by Lee Gomer
April, 2000
The old man trudges slowly along the frontage road, a small woolly dog straining at a leash held tightly in the old man’s hand. The dog chokes from the pressure on her throat but continues to lunge forward. The old man calls her name, bends down and reasons with her, quietly, and jostles her ears to calm her down. There is much to excite the dog who sniffs each anthill, each weed, which must hold the aroma of an earlier dog passer-by. Adventure beckons everywhere. The breeze brings new smells of more and more unknown and curious aromas which must be tasted. The world for her is so immense, so interesting, so wonderful.
She very carefully selects the exact spot to wet her territorial boundaries. Places six or eight markers at the precise corners. Sniffs to assure herself of their correctness, and trots on. She charges into thick weeds along the fence, and comes out limping, and looks up for help. The old man bends down, pick up her hind paw, and feels the pad. She lets him feel her teeth on his hand, not biting, just pressure enough to let him know it’s hurting a little. Her eyes are on him, adoring, completely trusting, as he probes between her pads for a small stone or sticker embedded there. It’s removed and she trots on, wagging her tail.
I am unsure if this is the entire piece. I will double-check the hard copy and finalize it very soon.
I love the simple description, the beautiful flow, the tenderness with which he writes of caring for his dog's paw. The love Gramps had for his "Dogdog" just radiates from this piece ... warmly enough to moisten my eyes.
ReplyDeletePeople are always telling me what a good writer I am, and I always long to fan out Lee's rumpled collection of passages, point to them, and say "If that's true, here's the reason why."
Does anyone have a good pic of The Old Man and his Dog that I can post here to accompany this one? Let me know.