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The Dog, Called Fred

Jacob LePretre

    The footpath, or what he used to call the goat path with Jimmy Jr., led from the back wooden steps out through the fields to the border of the 90 acres he called home. The footpath opened into the rolling hills in the north and at the top of those hills, was a small pine forest. From those hills you could see the entire county. The blue backdrop, the green fields, streams running like snakes. Everything that was anything could be seen from here. He and Jimmy Jr. used to make the journey often, but that was a long time ago.
    The dog, called Fred, sniffed and stalked ahead of him, halting every ten steps to sniff and squeeze out four drops of urine. The old man watched his old dog carry on his old routine. This was his land, and he still knew it, no matter what they were saying about him.
    The deed called it Jim Sr.’s land. He got it from his daddy and his daddy bought it after the war. 500 acres. Now down to the shrinking 90 but it’s still their land, his and the dog. All a man needs.
    He started breakfast when the sun was a light purple in the east. He prepared fried ham and four eggs. He never could make an egg quite like Clare could and after the first few bites he had no appetite and he gave the plate to the dog. The dog gulped it full and looked for more. Jim Sr. tossed him another chunk of ham.
    Besides the dog, he brought a tin can of pistachios in case he was hungry on the return journey and a bag of dried jerky he and the dog would share at the top. He carried his old revolver filled with the six slugs and a jug of water tied with rope at each end and slung over his side. And of course, his hat and walking stick. To add to it all, he snuck a tin of tobacco into his pocket, as he once did when Clare was around. She hated the stuff and he’d be out a kiss for a week if she caught him. He quit the habit once she was gone, but he might take a chew today. Why the hell not.
    He set out just after sunrise and hoped to be there just after the afternoon sun started its descent. That way they might nap under the pines together before he must do what must be done and make the walk back home.
    Now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever make it back. Every step was a second. As time changes so do faces. His wife, his son. He walked on with flooded memories of happy times he longed for. Days gone that he ached for, no worse way to live. He made it a quarter of the way along the path and to the side of him, in the fields down to the west, he saw a trio of backhoe tractors firing up, getting ready to push the soil and rearrange the land. Land his family used to call their own. Land being turned not for crop but for big houses with underground pools that the town’s been so excited about. Those pools need plenty of room, of course.
    Once upon a time those fields were filled with horses. This was before he was five but he remembered the horses. My oh my, he loved a pretty horse. Then when horses boomed around the country, they moved onto cattle. Cattle were tough though, big bulls and brutes and they scared his momma that he would get trampled so his daddy settled with sheep. And Jim Sr. kept sheep up until he had to sell the rest of the flock, that was last fall.
    He watched the gray splotches on Fred’s fur dart back and forth, looking for bunnies in the brush. If only Fred knew the difference between Mrs. Harper’s bunnies and these wild ones. Two weeks ago Fred got into the neighbor’s pen and had a field day in his old age. How would he know any better? Afterall, Mrs. Harper’s land used to be his land and he was always taught to fetch rabbits. Some things are just impossible to teach animals, like the law of the changing world.
    Jim Sr. stopped for a sip of water and checked this progress with the sun. He was doing just fine. Fred bound up beside him now and Jim Sr. pet his old soft head, feeling the outline of his skull beneath the thin skin.
    That’s a good old boy, Jim Sr. said.
    The dog, called Fred, wagged his tail and bounded off for a rabbit once more.
    Damn good boy, said Jim Sr. again.
    In his youth, the pup would have four rabbits by now, maybe even five. How anyone could think this pup had the blood or the stalk of a wolf amazed him. People are always amazing these days. One can suppose they always have been.
    The pair of good old boys carried on, walking as two do with nowhere to be. Jim Sr. watched the old mutt scurrying ahead. He watched the clouds and behind the clouds the open blue sky. The sun beamed down and a nice breeze pet the brush and pushed the heat far away. It was a fine day, the ones you hope for all the time. He could make out the top of the rolling hills now. And the pines further up, that would make for a nice and well deserved nap.
    Jim Sr. was always content with walking and doing nothing, just looking around at whatever drew his eyes. On this trip, he couldn’t stop looking from the backhoes to the west and his pup lolling ahead of him. Something just wasn’t right and something moved in his stomach that made Jim Sr. glad he didn’t eat any much breakfast. He figured the breakfast would come roaring back, like a whiskey shot did to him at the county fair. He was never much of a drinker and that was a good thing, as some of his friends used to tell him when they’d visit the watering hole.
    Jim stopped and took his tin of tobacco. He formed a nice sized clump between his fingers. It was stale and dry. He fixed it in his mouth, waited half a minute and let a dark glob of spit fall in the grass on the side of the goat path. He smiled as the nicotine rushed through his head. It had been over ten years since his last chew, that’s a long time for a man to quit a habit and a longer time for a man to be alone. He almost fell over when the glass shards broke his gums. Wouldn’t that be a fun one for the obit?
    One of the backhoe tractors was moving further north. He stopped and shook his head and spit again. He wondered how far north they were going. That was the first thing out of the ordinary. He thought he might stop by the sheriff again. Though, he knew the sheriff has had enough of him. That made Jim Sr. laugh. It was good to laugh, that never changed. And if there’s another thing that doesn’t change either, he and the law would always be on different sides. So thank the good Lord he wasn’t a drinker.
    The second event out of the ordinary were the two empty beer cans he found on the path. He wondered where they came from. It was a newer and cleaner can. It was a beer he never drank, besides he was never much of a drinker. He thought, teenagers, and spit again. He picked up the cans and tipped them over, emptying the last drops of beer. He set them down and on his fourth try, he crushed the cans under the heel of his foot and put them in his pocket.
    The reaper’s time runs and changes everything, even the good people, he said aloud. Kids have no respect for the outdoors or the elders or even themselves. I’m sure Mrs. Harper would even agree with me there.
    The dog, called Fred, barked in agreement.
     Jim Sr. continued his journey and as they got closer and closer to the top of the roaring hills he found more and more empty beer cans along with cigarette butts and plastic cups and condoms and emptied bags of chips. By the time he reached the top and with the pines close enough to smell, the pines he’d known since he was a boy, he had his pockets and arms full of trash. At the top, he let everything fall and he too fell to a knee.
    They had been here too. They had been at the top of the hills. They had camped and drank and destroyed this sacred place. They had even left a tent. Fred came to his side and the old man put his wet face into the dog’s gray fur.
    Just two old mutts, he said and the dog, called Fred, barked in agreement. Just two old mutts.
    Jim Sr. made himself walk around again, checking the damage like a good old detective will do. They cut down two small pines with an ax and beheaded the trees for firewood. They tried to cut down six large ones but couldn’t, leaving the trees bleeding and scarred and standing.
    There was no way he could take down every beer can and bit of garbage on the hills and between the trees. He would be better off going back home and getting a big bag to collect everything.
    Home, he thought. Home. The floodgates opened, rushes of sadness.
    He decided to sit on the edge of the hill and pines and he called over old Fred and they watched the backhoes far below off in the fields to the west. Moving the land. Sculpting it as they saw fit.
    The sky behind the land was an open blue curtain, so bright it made his eyes run wet again. The grass fields below were so green and so pretty. The land was so pretty. Except for where the backhoes worked. That was only black.
    Jim Sr. took out his tin of tobacco and formed another chew in his mouth. He took the jerky and gave it to Fred. He scanned the horizon and hoped to see a couple of horses grazing somewhere off in the open but he found none. He felt the revolver resting on his left hip. He threw one of the crushed beer cans from his pocket down the hill and watched it fall against the earth.
    Man and man’s best friend sat on the hilltop, chewing. Chewing back and forth. Over and over again.
    Chewing would never be different, Jim Sr. said aloud.
    And after that, he added, I wonder if anyone will walk up here to grab two old mutts like us. He shook his head. I don’t think so, he said and he gave the rest of the jerky to the dog and he went back to looking and chewing.
    At least, Jim Sr. said after the sun peaked down the sky, we’ll make some birds damn happy.
    The dog, called Fred, barked in agreement.

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