An Old Side Door
(Previously released – Life Above the Foothills.)
A few years back, a brown Labrador decided our front porch was the right place to be. I had walked out from the side door, tackle box and fishing pole in one hand and my thermos of coffee in the other, when I spotted him.
I put my gear down and took a thought-filled sip from my coffee, then walked up to him to see if he was injured, lost, or both. His tail wagged just enough to let me know that he knew it wasn’t his porch, but is it okay if I hang out for a while? I checked his red collar for tags and then him for injuries, and both showed me nothing. So, I gave him a bowl of water, a couple of head pets, and words of encouragement while I picked up my gear, grabbed my coffee, and headed up to Crelin lake.
I was about two steps in when his head popped up, and he just stared at me. About ten steps in, he was on all fours, and without making a sound, he asked me if it was all right for him to tag along and see where this new adventure might take him.
I wasn’t halfway up the driveway, and he was already happily hesitant, with his tail wagging a few feet behind me. By the end of the driveway, we were best friends till the day he passed away about eight years later.
When we returned from our first fishing trip together later that day, I was bumping him with my knee, and he was leaning into each bump. Then, with the house in sight, he took the lead as we walked down the now-familiar driveway.
He stopped between the front porch and side door, looked back at me, then laid down as if he was giving me the final decision on how to end a good day. Left means he goes back to the front porch, where life is uncertain. Go right, and although life is still unsure, it brings love.
I did mention eight years, didn’t I? Of course, we walked in the side door.
But it could have gone south in a hurry because although he had no tags, he did have that red collar, and that meant that he had an owner out there somewhere. So, the dreaded call to Gate 8 to ask Mary if anybody had lost a brown lab was made. My heart sank when she told me that she might know who the owners were.
She did. A meeting was set up, and the owners came over to pick up my new fishing buddy later that afternoon. When they pulled up, that old dog didn’t want to have anything to do with them and stood behind me, head sunk down but defiant.
They coached him to come over and yelled his name a dozen times, calling him Copper, but whatever was going on…Copper had enough. He wasn’t budging from my side. After getting a feel of the situation, I told them that he obviously didn’t want to go anywhere right now, and he was good to hang out for a while if that was alright. Then, in a surreal moment, I heard a voice asking me if I would like to keep him. Before the thought of a second thought could have a chance to enter the minds of the previous owners, me and my new fishing buddy slipped through the side door with him leading the way, and our next adventure in life had begun.
Over the years, Coco became a fan favorite and was legendary for his strolls up to the lake. He had a half-dozen stops to make on his way from the old side door of the house to the lake, stopping for head pets and treats or an occasional nap on a welcoming neighbor’s front porch.
I would send him out the door while the coffee was still brewing and meet up with him later at the lake for a couple of hours of lazy, carefree fishing. On the walks back home, I would gather stories from the neighbors about the morning events, with each conversation ending with the same question, “Are you guys going fishing tomorrow?” in hopes of another Coco visit.
One day, I couldn’t make it up to the lake, but it didn’t stop Coco from letting his intentions be known. I swear that dog could talk human because I told him, “I can’t make it today buddy, but you go have fun.” A couple of hours later, my phone was ringing off the hook with neighbors laughing their asses off about a once-in-a-lifetime fishing story and telling me to keep looking up the hill and wait for it.
It didn’t take long to see Coco round the last little switchback and head down the hill with a bounce in his step and a two-pound trout in his mouth. Funniest damn thing. To this day, nobody knows how he got that trout, with rumors of stealing it from a weekender or jumping in the lake and catching it himself. We’ll never know for sure, but when that trout came off the grill drenched in butter and lemon juice, it made little difference how he caught it. It meant so much more to him than the treats he shared with the neighbors, as he proudly ignored them all on his way home to show me his day catch. Best damn trout in years.
There was that time during the winter when the lake was frozen over, and we were taking a stroll around the lake. A neighbor stepped outside of her house and was so damn happy to see us that she started calling Coco by name. She had been feeding him pancakes on his strolls, and he must have thought she had a fresh batch because, in an instant, he was heading across the frozen lake. He was about ten feet from shore when the ice broke.
It didn’t even register to me how cold It was until I was back on shore after jumping in to get his happy pancake-eating ass out of the frozen pond. The Pancake lady had a towel waiting for Coco, a hot cup of coffee for me, and apologies until she cried. Neighbors came by out of concern, and when all was said and done, the pancake lady turned her tears of sorrow into tears of laughter as we shared stories of this lovable old friend of the mountains.
When he passed away, I felt sorrow on a level that I had never felt before, and of course, it still hurts to this day. I miss my fishing buddy one hundred times more than I ever thought I would, but I cherish the tearful memories.
Those walks are forever embedded in my mind as some of the most heartwarming and carefree moments that I have ever been blessed with. Just me and an old dog, strolling down an old dirt road, on our way back from our old fishing hole…without a care in the world.
I reflect now and then on those carefree strolls around these mountains with Coco leading the way, and it always brings a smile. It’s funny how just a few years ago, even up here, life was a little bit slower and maybe a touch more carefree. Maybe it was Coco that made it feel that way.
Ann and I still have his ashes, and following his lead, there is no hurry or time constraint regarding when we will spread them. The good Lord will know when we’re ready for that last act of love that started at that old side door.
That Old Piano
New release – The Deer Above the Foothills.
After a burnt breakfast and a quick kiss goodbye, Ann ran into town this morning to take advantage of the good weather and play a little credit card roulette. I decided on a Pepto and to reacquaint myself with that old piano that hadn’t been used in years. Hoping that the deer above the foothills would be enchanted by musical prose, my morning turned to music.
I pulled the bench out, raised the lid to the keys, and adjusted my attitude. With my back straight and feet on the peddles, I reached out and felt my fingers slide into a familiar position.
About 1.2 seconds into what I hoped would be a dazzling rendition of an old Bowie tune, the cats freaked out and tore up anything their claws could grab to get away.
I saw one clawing her way through the air on her way down from her sudden jump while the other bolted around the living room and ended up frozen on the loveseat, his eyes wide open, tail at full bloom, and hissing his disapproval.
Tough crowd.
I’d forgotten how pissed off they get at that piano, but these drama queens weren’t going to put a damper on my sudden need for a morning recital.
After calming them down and assuring them everything was all right, I kicked their collective little butts out the front door before they knew what hit them. They should be out there mousing and earning their keep anyway instead of horrifying my piano intro. I can do that on my own.
So, I sat back down, readjusted my thoughts—again—and put my fingers back on the keys. About 5.2 seconds into my second attempt at making music this morning, one of the keys went “plunk” with a muffled sound that was a bit off-key. Then another, and then yet another.
About four or five plunks later, a key actually stuck as if the piano was telling me, “Enough already; call the piano guy.” I felt like hissing my own damn self as my morning kept sliding downhill.
After years of looking polished and ready on the outside, the inside of that old piano was coughing and wheezing from neglect. Still in shock over actually seeing that key stick, I resolved to put a piano cleaning somewhere on the top of the priority list of things to do.
As the festive and happy days of spring cleaning were about to start anyway, the piano has now become the focal point. Ground zero, as it were. The aftershocks will reverberate into every nick and cranny of the cabin from there, but for now, it starts with the piano guy.
With my musical aspirations for the morning now put on hold, I slowly closed the lid, pushed the bench back in, and then sat down on the couch, where my world made sense. Within moments, Little Joe was chasing the bad guys on the big screen in front of me, and I was tapping away on my laptop with a newfound appreciation for functioning keys.
After a successful day playing roulette in town, Ann stopped the downhill slide when she came home with some KFC and a smile on her face. The cats came home feeling pretty good themselves, proudly showing off half a mouse from their half-day of mousing, bringing an end to another day on the hill.
So, as the night takes over and everybody has settled down, we wish you finely tuned pianos and mouse-free days.
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