I can track my entire existence through the life and death of dogs. It’s crazy, really, that an animal, a supposed evolutionary piece of machinery, can generate such an emotional and spiritual response for a person. In one breath, I can tell you many times that God answered prayers and pulled me from the shitter of life, with the kind of accuracy and detail that makes you think I video taped the entire process.

And then, without nary a pause, tell you the make, model, and mood of my dog and his reactions to my plight during that time. I cannot tell you what my parents thought. And I’m not quite sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

And talking to dogs is so easy. They are such good listeners, these dogs, these ever-loving furry haired miracles of evolution. I cannot say for sure when I first learned to talk to dogs and I cannot say for sure when I realized they spoke back in a way that is beyond dictionary word comprehension. I think Jobee, while playing on the front porch with Play Dough, would be my first doggy conversation that comes to mind.

Jobee wasn’t what I would call a pedigree. Adopting him was sort of like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie adopting a baby that spent the first months of it’s life watching flies pick away at the her siblings. Jobee was from the wrong side of the tracks, a cutter, as my Daddy would say.

For those not schooled in southern vernacular, a cutter is a dog, or a human, that really does mean well but just cannot seem to get it together. The yin of sane and the yang of adventure. Jobee was such a dog.

Sitting on my front porch with an assortment of Play Dough colors before me, I couldn’t quite decide which color would work best for the “thing” I was constructing.

“Jobee, hey boy. You like the way the Play Dough smells?”

“Well, Russ, to be honest, if you weren’t using it, I’d probably eat all of it and make rainbow canine landmines on the carpet later for your Mom to admire.”

“Thanks for the honesty. So, which color should I use?”

“Well, Russ, that would assume you are building something that makes sense. Pardon my tongue as I’ve been hanging out with the firecracker poodle next door, but what in the hell is that thing?”

“It’s a thing-of-a-ma-chiggy. I make them all the time.”

“Ok, well, anyways, go with the blue and you might wanna consider….Ooh! A truck…shiny rims…must chase….”

“Jobee come back!”

Sometimes I’d hear tires screech, sometimes I’d hear a dog yelp, but to the day he disappeared that dog never backed down from a set of mud grips.

Jobee liked to follow me on my bicycle. Of course, he could outrun me if he wanted to but he kept the pace, riding shotgun while checking out the honeys as we cruised up and down Main Street, Warwick Georgia.

And Jobee sure knew how to talk to the ladies. He reminded me of the stereotypical New Jersey male, walking down the street in jeans and a v-neck t-shirt, with a gold chain around his neck, constantly getting tangled up in the chest hair poking up his neckline…

“Hiya there toots! That’s right, you wish you could touch.”

“Pretty woman, pissing on the tree, how are you doing? You ready to make some puppies there toots?”

“Whaddaya say there? You knowz I love ya there toots. Wanna share some fleas later, there lovely cheeks?”

“What? You looking at me? You like the way this body works huh? You lika da strutta?”

He used to always give me advice about females, bitches he called them.

“Russ, those bitches, let me tell you. They get to hanging around with their owners, they get a bit of self-esteem, and thinking they got all they need. You got to tell them bitches what they really need. They need a dog like me. They don’t call it doggie style for no reason baby!”

It was kind of funny actually. Jobee was by no means a big strapping dog. He stood eye level to the bottom of most truck tires and was painted turkey terd tan with black eyes and a nose. He weighed all of 20 pounds but he toted that 20 pounds like a rock star.

Jobee, like most dogs, had a thing for steaks. But not just any steak. He liked the kind that was being cooked for a specific purpose. Don’t get me wrong, if you set a steak on the ground, he wouldn’t complain.

But Jobee was a cutter, an adjective we country boys use to describe a rebellious person. He wanted someone else’s steak. He wanted “that” steak, the big juicy 2 pounder earmarked for Bubba that was pink in the middle. Jobee spent a lot of his time eavesdropping on the neighbors. I suspect he used his powers with the women to plan his attack.

“Alright there toots. Here is how it’s gonna go down. You’s gonna bark at those squirrel things alright, there toots. And when that gay owner of yours turns around, I’m going to get up in that there grill and grab me that steak. Alright there toots?”

And it worked more than once. Sometimes, Jobee would eat the steak immediately; sometimes he would bring it back to the house for show and tell. I’ll never forget sitting on the front porch and see this dark brown oblong piece of meat coming down the street with little tan legs underneath it. It looked like a damned steak had sprouted legs and walked off. Hidden behind the steak was Jobee, bringing the prize home, trying to outdo that short dog complex he had.

Other times, I’d find out through word of mouth.

“You know your damn dog stole a steak off my grill.”

“I swear I saw your dog take a steak off the grill. Maybe I was drinking too much.”

“I don’t know who’s steak it was Russ, but I swear, I saw your dog walking down the road with the biggest damned steak I had ever seen. It was still steaming. Funniest damn thing I had ever seen.”

And, I still wander what happened to Jobee. He just up and left one day. We sort of figured someone had grilled him in lieu of the steak he stole. Other scenarios would be his luck with the truck tires ran out. We checked the streets for his tattered body but never found it.

Every now and again, we’d hear someone say they saw Jobee over in the drug/rough-neck side of town. These sightings kept coming to us for several months but we never could seem to locate him.

Actually, that side of town sort of scared me. There were some big teethy dogs over there. Jobee wasn’t one to follow, he was one to lead. I suspect his tenacity was his undoing. But I’d like to think he formed a gang and spent his life doing petty steak theft and died with a steak, and a bitch, by his side.

Perhaps, one day, I’ll get a chance to revisit that front porch, the Play Dough still sitting in the corner, beckoning me to bend down and build a “thing-of-a-ma-chiggy”.

Perhaps, by that time, I will have mastered the art of doing nothing for pure sake of doing nothing, lost in the discoloring of my hands and the shaping of something that doesn’t mean anything to anybody except me and my act of doing nothing important.

Perhaps I won’t hesitate to put my finger in my mouth, realizing that mama’s not always right when it comes to the simple pleasures of doing things I’m not supposed to do, like tasting Play Dough.

Perhaps, I can still see that magnolia tree in the corner of the yard and wander how many birds are in there, hiding from my BB Gun.

Perhaps, I’ll glance up and see a steak, with tan legs, waltzing crooked down the street, the rocky asphalt streets of heaven, the rocks paving perfection better than anything made of gold.

Perhaps, that steak, will make it’s way up the steps and plop down beside me, leaving a smiling dog admiring his prize, wanting to know what I thought of his steak.

Perhaps, I’ll be able to understand Jobee better.

“Russ, I see you haven’t given up on building those thing-of-a-ma-chiggies.”

“I gave it up for a long time. It feels good to do it now. You look good. Where you been all these years?”

“Same old, same old. Bitches, steaks, and truck tires. How you like this doozie?”

“Love it. You’re not gonna share, are you?”

“Nope. But you can touch it if you like. It’s still warm. Some guy a block over was grilling out some of the best steak on the biggest grill I had ever seen.”

“Ah yes, guy in a robe, beard, long hair, lots of little kids by his side?”

“Yeah, that guy. Ya know, he even chased me a bit. But it was funny, he was laughing so hard, just laughing at me running off with his steak. I liked it better when people threw things. Got the old heart pumping ya know?”

“You haven’t changed a lick. So, tell me, what happened to you?”

“Well, I had to do it my way, ya know. I had to leave this porch, this house, this street, and strike out on my own. I died a happy dog Russ. I really did.”

“How did you die? Did it hurt?”

“Truck. A small truck. What a bitch of a way to go? Could have at least been something bigger! I deserved that, something bigger, like an 18 wheeler.”

“So, what happened after you died?”

“I’m here talking to you ain’t I? It all works out in the end. I’m a dog, I don’t know much about God, but I’ll tell you this, God knows much about dogs. It was just the way it was supposed to be. And I’m here, right now, just like it’s supposed to be.”

“It’s good to see you again. I’m sort of grown up now.”

“Yes, glad to see your body caught up with that big head of yours. You looked funny with that big head and that bowl hair cut.”

“You’re not so hot yourself, turkey terd tan dog-boy.”

“But those bitches ever so loved me.”

“Yes, yes they did.”

“Look, Rusty-Butt, I’m heading into the back yard to eat this steak with some buddies. I’ll see you later, ok?”

“Ok. Jobee, do me one favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t poop in the back yard where someone will step on it.”

“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you? I guess there are some things God leaves to us dogs to figure out first.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Russ, there’s no poop in heaven.”

Heaven doesn’t have any poop in it. Come to think of it, this life doesn’t really have to be littered with poop either.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.12.2009

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