Boots

Boots

I got the call from the boss on my walkie talkie. I thought, “What did I do now? Or maybe forgot to do.” If he calls, I’m usually in trouble. Being a foreman in a huge scrap yard keeps me busy. Having a boss who can somehow breathe down my neck from a quarter mile away in his air-conditioned office by just pushing a “talk” button keeps me stressed.

So, I hear his static voice, “You busy?”

“Of course not. I’m drinking Champagne in the hot tub. How about you?”

He likes my sense of humor. Sometimes. It’s always worth a try.

So, he explains, “One of the truck drivers saw some sick, mangy dog wandering into the yard. He’s afraid the dog will get run over by a truck or loader. Looks like it’s on his last legs stumbling around. Go find it and see if you can get it in your truck or something. Then call me.”

“Shouldn’t I call animal control? They probably need to put it out of its misery. Might have rabies.”

“Hey Brett. If I wanted animal control snooping around I would have called them myself. Be a big boy and do what I told you to do.”

I mumbled to myself, “This is just great.” I found the truck driver and asked where he’d seen the sick mutt. Then I got in my pickup and headed toward the front gate. Sure enough there it was. Barely taking steps. Leaning to one side, stumbling, filthy dirty. A pathetic sight to see. Just a hairy, mangled bag of bones that looked hungry, thirsty and ready to trip through death’s door.

“Crap. What am I doing?” My deer rifle is in the truck. I could do this poor creature a favor, put it down right here and have this item off my “To Do List” real quick-like. I open the passenger door, look at the dog and then notice the jug of water I keep on the floorboard. There’s an empty pie tin there, too. Don’t ask. I like sweets.

Next thing I know, and I still don’t completely know why, I have a pan of cool water and I’m approaching this pathetic rack of bones with a lot of caution. I put my heavy welding gloves on just in case mind you. “You thirsty? You ain’t gonna bite me, are ya?”

They say barking dogs don’t bite. This one couldn’t whimper. That gave me some consternation. Finally, I sat that pan inches from its nose. The stupid mutt just looked at me. Looked at the pan of water. Licked its lips and swaying like a drunk stared at me.

I could tell it was thirsty. Heck, I was thirsty standing there in the heat. “Go ahead idiot. Drink. It’s for you.” That’s what it took. Didn’t need to be asked twice. I knew exactly how that dog felt. Lapping it up the way I go after an icy cold one at the end of a 10-hour day in the hot sun.

That’s when I saw the hunk of chain dangling from its neck and the sores it had caused. He looked up from the water pan and we locked eyes. Nope it wasn’t a “he.” It was a she. Her eyes cloudy, sad, probably half blind. “Was that good? Bet you’re hungry too.”

Within a minute I dropped my two baloney sandwiches into the pan. The stray looked at them, hesitated, then looked at me as if to say, “Is this for me?”

“At least you have good table manners. Go for it, gal.” The contents of the pan disappeared.

Okay, I ain’t no Einstein but I do remember hearing that if a mutt had rabies, it would be freaked out by water and foaming at the mouth. This mutt was none of those things. I reached out to touch her. She didn’t flinch.

“You ready to go for a little ride?” I didn’t see any objection. Not sure if she trusted me, or simply didn’t have the energy.

It took a little work but I got her into the cab of my pickup. I’d thought about just putting that filthy mutt in the bed of the truck but what the heck. I had an old blanket to put on the seat and felt like if this was her last trip she deserved it.

Then I called the Boss. “I got your mangy mutt. Now what?”

“It’s not my mutt. Stop by the office. I’ll give you money for some dog food. You can take it home with you and take care of it. Nurse it back to health if you can.”

“What the…? No way. I don’t need a dog. I don’t want a dog. And I sure as heck don’t want this dog.”

The boss’s calm voice came softly over the radio. When he’s calm you don’t want a storm a brewing, you just listen. “Brett, hit the replay button on what I just said. Did I ask you if you want a dog?”

“No Sir.”

“Then you gonna do what I asked?”

“Yes Sir.”

I had no intention to take that pathetic mutt home. I figured I’d take it to the pound and drop it off. No one will be the wiser. It will all be forgotten. The day was most over when I stopped at the office, the boss came out to see the dog in my truck and handed me two twenties. “She doesn’t look so bad, Brett. I’ve seen you date worse.” My boss thinks he’s a real comedian sometimes.

I checked my phone for the nearest animal shelter. Looking for Dog Pound only gave me a local beer joint. Which didn’t sound half bad with the temperature in the 90’s. I turned the AC on high and the cold air began to fill the cab. As I pulled out of the front gate and onto the main highway I tweaked up the radio a little.

AM classic country stations have a way of talking to me sometimes. Most times it’s background noise I don’t pay much attention to. Like the night it was raining on the way home and Willie Nelson was singing about “Blue eyes crying in the rain.” I have brown eyes and paid it no mind. Until I got home to find my wife had emptied the bank account, taken the kids, and moved to her mom’s.

That wakeup call was what I needed to start being a better husband and dad. To stop seeing everything as a burden and realize it was a blessing. I’ll be danged if Willie wasn’t singing that tune to me once again. And then next thing I know, that stinking flea sack of a mutt put her head on my lap.

Later as I pulled into the animal shelter parking lot she hadn’t moved, sleeping. I listened to her breath as I browsed through my phone. There was a vet 20 minutes away. “What the heck. You’re probably going to die anyway. Look at you. Big clumps of fur missing. I should just drop you off and be done with you. You’re not my problem.”

The vet was washing her hands. The scrawny mutt stared at me from the exam table after getting an expensive bath to deal with the mites that had infected her coat. Was I imagining it or was this stray pooch wanting me to compliment her like my wife does after spending money at the hairdresser’s?

“Your dog needs some care. I’d guess she’s about ten years old, but she’ll get better. She’s obviously been through a lot. I gave her the shots she needs. She’s malnourished. The worm medicine will help. The bath will take care of the mites. In a couple weeks her fur will be coming back. Burn any old bedding. Bring her next week so I can give her a checkup. There was no name tag or collar, just that chain on her neck. You thought about a name for her?”

“First off, it’s not my dog. Just some stray I got stuck with. Right now I got a bunch of names and none of them are something I’d say in mixed company.”

“Mr. Clancy, the whole time I examined her she never made a fuss. She focuses all her attention on you. It’s like you’re the only person in this room for her. Dogs are an excellent judge of character. She’s got you figured out. Your bark is a lot worse than your bite. She trusts you. And guess what? Because of that, so do I.”

The mutt was still weak as I helped her up the porch steps and into the house. I took off my dirty work boots and left them outside. The wife and kids were less than impressed with the new visitor. As I sat at the kitchen table trying to explain how I ended up with some dang mangy dog my youngest asked, “What are we gonna call her?”

I looked down at the dog now laying across my feet and thought for a moment. “Boots! She’s my boots.”

The new motor for my fishing boat had to wait a few more months. I spent what I’d saved on vet bills. I was right though. I didn’t want a dog. Didn’t need some dang dog.

I did need Boots. I can set a plate of food on the coffee table; Boots won’t touch it. She’s got better manners than most people I know. If I talk, she listens to every word.

When I’m working on my truck she’s right there laying at my feet. Or when I’m mowing the yard, she’s laying on the porch watching my every move. I found out while I’m at work that dang dog lays by the front door most of the day waiting for me to get home. When I take the trash out, she has to tag along. If I get up in the middle of the night, I have to be careful not to step on her because she sleeps on the floor on my side of the bed.

On a chilly Saturday morning before the sun comes up if I’m hooking the fishing boat to my pickup, Boots is right there ready to jump in the cab. I pack extra sandwiches for the trip. She got tired of my baloney long ago. Typical female I guess. So now it’s Black Forest Ham most times. She’s my fishing buddy. She gets more excited when I reel one in than I do. I have to be careful if I throw the small ones back, too. I quietly let them go off the side of the boat. The first time I tossed one back she jumped in the lake to fetch it for me.

In the chilly wintertime, when I’m watching TV, she’s laying on my feet keeping them warm and toasty. People who hear this story tell me I rescued Boots.

I just tell them, “Nope, I finally found boots that fit me."

The End