“THE BOY AND THE DOG”

By

Bill Olson

© 1988 and 2001 Bill Olson                 

The boy lay on the damp golden sand, his eyes closed, his legs submerged in water.  A white German shepherd rested his head on the boy's belly.  The boy stroked the dog's fur, and Gene imagined a dozen fleas jumping, confused and frightened, into the air.  Perhaps they would circle desperately, trying to return to their homestead until the wind carried them away.  The fleas would journey forever and, delighted by new vistas, perhaps become thankful to the boy for scurrying them into action.

"Look there, Alex," Gene said, pointing to his nephew, Dave, and the dog who belonged to a farmer down the road.  "You should get your camera and take a picture of that.”

Gene relaxed in a lounge chair while the others were inside the cottage arguing.  Alex walked over to him and said, "I'm supposed to ask how you designed the brick walkway at your cottage.”

"You people argue about the damndest things.” 

"You’ve been part of it often enough.” 

Gene fidgeted with the magazine in his lap.  He hadn't been able to read it because the sun's glare reflecting off the pages hurt his eyes.  The old man looked up at his brother-in-law.

“My walkway will last years,” he said, “but that scene on the beach could end any second.” 

Its beauty made it precious in itself, he thought, but transience gave it meaning beyond words.  Gene’s age made him face mortality, and he did not like to waste any such gems of life.

"I'm not out here to take pictures,” Alex said; “I'm out here to get an answer.” 

"You're a slave!  They sent you out.  Why didn't your master come?”  Gene immediately regretted raising his voice; he didn't want to disturb his nephew or the dog.  From somewhere beside him, he heard Alex continue to make his demand.  Why did these people persist?  They'll never change. 

"Alex," he interrupted quietly, "You're an adult only on the basis of a number.”  There was silence. 

"What's that mean?” Alex demanded. 

"Alex, that's a special moment over there.  I'll answer your query after you take a picture.”  He pointed at the beach then looked.  Dave was getting up; the dog was walking home.  Gene lowered his arm and leaned back in the lounge chair.  He was stubborn and never said another word.  Alex, tense and angry, returned to the cottage. 

Dave waded in the shallows, a small area surrounded by lily pads and seaweed.  He reached his hand out slowly, poetically, like a ballet dancer.  Gene imagined a butterfly landing on the tiny fingertips.  But before this might've happened, Dave lowered his arm into the water as if to catch something.  Then his arm swayed back and forth in great but quiet swaths.  

Gene was much younger when he was at Long Lake on a particular sunny day.  It was in the autumn, soon after his wife had died in a car accident.  The treetops were shedding their leaves as he walked onto the dock outside a small tavern, wondering if it would be a good spot for fishing.  In the water was a sunfish, its side fins waving gently.  Then, quietly, poetically, like the way Dave had extended his hand, the fish swam off. 

Surely that fish must be dead by now, perhaps eaten by a small boy -- or an old man.  He thought it over and decided the fish had died of old age.  All beings deserved that: a natural, peaceful passing. 

A scream tore from the lake, and the water stormed in a torrent of splashes.  Was David drowning?  Gene leaned forward, ready to jump from his chair.  His first thought was that someone in a fishing boat had tossed a beer bottle overboard that had broken, and that the boy had cut his foot on it. 

"HELP!  SHARK!  SHARK!” 

Gene froze, watching his nephew running desperately onto shore.  Then he ran back, proclaiming confidently, "I'm Mike Pike, the shark-killer!” 

The uncle allowed himself to relax.  In a moment, he had leaned back and let out a tense breath.  His heart still beat profusely, and his hands were cold and shaking. 

"Goddamn little shit," he thought. 

Gene sat as still as he could.  There was a burning in his chest, a numbness in his arms.  Then he felt nauseous and became sweaty and weak.  The pain in his chest was like a tank farm exploding, the fires expanding, roaring, unwilling to be contained.

He felt the magazine fall from his grasp.  Perhaps it was falling forever through endless skies, its pages rustled by the wind.  For a while, the world disappeared and even he was no longer a part of reality.  What the hell was reality, anyway? he wondered.  He closed his eyes, trying to watch himself falling, along with the magazine, to whatever awaited.

His eyes opened and all was what he would tend to call normal: Dave sat alone on the beach, looking across the lake.  The arguing inside the cottage continued. 

He looked around at the cattails, the flowers and the tall grass.  He listened to the birds, the squirrels and the wind.  

He sat up, picked up the magazine and looked at it.  Then he set it down and walked to his car.  Once there, he rummaged through sacks and boxes until he found his camera.  He took it and began walking towards the woods.

"Where are you off to?” Alex called. 

Gene remembered the imaginary fleas scurried into action by Dave.  He smiled and shouted over his shoulder:

"I'm just following the wind.” 

-- Chippewa County, Wisconsin

     January 30, 1988 

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