Waiting

When I moved to the Sierra Nevada mountains in 1993, the cabin just below me wasn't yet occupied. Open for touring, the home, quite frankly, smelled of cat piss and dog feces. I opted against the house. A short time later a husband, wife and daughter moved in. The ripped the carpets out immediately. They were of a type wherein, early on, I waved to them when I saw them pass my house, in town, or as we passed in cars. They never waved back. I figured: so be it. The husband and wife separated for a time then, about a year later, she came back. They'd been together now for about four years.

A week ago, I noticed the man's white Chevy Blazer was gone. I'd believed him to be retired from CalTrans but thought: maybe he's back working for CalTrans, or on an assignment.

Yesterday I checked for my mail at the post office. A small piece of paper was tacked to a wall, indicating that he had passed away at a care home in a larger town below mine, on March 11th, at the relatively young age of 64. I saw his photo. Yes, it was the man whose white Chevy Blazer had never returned. I'd seen him about a week prior, then he and the truck were gone.

He had a blonde-colored dog named Katy. She never warmed up to me at all, was very wary of any strangers, but protected their property well. Despite his not being able to easily walk, he was out every day throwing a ball to Katy. She was clearly his dog. His truck would come down the street and she would magically appear to greet him. She never liked me but, despite that, I could tell that she was a very good dog. She did her job. She played, she fetched, she loved her master.

I finally understood. That is her photo above. She waits in the street, attentive. Waiting for the white Chevy Blazer, and her master. She's been alternately laying and pacing for days now, her gaze fixed up the street.

Neither shall ever return.

She is a very good dog. I feel sad.

BZ