A Bridge too Farfel

A Bridge too Farfel

by Kathleen L. Smith
all rights reserved

Arriving home late from various out-of-town excursions (the nearest Wal Mart is over twenty miles away), we discovered a mysterious guest had taken up nightly respite on the wicker settee on the veranda, a mystery dog lounging in the darkness who would quickly disappear upon our arrival, and so we never really got a good look at him. As such his visits took on an almost supernatural quality. And we never saw him by day. My friend Spencer dubbed him “Farfel” and began what became a standing joke between us: “A Bridge too Farfel.”

One winter night when our Southern air had fled and left us with the icy winds of the North, I walked outside to view the stars and discovered a most forlorn, pathetically thin dog huddled against a vent leading to the underside of our house. I realized he had found a warm spot and I hurried inside, for he was fearful and anxious, ready to bolt. He returned the next night, and the next, and the next. Still aloof and edgy, he skulked away if I moved too near. His coat was patchy; he had more skin showing than fur. After that first night, I left him food and water. Each morning I found an empty bowl.

After a week, our guest began to trust me, and soon he was turning up by day. His poor body was covered in sores and he was a pitiful sight to behold. However, he exhibited great intelligence and his condition moved me. Using surgical gloves, I tended his wounds. Spencer didn’t think he was Farfel-the-porch-dog. Yet Farfel never returned to the veranda, so I disagree. I named him Boxcar Willie, for he was a bit of a tramp and it suited him. Eventually he became “Boxie” and very dear to me.

It was now time to bank on his trust, and I coaxed Boxie into a trip to the local veterinarian. The vet immediately pronounced him a “Sooner Dog.” Thinking this was a Southern appellation for a fancy dog breed, I fell into the trap.

“Drop him off at the dump, and he gets home sooner than you do,” laughed the vet.

He said Boxie was a “Heinz 57” (in other words, a mutt). He handed me tubes of ointment and told me to slather it on twice a day. Nine months and umpteen tubes of ointment later, Boxie was pronounced cured. As his fur returned, we discovered a dog that looked like a smaller, gentler version of a German Shepherd with rather more fur on the legs and tail. His coat was glossy, and, darnn, he seemed to smile! Greeted and beloved by all who visited, Boxie became the neighborhood celebrity.

A year later we celebrated Boxie’s first anniversary with us along with the new millenium. We’d been snacking on appetizers and clicking champagne glasses with old friends for hours when we heard a gentle rapping on the back door. There stood Boxcar--with a friend--a female canine drifter, gloriously golden, with warm brown eyes. Boxie apparently wanted to have a guest as well, and they sauntered in as I held open the storm door. The two were hungry, and we all watched the couple with amused interest as they shared the same bowl and ate. The name “Apple Annie” popped out of my mouth, and so she remained for the rest of the night.

Annie spent the night cuddled next to Boxie on a rug. In the morning, I let both dogs out, but we never saw Annie again. She was our mysterious houseguest on the Eve of 2000...and just one more mystery attached to Boxcar Willie. Some people see angels while others see ghosts. My visitations have always been of a corporeal nature. But I sometimes think Boxie was an angel in disguise.