An Unexpected Inheritance

I worked one summer in the wilderness for an old-timer named Dinty. Dinty lived on an isolated homestead that had been pieced out of the surrounding national forest – "guvment land," as Dinty used to call it. It was a unique work opportunity for me, as Dinty lived in a roadless area with no phone, no electricity, and no running water. The best way I could describe his lifestyle is Honest Rustic. No frills and no complaints. Just plain ol' hard work in the midst of paradise.

I never could get the story straight as to how Dinty ended up living in the middle of so much unspoiled land. He explained it to me once over my first game of cribbage. I being a newbie to cribbage, Dinty was teaching me how to play. I wasn’t able to fully follow the yarn he was spinning about the property’s lineage – so busy was I trying to figure out what the hell “15-2, 15-4, 15-6, and there ain’t no more” was supposed to mean.

[It turned out Dinty was a bit of a rule bender when it came to cribbage, taking creative license and springing new rules on me all the time whenever I tried to move my little red peg forward and past one of his blue pegs. I was so confused by his ever-changing rules that I still don’t know how to play the game.]

His tiny cabin was perched on a rocky outcropping high above the lake – a location which dramatically increased the view from the cabin, but which also made the chore of hauling water from the lake below quite the daily feat. That’s where I came in as Dinty’s Personal Hired Girl.

My other tasks were diverse: split wood and kindling for the cookstove, buck up any tree limbs that had fallen in the vicinity of the cabin, make coffee in the morning, haul water from the lake, forage for mushrooms, prove myself a worthy opponent in our daily game of backgammon or cribbage or chess, and pour Dinty a generous scotch and water promptly at 5:00 pm.

We received our mail once a week. I remember watching Dinty put the previous week's newspapers in chronological order to avoid any spoilers as to what was happening in the world. I was to feed the dog but not Dinty. For that, Dinty took pride in still being able to navigate the tiny cabin’s designated cooking area. Also, I was a vegetarian and he wasn't.

Dinty lived his spartan life in his cabin above the lake with his beloved Airedale – the only breed of dog that Dinty would entertain sharing his cabin with. Dinty named every one of his Airedales Sandy “for that durned dog in the Little Orphan Annie cartoon.”

Dinty called all his different Airedales “Sandy” to the dog’s face, back, or rear, but for the rest of us common folk? We were instructed to use the Roman numeral system to differentiate, as if the dogs were some kicked-to-the-curb, unfairly-disinherited royalty of some ill-fated canine lineage. It didn’t matter if the dogs were male or female, as the name Sandy was one of those non-gender names like Chris or Jessie or Pat.

I happened to be working for Dinty the summer that Sandy VI was reigning over the homestead. Now I am an absolute and epic dog lover, but I would not say that I was a fan of Sandy VI that summer. The first time I met the dog, she didn’t do anything outwardly menacing such as growl a rumble in my direction or show her teeth. She just gave me a wary whale-eye every time I came into the cabin. Sometimes she bristled like a hedgehog. Clearly, I was on her and Dinty’s turf, and she kept me on high alert.

Dinty and I would be playing a mid-afternoon game of backgammon and, if I moved my foot just-so under the table, Sandy VI would snap at my foot like the terra-firma version of Jaws. Me being an exceedingly quick learner – I always made it a habit to don my knee-high Wescos before engaging in any board games, partaking of meals, or drinking a scotch with Dinty at the appointed hour. You never knew when that crazy dog was going to wake up from some nutty dream and sink its teeth into your ankle or leg.

Dinty was a dedicated coffee drinker like I was, so there was no messing around when it came to get the pot percolating in the morning. I would build a fire, grab the water pails, and head down the path to the lake for fresh water. Sandy would watch me from the front porch with her beady eyes trained on me. Eventually, she would leave the porch and follow me down to the dock where I would fill the buckets.

Returning with the water was a different matter. I always felt like I had a decided advantage in that I was carrying protection. It was evident that one of my predecessors from Dinty’s hired-girl entourage had baptized the dog at least once, as Sandy VI kept her distance while I sloshed up the hill, a water pail in each hand.

I am surprised to say that that dog actually grew on me in a begrudging sort of way. There was something about the tenacity and fierceness that she directed toward life. That summer, Sandy VI was bitten by a rattle snake, kicked in the head by a pack horse, and turned up lost for a week, presumably on the other side of the ridge. I watched from the cabin as some stranger, who must have found her along the lakeshore, boated her back to Dinty’s dock and dropped her off with nary a howdy doo to Dinty. He probably was so glad to be rid of her that he didn’t wait around for any thanks for her safe return.

During one particularly extravagant thunder and lightning storm, Sandy VI jumped over three ricks of split firewood in the woodshed and then, no longer motivated by her terror, couldn’t conjure the energy to jump back over to freedom. It took an afternoon of taking apart the entire woodpile and then restacking it to liberate her. My thanks? She just went tearing off into the yard, barking at the sky and daring it to throw another lightning bolt her way.

The sun rose and set in Sandy VI for Dinty. As for me, what was the big deal? Having to wear tall Wesco lace-ups for an entire blistering summer? Was it really that bad wondering if my hand was going to be snarfed off when I went to fill her food bowl? Or how about those daily chess games at lunchtime when my legs would go to sleep for fear of moving them and having my boots gnawed at? No, it was all good in a "what doesn't kill me makes me strong" sort of way.

My hired-girl gig was over in late September, and I gave Dinty a hug on the front porch before I left. Despite my on-and-off thing with his beloved Sandy VI, you couldn’t help but love Dinty. A man who kept to himself, chose solitude over the madding crowd, and lived the life he had chosen for himself without complaint. I felt some tears roll down my cheeks as I gave him one last hug.

As I turned toward the trail down to the lake with my gear, Dinty called out, “You know. You’re the only one who made it through the whole season.”

I think I could have told him why, when I saw Sandy eyeing me from the porch at his side. But I learned one important lesson. Never judge a man by the canine company he keeps. There is disparity all over the world that we don’t understand, and this was one of those moments when I felt as if it all made sense. Companionship sometimes trumps a smidge of unpleasantness.

At that compliment/confession, I stopped and held my hand up to acknowledge that I had heard. But I didn’t turn around. Had I done so, I would have had to witness Dinty standing there, alone, with his Sandy pacing the porch in front of him. I kept my eyes looking forward to the dock and the pick-up boat that was going to take me back to the land of roads, cars, light switches, and grocery stores.

Dinty and I exchanged letters after that season. Two years later, I received an official-looking letter that I almost discarded as junk mail. Turns out it was from a lawyer’s office. The letter instructed me to call, as I had been noted as an heir of Dinty’s estate. I called the office, wondering what the heck, only to learn that Dinty had passed and that I had inherited – wait for it – Sandy VI. The lawyer read a brief note that Dinty had left saying that I was the only other person that Sandy had loved.

I gassed up my car and drove halfway across the state to the kennel where the poor dog was temporarily incarcerated. She was all alone and missing her only master in the entire world. I thought it was the most pathetic thing I had ever seen. She recognized me or my scent or something, and I moved toward the kennel door. When I took one look at that dejected mess of heart-heavy dog in that kennel, I started to cry and reached for the leash I had brought with me.

Somehow, and I don’t know how, Sandy VI and I came to an understanding. It was a pretty good set up for both of us. I was living in some dinky cabin at the time, and Sandy VI was lucky to have acres where she could run and be a benign terror to the county. We eventually found an uneasy and almost-loving truce, but I was still aware of her presence whenever she was under the kitchen table. Some habits die hard.

Can I just say it? I was never able to truly love Sandy VI in the same ways that Dinty had. Being such an avid dog lover, I am surprised that I am even admitting such a thing, but it’s true. Nothing like the fear of canine incisors in your body to remind you that you are not someone’s first and only love. I could never replace Dinty, but I came pretty close in the ways of providing a beautiful place for Sandy VI to retire and live her last days.

I still have that pair of Wescos in the back of my closet. Yes, this could qualify me as a hoarder, as I no longer live or work in the woods . . . but those boots speak to a time when I was young enough to have the world at my traveling fingertips and dumb enough to think that taking on an inherited dog would include a Hollywood moment or two.

Truth? There were no Hollywood moments with Sandy VI. But I feel that I did the right thing by rescuing her and giving her a wonderful home. I honored Dinty’s final wishes and I must have paid something forward, as I have adopted many wonderful and loving dogs since then.

There are those times in our lives when we do the right thing, and it doesn’t feel like much of a reward at the time. Maybe rewards have a way of sneaking up on you. But I think that this is probably the reward within itself: learning to love, even when it isn’t easy, and doing right by someone who did right by you.