Walking Backwards - Episode 19
Sam is depressed but Rae comes up with a way to help Sam get back to her normal self. Drew relies on the art of jury rigging to put his life back together.
This is the nineteenth episode of Walking Backwards, the third collection of not quite true tales of Texas. Previous collections are:
The Cold Days of Summer - If you are new to these tales and the type who likes to know how things started I would recommend starting here.
The Hollow Men - the second collection of not quite true tales of Texas.
New episodes are posted (almost) every Sunday. You can move easily between episodes via links to the previous and next episode.
If you are new to these not quite true tales of Texas but are the type who likes to dive right in you could start with the prologue to Walking Backwards. The prologue provides a summary of the first two collections and descriptions of the major characters you will be reading about in Walking backwards.
In our last episode, episode 18 of Walking Backwards, Drew gets some help from the dead and the living.
One is laid to rest, one mourns, and another brings life
Buster was near seventeen when he died. The last few years he had been slowing down. His beard had gone full gray, his hearing was nearly gone as was his sight.
His last day was Sunday, March 13, 1994. Spring break had just started. Ann and Rae were looking forward to spending the week at home. I was planning to take Monday and Tuesday off. Sunday we grilled hamburgers in the back yard. Sam enjoyed her burger but Buster only ate a few bites of his.
That evening Ann decided to give Buster a bath, something he had always liked. Sam, on the other hand, didn't care for baths but she always was interested when Buster had a bath and would stand up on the edge of the bathtub to watch.
After the bath Ann dried Buster off in the bathroom while Rae, Sam and I laid on the bed in our bedroom and watched TV. It had been a big day for Rae and she fell asleep quickly. After about twenty minutes Ann asked me to come in the bathroom. I got up and expected Sam to join me but she didn't.
“Sam, do you want to come with me?”
She didn't respond, she didn't move. She stared at the TV and did not follow me.
I walked into the bathroom. Ann was sitting on the floor. Buster was in front of her, sound asleep.
“Drew, I think he's dead. I was drying him with a towel, talking to him the whole time. He was grunting like he does when he likes something, then took a deep breath, sighed, and that was it. He hasn't moved since.”
There were tears in her eyes. That was something I had never seen Ann do, cry.
I kneeled down to check on Buster. I put my hand in front of his snout and I didn't feel any breathing. I placed my hand on his body, waiting to feel the rise and fall of his chest. I didn't. I placed my hand under his head and lifted it just off the ground. Then I slowly removed my hand from under his head and his head fell to the ground. Buster was dead.
I thought about Sam, who rarely let Buster out of her sight, but this time wouldn't walk into the bathroom with me.
Ann and I sat on the floor with Buster, hoping we were wrong. We waited thirty minutes. We weren't. Buster was dead.
I wrapped Buster up in the towel that Ann had been drying him with and walked out into the backyard. Sam never left the bed. I walked back into the house, woke up Rae and explained to her what had happened. She cried, but she wanted to go to Buster's funeral.
Ann, Rae stood on the porch while I dug a grave for Buster. Sam laid between them. I picked one of Buster's favorite spots, a place where the sun shone bright, a good warm place to lay. I dug the hole well, I dug it deep. I placed Buster in his grave. Ann and Rae stood beside me. Ann said a few words about Buster. Rae placed Buster's favorite toys and a rawhide chew beside Buster. Sam did not go into the yard but watched from the porch. I asked Ann to take Rae back into the house so I could finish the job. They went inside but Sam stayed on the porch and watched as I placed the earth on Buster and tamped the ground down. I was tired and sweaty and went in to take a shower. Sam stayed on the porch. Rae had cried herself to sleep with Ann holding her. After my shower I checked on Sam. She was lying on the porch staring at Buster's grave. She didn't want to come in but I made her. Once in the house, she laid down by the back door and fell asleep.
Over the next two weeks Ann and I realized that Sam was depressed. She showed no excitement towards anything. The best I could coax from her was a weak wag of her tail. Every morning she wanted to go out in the back yard. Once she was let out she would lie down on the porch and stare at Buster's grave. That's what she would be doing when I left for work and that's what she would be doing when I came home from work. She wasn't interested in walking or running through the neighborhood. She ate her dog food but showed no interest in table scraps or snacks. I had a depressed dog.
It was Rae who came up with the solution. One morning while we were eating breakfast she said “Sam is lonely. She misses Buster. She needs a new friend.”
Ann looked at me and smiled. I looked at Rae and said “I think you're right. This weekend, let's go find a new friend for Sam.”
That weekend we drove to a Pet's Mart in Clear Lake that was having a pet adoption weekend. Up front there were several dogs of all ages and sizes, some young, some old, some small, some large. Every single one of them was a good dog, but something didn't seem right. There wasn't that bond I felt when I met Sam. There were a few more dogs in cages in the back of the store and we walked back to take a look at them. As we walked to the final cage, it shook. Inside it was a large brindle colored Heinz 57 dog, probably 40 pounds, almost thirty inches high. He was full of life, excited to see us, acting as if we were the first ones to come back and see him that day. I knelt down to him and slid my hand into the cage. He came over, leaned against my hand while I petted him. His tail swished in a blur. Ann talked to him and he looked up at her with soft eyes. Rae petted him and he immediately leaned forward and licked her on the face. Rae laughed.
One of the people from the pet adoption group was watching us.
“His name is Mike. His foster parent says he jumps like Michael Jordan so she named him Mike.”
“How old is he?”
“We think about nine months, but we're not absolutely sure.”
“Looks like a Heinz 57, I would guess this is as tall as he will get.”
“I've never heard of the breed. We think he's a mutt.”
I laughed and told her “That's what my Dad called mutts, Heinz 57, they got a little bit of every breed in them.”
“Oh, that's Mike all right.”
I looked at Rae and Ann. They understood my silent question and both nodded yes. A few minutes later we walked out with Mike on a leash. He walked well on a leash and hopped into the van without any trouble. Ann drove while I sat in the back seat with Mike and Rae. Mike looked out the rear window and rested his head on the back of the seat. He was a superb car dog. The whole way home he looked at the world around him while Rae and I took turns petting him.
We pulled into the driveway. I told Ann and Rae that Sam and Mike should meet in the front yard, on somewhat neutral ground. Ann and Rae kept Mike in the front yard while I got Sam from the back yard. She was where we had left her, on the porch staring at Buster's grave. I put a leash on her and walked her to the front yard.
Sam saw Mike and stiffened. Mike saw Sam and was excited to see another dog. He pulled on his leash dragging Ann towards Sam and me. Soon Sam and Mike were nose to nose. She sniffed him, he her. They walked around each other and for a moment I was worried as I saw the hair on Sam's back stiffen. Then she suddenly dropped her head to the ground with her tail in the air. Mike recognized this and did the same. They started playing, chasing each other and lightly nipping at each other. They played hard for fifteen minutes. We walked them into the backyard. They ran hard and free, chasing after each other. Sam had met her match. Mike was much faster than her, running wide circles as they ran after each other. After another fifteen minutes of this they were both tired and laid on the ground next to each other panting. I stood up and walked to the back door, opened it and called to them both. They both hopped up and trotted into the house.
The next morning I woke up before the sun rose for a morning walk. Sam and Mike watched me as I put on some clothes and my shoes. I walked to the front door, Sam followed me and Mike followed her. I looked at Sam and then at Mike. I sensed the invitation had already been sent by Sam to Mike. I had a new walking companion. I opened the front door and we stepped out. Like Sam, Mike was fine without a leash. He was more curious than Sam, after all, this was brand new territory to him but he always stayed within a few yards of us. On that first day Sam herded him, kept him in line, let him know what was right and wrong when it came to walking in the dark. Once Mike wanted to bark at a skunk, but Sam head butted him in the chest and from that Mike learned two lessons: no barking in the early morning and don't mess with skunks. By the second day Mike knew his stuff and didn't need any coaching from Sam or me.
Over the next few days Sam’s demeanor completely changed. She was back to her old smiling self. She had mourned over the loss of Buster but Mike, Mr. Heinz 57, had brought her back to life.
Wasted blessings
I've been thinking about what Daisy said. If it's true, then I've missed a lot of miracles in my life. It it's true, it's all a matter of perception. Change my attitude, change my life. “Change or the world's going to change you” is something my Dad told me before I moved to Austin. Change... is a lot harder than you expect. My way of thinking has been my way of thinking for thirty-five years. While it might not be the most uplifting, most positive, most effective way of thinking, it hasn't served me too badly.
Is that like an alcoholic saying they can quit drinking any time they want? For me to say that my way of thinking isn't that all that bad, well, that requires conveniently forgetting about the darkness of the last few years. That is the part that is the most maddening. It just didn’t make sense. By all accounts I had a good life. I had a loving wife, a wonderful daughter, two good dogs, good friends, and yet I was alone, I have always been alone.
My anger has caused me to be alone. My depression has caused me to be alone. The voices in my head have caused me to be alone. What I have done and not done has led me to be alone. What I have said and not said has led me to be alone. But I can change. Maybe not overnight, but I can change.
I will start with my perspective. I will see miracles. I will try to see miracles in everything. I will look over my past and look for the miracles I missed the first time around. I will search for the wasted blessings of the past and the blessings of today and all of my tomorrows. I will see the world differently and in doing so I will be different.
Once I said we needed to be strong so we could bend and not break when we are tested and challenged by the world. That won't work for me anymore because I have been broken. I have to glue myself back together so life can go on. I hope I have enough glue.
Jury rigging a life
Some of you may wonder why I don't seek professional help after what I have been through and what I have nearly done. I have my reasons. I don't trust anyone else right now, with any piece of this, the dreams, the voices, the dogs, the dead. I'm making do and I worry if I told anyone any piece of this, well, things would change. I would be put on some kind of medication. I would be forced to go through some level of therapy. Hell, I might be committed. So, no, I don't trust anyone with this. I will not tell anyone in the real, physical world about any, all of this.
But there is another reason other than my lack of trust. I'm a jury rigger, have been most of my life. I like figuring out how things work on my own, coming up with a solution and putting it to work.
Remember how we were always told to ask a question in class if we couldn't figure something out? I never did. I might not know what I was doing or why I was doing it but I would study, look at all the pieces, try to see how they fit, come up with an approach, try it out, assess the results and adjust from there. I always figured I would be better off figuring out solutions on my own, using whatever resources I had, versus raising my hand and having someone show me the way, particularly since in many cases their way or perspective didn't make sense to me.
I don't want a temporary solution but I'm wise enough to realize, I've been burned enough to realize that the solution that looks great today might not be so good over time. I continually assess and adjust, always trying to move forward. At least that's what I'm telling myself.
I'm a jury rigger, always fixing something. In this case I'm fixing my life.
Author’s note: Jury rigging is different than jerry rigging. Back in episode 37 of The Hollow Men Drew explained the difference to his Uncle Bill:
"Jerry rigging is a bad piece of temporary work. It might look good, but it won’t last at all. Jury rigging is the opposite, it might not look good, but it might last forever. "..I just look at a problem or situation, then I let my mind go blank. Sometimes an answer just shows up. I put it together according to the pictures in my mind and most times what I end up doing works better than what was originally there. Hell, most times the temporary fix is so good I never get around to re-doing it with something more permanent, there’s no need to.”
Next week, in episode 20 of Walking Backwards, Drew begins to see things from different perspectives and is offered a opportunity in Houston.
thank you, my art is my path to seeing the beauty in each day, each moment even when I try to forget