Mutt's Luck

Given how unaware he is generally, it’s wonder Roy survives in this world. Not to toot my own horn, but that fact that he does is mostly down to me.

It isn’t his fault, of course. He’s only human. Can he hear a storm coming from fifteen miles away? No. Can he smell a cottonmouth hiding in the grass just off the hiking path? Again, no. He was just lucky I was there to scare that sucker off.

But there are limits to the kind of help I can provide.

“’Tax man wants to take the farm…’” He jots a few words down in his little black book looks up thoughtfully, tapping his ballpoint against his teeth. “Ah!” He scribbles again. “Granddaddy’s land never did no harm.’ Whaddya think, Hank?”

What I think is my namesake, the immortal Hank Williams, is spinning in his grave, but I just give Roy a supportive smile, tongue out, lips broad, front teeth showing a bit.

“Thanks, pal.” He starts writing again.

I plop myself down at his feet. It’s a pleasant day, and it’s nice to be outdoors. Roy could use a little fresh air and sunshine.

It’s been a tough six months for Roy. First he and Cindy broke up. Then he got “downsized” from his job. All that was hard enough, but the biggest blow came last week, when he got that terrible letter. I can’t read so I don’t know exactly what it said, but I knew it was terrible from the look on Roy’s place after he opened it. Also by the fact that Roy sat down with a calculator right afterwards. Calculators always mean trouble.

When he looked up, he looked pretty awful.

“We’re going to lose it, Hank,” he said quietly. “We’re going to lose the farm.”

What? Lose the farm? His grandparents’ old place? Or what’s left of it, anyway. Hank’s dad had been selling off bits of it to developers for years, but here still had to be at least thirty acres left.

No, no, no! We can’t lose the farm. I love that place! Lots of open fields where I can run to my heart’s content, nobody making snide remarks about leash laws. Please, Hank. Not the farm!

“I know, boy,” he said quietly. “I’m sad, too.”

He started explaining the details - something about back taxes and interest and deadlines-but I was too upset to listen. I lay down at his feet and licked his toes.

“Hey! That tickles.” He got up and poured himself a short bourbon. “We still have some time. But we need to come up with a ton of money. And fast.”

Oh no. He had that look again.

“You know what I’m thinking, Hank?”

Yes, Roy, as a matter of fact I do, and I don’t think—

“All we have to do,” he said, ”is write a hit country western song.”

I let out a little whine.

He sipped the bourbon. “It’s always been my dream, to write country songs,” he said thoughtfully. “Songs about real people. About dirt roads and pickup trucks and goin’ down to the river to pray.”

Whenever he’s seriously hard up for cash, Roy starts talking about writing country songs. This always leads to a couple of days of him strumming his guitar and muttering under his breath, until finally he says, “Well, I guess it’s harder than it looks,” and puts the guitar away, all sad and feeling bad about himself. I hate to see him feeling bad about himself. Roy is a great guy. If he could see himself the way I do, he’d never feel bad about himself again.

He scratched my head again and gave me a brave smile. “Even one hit song could set us up for life,” he said. “So why not give it a try? Nothing to lose, right?”

I let out a long, doggy sigh.

The next morning he loaded up the car. “Hop in, buddy. We’re headin’ for God’s country!”

Great. Already he was talking like Blake Shelton-- a very bad sign. But Roy is my human and I have to be there for him, so I hopped into the car.

So now here we were, at what was left of the family farm, Roy hoping for inspiration and me hoping for a bite of that sandwich I knew he had in his backpack.

I moseyed over to the backpack and gave it a sniff. Swiss and sprouts. Not my fave, but I’ll take it if—

Roy glanced at me. “Back off, Hank.” Then he went back to murmuring under his breath. “’Headin ’out for parts out yonder, where mama lives, ain’t nobody fonder,

and Daddy’s buried in the old church yard, the grass is soft but the headstone’s hard…”

Oh dear. Already with the old church yards. Not good.

I decided to go for a nice, long run.

There’s nothing like running for clearing the mind. It’s more fun if you’re actually chasing something, but the field mice I spotted vanished into their burrow the second they laid eyes on me. Smart move, actually. I’m a nice guy, generally speaking, but I don’t take no guff from no mice.

By now the sun was high in the sky. Running is great, but it can make a dog feel a tad overheated. I was about to trot back to Roy for some water when I saw him haul his guitar out of its case. Soon my ears were pinging with the sounds of Roy tuning up. Then he started singing. “Daddy always said that a wishing well/ Kept all the secrets you couldn’t tell/ Not even to your truck, no, not even to your truck…”’

Maybe I wasn’t that thirsty after all.

But holy hairballs, was I ever hot! I needed shade, and I needed it PDQ. And that meant the old barn

Roy doesn’t like to go into the barn. It’s nice and cool, true, but it’s dusty and he always gets dirt on his pants. But what really bothers him is the trash. Roy and I find all kinds of things in there, most of them pretty nasty- crack pipes and old beer cans and empty Jack Daniels bottles, smelly cigarette stubs and used-up Bic lighters, fast food wrappers with all the good stuff missing. Seeing his grandparents’ old barn treated like a garbage dump by the local youth really gets under Roy’s skin. “No respect,” he’ll mutter as he fills a black plastic bag. “When I think of the work my family put into this place…”

I trotted into the barn. The locals had added a few new items since the last time we were up here. There was an ancient boom box with the antenna broken off next to some empty cigarette cartons, and a row of Pringles tube-- empty, as I determined after my muzzle nearly got stuck inside one. I got it out, though.

And of course there was the usual assortment of old beer cans and empty Jack Daniels bottles and—and—

I stopped. For a minute I couldn’t believe my eyes.

A mouse was watching me. Just sitting there, watching me. Not running for his life or diving for cover. Just watching me like I was his personal floor show.

I stared at him. I narrowed my eyes. I even gave a low, throaty growl.

And he- and I couldn’t believe this- he twitched his whiskers at me.

Now, you might not know this, but the whisker twitch is the mouse world’s equivalent of the middle finger. Ask any cat. Or dog.

And like I said earlier: I don’t take no guff from no mice.

I got my hind legs tucked under me good and sprang at the little creep. He skedaddled. I chased him. He started scrabbling at the dirt. Then he disappeared.

Oh no, my little friend, I thought. You don’t get off that easy.

I trotted over to his spot. For the life of me I couldn’t find the hole that little stinker just dove into. But I started digging for all I was worth, anyway. I might get lucky, right?

I dug. I dug and dug and dug. Clumps of earth were flying everywhere. This was fun! I dug deeper. Pretty soon I was standing inside the hole. Look at me, I’m an infantryman! What’s that? Incoming? Take cover, men! Hit the dirt!

I flattened myself against the earth. Then I felt something kind of rough against my belly. I stood up.

What was this? Something rough was sticking out of the ground at the bottom of my hole. I sniffed it, gave it a couple of little nips. It wasn’t hard, just really dirty. I sniffed again. What was that smell? It was kind of familiar.

I started digging again until I could get some purchase on the thing with my teeth. I loosened the soil around it. Then I bit down and pulled.

Whoops! I went tumbling backwards, somersaulting butt end over teakettle. But I didn’t let go of my prize. When I stopped tumbling I set it down. Some kind of sack. Canvas, maybe?

“Hank?”

Uh oh. Don’t know if I mentioned this, but I’m not supposed to dig dog-sized holes.

“Hank!” Roy strode into the barn. “What have you been up to in here? Look at you, you’re a mess!” He spotted my hole. “Are you kidding me? I don’t have enough trouble, now I have to fill that up too?”

I felt a little bad. So I dragged the sack over to him and dropped it at his feet. Sort of a peace offering.

“What’s this?’ Roy looked at me. “Did you dig this up, just now?”

I gave him my reassuring smile again. It’s gotten me out of tight spots before, so, it was worth a try.

It worked. “Oh, Hank.” Roy crouched down and scratched behind my ears. “It’s okay, buddy. A dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do. I get that.” He reached for the sack. “What is this, anyway?”

He knocked off some of the dirt and opened the bag.

And all of a sudden he got very quiet.

“Hank,” he whispered. “You found this?”

I thumped my tail on the ground. My way of saying, You bet your sweet life I did, Roy Boy!

Roy reached into the bag and pulled out a stack of something green. “Oh, my God,” he breathed. “There must be twenty thousand dollars here.”

“As near as we can tell, your grandfather was one of those old codgers who just didn’t trust banks,” the officer said. We were at the police station, filling out forms. “After your grandmother died he must have buried all his savings in that barn. And according to this,” he scanned a document in his hand, “you are his sole heir. That makes the money yours, free and clear.”

We said our goodbyes and got back into the car. For a long time Roy didn’t say anything, He just drove. But he was thinking, I could feel it.

Finally he said, “There’s enough to pay the back taxes, and plenty left over.” He thought again. Then a new look came over his face, a look that reminded me of the old Roy, the one you could never keep down. “I could really get back on my feet with this money, Hank.”

I leaned over and licked Roy’s face.

He laughed. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow,” he said. “Tell a couple of guys I know I’m ready to get back in harness. Might even land a new job!”

Then he reached over and scratched my head again. “You’re a good dog, Hank.”

I gave him another lick and settled myself against his shoulder. We drove home.