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.
Showing posts with label the south. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the south. Show all posts
Monday, August 9, 2010
Chicken Stew
Life in a Small Town
By Kathleen L. Smith
All rights reserved
Driving home on our country highway that connects all the railroad towns of South Carolina, AC blowing through my thin hair, radio blaring, me singing at the top of my lungs an old country tune, I came upon a fine white leghorn in the middle of the road. I didn’t know it was a “leghorn” at the time. Then it was a big white chicken with a red coxcomb looking rather perplexed, as if it had forgotten why it had begun to cross the road, and I could relate to that, there having been times when I also wondered why I had persisted on a particular course of action in life.
I realized in a flash of sudden brilliant insight that if I veered around that chicken and continued on my journey that, most likely, it would never see the morrow, and that saddened me. For to me, life is a religion, not something I go to worship in church so much as to connect the meaningful dots of my own existence. As such all living things have a value for me. I stopped the car there in the right lane of the two-lane highway, scanning the rear view mirror at several cars a quarter of a mile back.
Honk. Honk. Honk---honk--honk.
The bird gave me a worried look and budged not.
Throwing open the car door with a sigh and a glance at the cars now stopped behind me, I walked up to the chicken and, using my “official I-mean-this” voice commanded, “Shoo!” The bird looked at me. I looked at the bird. “Shoo. Shoo.” The heat index for the day was 105 to 110, and I could feel the searing heat rising from the macadam beneath my shoes. The leghorn was probably suffering heat prostration. It looked more confused even than I often feel at two in the afternoon of a July day in the South.
Having already committed myself to this wild chicken chase, I realized I would have to physically remove the bird from the road. With a somewhat embarrassed glance at the cars behind me, I could see the passengers all leaning to the right and left side windows of their cars, all intensely interested in my pursuit. Putting that in the shadowed back of my mind, I took a determined breath and grabbed the chicken on both sides, simultaneously wondering if this was my day to be pecked to death.
Two cars zoomed by, passing none too far away in the left lane of the highway, impatient to reach their destinations as I idled my time in chicken rescue. I placed the leghorn, who by this time seemed content with my decision to remove it, to a location where I deemed it safe from encounters of the automotive kind and trotted quickly to my car. I had left the door standing widely open. Hopping behind the steering wheel, as I closed the car door, I thought I heard the muffled sound of applause mixed with laughter emitting from the car behind me. I sped off into an imaginary sunset, the gleaming star of glory pinned to my chest, blinking back a tear for a fait accompli. Such is the stuff of life for one in a small town.
By Kathleen L. Smith
All rights reserved
Driving home on our country highway that connects all the railroad towns of South Carolina, AC blowing through my thin hair, radio blaring, me singing at the top of my lungs an old country tune, I came upon a fine white leghorn in the middle of the road. I didn’t know it was a “leghorn” at the time. Then it was a big white chicken with a red coxcomb looking rather perplexed, as if it had forgotten why it had begun to cross the road, and I could relate to that, there having been times when I also wondered why I had persisted on a particular course of action in life.
I realized in a flash of sudden brilliant insight that if I veered around that chicken and continued on my journey that, most likely, it would never see the morrow, and that saddened me. For to me, life is a religion, not something I go to worship in church so much as to connect the meaningful dots of my own existence. As such all living things have a value for me. I stopped the car there in the right lane of the two-lane highway, scanning the rear view mirror at several cars a quarter of a mile back.
Honk. Honk. Honk---honk--honk.
The bird gave me a worried look and budged not.
Throwing open the car door with a sigh and a glance at the cars now stopped behind me, I walked up to the chicken and, using my “official I-mean-this” voice commanded, “Shoo!” The bird looked at me. I looked at the bird. “Shoo. Shoo.” The heat index for the day was 105 to 110, and I could feel the searing heat rising from the macadam beneath my shoes. The leghorn was probably suffering heat prostration. It looked more confused even than I often feel at two in the afternoon of a July day in the South.
Having already committed myself to this wild chicken chase, I realized I would have to physically remove the bird from the road. With a somewhat embarrassed glance at the cars behind me, I could see the passengers all leaning to the right and left side windows of their cars, all intensely interested in my pursuit. Putting that in the shadowed back of my mind, I took a determined breath and grabbed the chicken on both sides, simultaneously wondering if this was my day to be pecked to death.
Two cars zoomed by, passing none too far away in the left lane of the highway, impatient to reach their destinations as I idled my time in chicken rescue. I placed the leghorn, who by this time seemed content with my decision to remove it, to a location where I deemed it safe from encounters of the automotive kind and trotted quickly to my car. I had left the door standing widely open. Hopping behind the steering wheel, as I closed the car door, I thought I heard the muffled sound of applause mixed with laughter emitting from the car behind me. I sped off into an imaginary sunset, the gleaming star of glory pinned to my chest, blinking back a tear for a fait accompli. Such is the stuff of life for one in a small town.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
