This artwork is by my amazing partner

"I think your writing is very good," he said as he rested his chin on
my shoulder, his auburn beard tickling my ear. "I'd like to illustrate
the characters, perhaps relate an image that represents each part."

My mate is talented, kind and generous to a fault. I love his artistic
style and I treasure everything he draws. Even our airplane-napkin
comics are fine art to me, and I was thrilled that he wanted to lend his
skills to my short story.

So here is our mutt, leaning on the oak tree, deep in thought.
I think he did a fantastic job.

The first part of the tale follows below. I already barfed up
part one of this story as a journal, but I wanted to post
it as a submission with this wonderful art.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and comment
previously. What follows is a cleaned up version of the original.
Part two is coming soon, with more art and actual racy dialogue...


~prologue

Sliding down the bumpy slope into the no-man’s land of middle age, one soon learns that the safety nets have gaping holes and even the slickest among us will end up in an unplanned somersault. The graceful arc of youth, where each day seems more promising than the next, is replaced by the suspicion that there really are monsters under the bed.

The saving grace lies in the wizened arm of time. If an old dog can make it through relatively unscathed, the rewards are bountiful. The prizes make the journey worthwhile, in that one can gain wisdom of one flavor or another and also capture that most elusive and ethereal spirit that all beings chase: peace of mind.

(1)

The tall black mutt crunched down the gravel path, his big paws leaving nary a trace of his gentle step, pondering the intricacies of his own road thus far. All sign posts pointed to a half way stage of sorts. If history was any measure of the future, then his time on this plane was divided into equal parts, half left behind in the dust cloud of his journey, and half spread out in front of him, roads with as many forks and twists as there are birds in the sky.

His long muzzle sampled the air. He was getting close. The rich, earthy scent of the blooming chaparral filled his senses and transported him instantly to another time. Now, which oak tree had it been? He made a dogleg right, circled left, sniffed at the ocher bark of a particularly tall specimen, and then the scene came sharply into focus. The mists of twenty years cleared to reveal two young mutts, sitting with their straight backs against the wise old oak, enjoying the shade and a respite from the late afternoon sun. They stole a forbidden paw clutch and smiled at each other, recognizing kindred spirits and reveling in the connection...

The tall dog settled against the tree, feeling its convex visage sharply against his back. He leaned to the side, folded his white socked paws under him, and closed his eyes. Not exactly comfy, he mused, but perhaps the slight pressure on his spine would keep him awake. He listened to the sounds of nature, his ears flicking to and fro as they picked up the crunch of a small animal in the underbrush, the trill of a mockingbird and the gentle hum of a nearby stream, its very life blood all but exhausted by the fading summer heat.

Twenty years had swept by since he had sat here with Rahj. An ocean had passed under the bridge, yet he could still feel his partner’s gentle presence, hear his
quiet laugh and feel that warm paw holding his own. He ached when he thought of their time together. The feeling of loss had not been dulled by the passage of time; the last twelve months divided him from the love of his life as sharply as a paper cut.

He examined his feelings, turning them over in his mind’s eye as one would examine a jewel. He cradled the love that he still felt for his missing companion in his big paw, holding it gently but securely, tending to it so that it would withstand the ravages of time. He asked himself if this was healthy retrospect, or was he allowing himself to wallow in the past, at the expense of forward movement? Either way, the sharp tang of separation would not abate, and he doubted that its acrid taste could be overcome.

After a time, his backbone began to complain, as it was wont to do if held in one position for an extended period, and he shifted on his haunches, swishing his bushy tail to the left. Better, his spine said. Years of blue collar labor were taking their toll on his physical being. He was proud of his profession, yet sometimes wished he had chosen a less energetic field. Rahj had been a CPA, and his perpetually clean paws had made the big mutt unreasonably envious. He laughed quietly, the sound like a rustle in the dry leaves, as he thought of the many divergences in character and physique between himself and his missing partner. Their friends had chimed “opposites attract” at every opportunity, and perhaps they were right. Deep in his heart, however, he knew that the differences were merely superficial. They were of one mind when it came to the core beliefs that life necessitates.

He idly replayed scenes from the past, some as misty and faded as an old sepia photograph, and some so vivid that he could hear the voices floating across the span of time. He winced as he remembered Rahj’s first meeting with the mutt’s father: An uncomfortable silence at dinner, glares from his dad across the dinner table, fireworks when he and Rahj had hugged goodnight…He shook his head. His pop had been a tough sell. As a lifelong military man, and a staunch conservative, the thought of his only son embracing a short, erudite, refined partner, who didn’t know the first thing about football or NASCAR, had been a tough pill to swallow. The fact that the person in question was a male made that pill all the more bitter. Eventually, the old man had fallen in love with Rahj, too. The mutt had been lucky and he knew it. His family had been complete when many of his contemporary’s were splintered.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, the still air buzzing with insects in their final flings of summer. He flexed his paw and hoped to feel the warmth of his partner’s
lithe fingers closing around his own, but instead felt only the bark of the old tree. At least the oak could share his memory; he had been there too. A part of Rahj still leaned against the roughhewn bark, of that the mutt was sure.

Finally, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The sun was low in the sky and the light had changed the landscape, burnishing the shadows with a golden hue. He felt worn, the chore he had set before himself as yet incomplete. He needed a bookend for his time with Rahj. He needed closure. He needed a way to move on, but the key to that riddle had eluded him again today. He sighed and stood up, brushing the leaves from his thick fur and noticing again the gray hairs, springing up with alarming alacrity. He stretched his long frame and began the hike down, back to the parking lot, back into the traffic, and the resumption of his real time life. He wouldn’t arrive home until well past dark, and the image of the waiting house, cold and lifeless, pinned his ears against his skull.

He had not been able to bring himself to change anything since Rahj’s departure, and the thought of the pictures hanging on the bedroom wall, two tipsy dogs looking back from a sandy Mexican beach, drinks in hand and goofy smiles firmly planted on their muzzles, made him feel all the more disconnected. He had to make meaningful changes. Maybe he should sell the house? What was keeping him there anyway? He crunched down the path, wishing he had brought some water, and relying on his nose to guide him in the gathering gloom.

As he swung the truck out of the parking area, its headlights illuminating two patches of scenery with an eerie white light, he realized that, just has his headlights only shone on selected areas, he was not seeing the entire picture. He wrinkled his brow and saw clearly the rest of the view; some small part of him still thought that Rahj would return, that the mutt would come home to find his partner sitting in the big recliner, looking like a pup with his short legs almost swallowed by the voluminous chair, reading the New York Times, wire rimmed glasses perched on his short snout. The mutt would never build a new life if he clung so tightly to the old. So what’s it going to be? he asked himself. Keep on hoping for a ghost to appear, or embrace life for what it is, warts and all? He knew the answer at once. He also knew himself well enough to know that it would take every fiber of his being to let go.