The shopping spree I wrote so gleefully about yesterday didn’t happen. First an ice storm intervened, so that I couldn’t drive to meet Adaire. I hardly made it half a mile in my car when caution told me to turn around and go home. I obeyed. No clothing spree is worth risking one’s life.
When I returned, Earl’s son Rich, who had spent the night, was preparing to leave for home in Chicago with his dog, Rudder. He has a four-wheel drive Jeep, so his chances of getting beyond half a mile were far greater than mine. We said our goodbyes, and I remarked, “Be careful.” To which he added, “Darn, I was planning on not being careful.” It’s one of those running commentaries we have on useless farewell phrases. We both laughed. A few minutes later, Rich called to say he’d beaten my half-mile record and that he was on his way. Earl and I looked at each other and sighed in unison. Rich would be fine. We’d call him later in Chicago just to confirm he’d been careful.
Who knows how long it was before the white car turned into our driveway and three men go out. I was working in my office, which fronts the driveway, so I saw them, bundled in jackets and retrieving something from the trunk. My first thought was that these were ice fishermen coming to fish from our dock, but it seemed strange so I went and found Earl, who was coincidentally watching from the laundry room.
“They’ve brought Rich back,” he said, although I didn’t understand what that meant. Rich wouldn’t want to ice fish. And where was Rudder, that crazy dog who loved to chase tennis balls and to whom we’d fed orange-cranberry cookies just a couple hours ago? I grabbed a coat and tugged at boots to run out to the garage in time to hear one of the men say, “I’m sorry how things turned out.” That’s when I noticed they both wore policemen’s insignia on their jackets. Rich shook their hands and came into the garage.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I totaled my Jeep.” He looked me straight in the eye.
“Where’s Rudder.”
Rich looked somewhere over my head, maybe at a speck of dirt on the far garage wall, maybe at a memory.
“Rudder didn’t make it.”
I collapsed on Rich, who does umpteen push-ups every day and can certainly hold a sobbing woman. I cried for Rudder, for whom the phrase ‘devoted to his master’ was invented; and I cried that it was only Rudder who’d perished and that there were three men in that white car and not just two. By that time, Earl was there; and the rest of the day was set in slow motion. There were telephone calls to family members and insurance companies and car rental places. To the pet crematory too, while Rudder’s body lay on the side of our garage having been what the men lifted from the car’s trunk. I’m not very familiar with funeral procedures, but it seems that practicality takes over in the first moments. Actions need to be taken. Plans need to be made.
Yet I couldn’t help think about Rudder, and how he loved those orange-cranberry cookies just hours ago. How he’d sat outside the bathroom while Rich took his shower. How he loved to be touched. How I, never a dog lover, learned that large dogs are not necessarily frightening. (I’m not particularly tall myself, so large dogs have always intimidated me.) And Rudder was a big, solid Chesapeake Bay retriever.
I remember him as a puppy too. The family had gathered for some special event which escapes me now, and Rich arrived with this curly-haired brown animal the size of a football. He was so tiny and cute that I was entranced. Rich had already named him Rudder, and the name itself was perfect for this dog who loved water and action and Rich, although probably in reverse order.
We live on a river, and usually when Rudder and his owner came to visit the dog would literally jump in the river and swim with the current past a house or two before scrambling on the shore. We’d asked Rich yesterday if he was going to allow Rudder to take his river constitutional, but he said the ice in the bank would pose a problem for getting out of the water. Which meant I put the dog towels away, while Rudder didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps because of the grey weather he didn’t notice the river, because he certainly made no fuss about being inside. He was so calm and easy, never barking, following commands, on his best behavior. It wasn’t always the case.
Sometimes Rudder would drive you crazy because he wanted to play ball all the time. His version required that you take the ball from his mouth and throw it as far away as conditions allowed while he tried to get there before the ball did. More often than not he did. Then he’d run back to you with the ball and his eyes would say, “Do it again.” Of course you would, until you learned that Rudder had no exhaustion limit. You could throw that ball one hundred times, and he’d retrieve it with the same doleful eyes. If you were tired, it didn’t matter because Rudder never got tired. So you had to learn not to throw that first ball unless you were willing to be there forever. I seldom was.
Still, I learned some things from Rudder. First, persistence pays off. If it doesn’t, take a break and try it again. Which is another form of persistence. Second, doleful eyes help one’s cause, so play them — or any other physical attribute — to the max. Third, learn a few commands and do the required bidding for the greatest reward. This can be translated into the human world as well. Yes, Rudder was quite a teacher.
Sometime during the day, I hugged Rich and said, “Whatever it takes to help now, we’re here. Money, anything.” I believe we were standing in the front doorway before he and Earl went to retrieve items from the demolished Jeep. He looked at me and asked, “Can you turn the clock back?”
For you Rich, anything. But in case I’m not successful, the next best thing is to remember Rudder forever . . .
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