Best Entry in Prose

Spot
Jon Idman '04

He left the yard, then the cul-de-sac, behind but still close enough to be with me. Off the blacktop, out of the neighborhood, onto the dirt path, consistently a few paces behind. If I rode slower, or faster, the distance between us remained the same. I thought that he'd followed me, and I felt responsible for what might happen to him, not aware yet that he'd awoken for the last time independent, with new-found resolve. Strange that he had left at all; if he even moved, it was usually only to settle himself behind one, then the shade of another, yew that comprised the foundation hedge, furrowing underneath.

And why should he go anywhere? We calculated his age at one hundred and nineteen but he seemed even older; what had been a mutt's congenital limp had become the willful dragging of paws overcoming ground; one jellied eye wept, maybe in part from sadness, but more likely as an undiagnosed symptom of physical aging; his coat was still surprisingly soft but its white had yellowed and the black had grayed; And then there was his neck; an indication of his trials before he retired with us. He had been tethered to a crabapple tree that dwarfed a meager house; beside him, a bald-tire swing whose rich history of recreation was long past. The family in residence had forgotten about him, needy themselves, and that rope which tethered him sank deeper with his every protestation for freedom; through his fur, into his neck, under his skin until he surrendered. Infection silenced any further protests. When we took him away the angry mess of his neck belied his resignation. Never collared again, thickened with scars, he healed into a profound equanimity.

In the years following, he didn't require much. He was old then, older now, and wasn't very playful. Not mean spirited, but branded by survival. He avoided crowds and the activity that usually accompanies them. His regularity betrayed him this morning, though. He'd never come this far with me, to the dirt path and beyond. Never, since we'd moved to this low-rooved, populous tract where I'd daily delivered 32 newspapers along the passage I traveled again today. And between deliveries, the dirt path led to the line the rail once ran, connecting the clusters of houses. The line had been paved for bicycles now, but an occasional spike that poked from the culverts on either side, and the trail being so true and flat, evidenced its prior history. The spindly branches of old oaks vaulted the paved path and gave it the shaded feel of a tunnel. Standing at a point you could see an approach from nearly two miles on account of the path's straightness. I wasn't expecting anyone this morning; I certainly hadn't expected an approach from behind. But there he was…

The tourist season had ended, school had begun and this was the first cold day after summer, signifying Fall's arrival. This morning I had worn a second sweatshirt. I placed each newspaper crease up into my canvas shoulder bag while watching the early weather report. It was a morning that I was aware of my breath fun like steam, exhaust with each pedal pump; twigs and ochre leaves crackled under tire. I had a mile on this path before I would take a left to the next cluster of homes, the intersection marked by what had been the old depot, now a lumber mill.

Observing us, someone may have thought we were together — A heartwarming scene, teamwork, friendship; a boy and his dog — that this was a daily ritual well choreographed. But he had never seen these places nor had he ever wanted to; the fishing hole; the cranberry bogs not yet flooded; the sand pits.

"Go home," I said as he continued. The tone went from casual to panicked the longer he trailed. "Go home!" again and again; like "Red light, green light..." I would stop, dismount, my bag of papers threatening to topple me, alternately walk, ride, jog, looking front then back, but always moving forward. But he continued steadfast in step. Strangely I had never considered turning around, walking him home. Against my wishes, he seemed to know what he was doing. Neither lost nor confused, but resolute, directed, and, as I see now, not altogether odd behavior for one who ultimately wanted to be left in peace. He maintained the distance between us, desirous to remain behind. I began to realize that, if anything, I'd been interrupting him. Selfishly, I regretted having to witness what was fast, apparently, his privacy. A child, I'd felt the same way before, embarrassed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; observing something I had no right to.

We'd come nearly to the intersection, the skeleton of a large timber trestle on the left. The space between us now widened. When I would turn back, he no longer moved forward but to the side. I cornered, and turning again for the last time, he disappeared marching into the scrubby pines. I told myself I would get him when I returned, not believing a word of my responsible inner voice…

Ancient people created stories to give meaning to the otherwise dark and void, as here, to explain what compels the sentient, the living to seek a place for their final resting, even if it seems completely out of character, and would not matter any way.

So this is, what I say, happened. "Tired, disappointed by a long life without control, a dog dreamt of tar pits and ancestors. He awoke, set out, and was escorted to the place of which he had dreamed. He came to the shore of the pits to be preserved, and started to sink. Heavy, warm, slowly, comforted by the words, "go home, go home."