post in the Lazy-Boy to wait and fret what might have happened. I left the cellar door open for her to come back into the house if she ever did make it back, turned on the TV, and sat wondering if a dog should command the tears that were running down my cheeks.
I watched the only station that was still on the air and tried to find humor in the late night scheduling. I normally enjoyed the 4:30 a.m. airing of The Twilight Zone, followed by a 5 minute chat with a cleric of whatever religion had their turn to talk to me, and then would normally have giggled aloud as the station started a new broadcast day with another episode of Rod Serling's warped humor.
That night, I found little entertainment in "The Zone" and was dismayed to realize that I actually wanted to hear what the preacher of the night was saying. I switched the tube off and resigned myself to mourning the loss of my best friend on earth.
I sat in the chair overcome with despair. I feared I might slip back into the paralyzing depression that Roxy had helped me to escape if she was indeed gone. The terror of those awful nightmares crept back to me and gripped me for but a moment when I heard the clickitty-click of Roxy's toenails climbing the wooden basement staircase. I sat still and saw her bounce into the light of the living room while emotions rose to a friendlier level.
In her mouth, was a huge bone... about the length of my upper leg! It was a femur but she didn't care what it was, nor that I was awake waiting for her. She went past me, around to the corner of the couch, and deposited the bone behind it where she hid all her "treasures". Without missing a beat, or so much a look to say, `how do you do,' she made a bee-line for the basement stairs to evidently resume the excavation of the rest of the bone pile she had come across.
Calling to her, I saw her ears rise to register that she had heard me, but she continued on her way. A second, more deliberate command stopped her in her tracks this time and made her turn back to me. She approached grinning as if to say she had been having a grand time that night. I patted her on the side and went to my bed delighted to have her back.
The next day, I read in the paper that the local police were called to a local cemetery that had been vandalized and the remains of someone dead 11 years had been disturbed. I looked at Roxy, showed her the accompanying photo, and laughed as she wagged her tail and flashed the grin I saw the night before she returned to sharpening here teeth on her new "treasure".