A Dog Named Christmas Read online

  In the middle of the night, Bo McCray would start up that old grader. It would loudly spew and spat, daring the snow to fall, and then shoot balls of sparks into the dark snow-stained sky like a mighty titan awakening from a deep, centuries-old slumber. I liked the sound of the mammoth machine coming to life. Eventually the engine would smooth out and I could hear him pull off the driveway, heading the maintainer west toward town. I would listen until the sound was gone, picturing the snow pushed aside effortlessly.

  This was one of those familiar childlike images where we see adults towering above us with inconceivable power and ability. Eventually the roar of the maintainer disappeared into the night, but it left me with good thoughts about my grandfather moving all of that snow out of the way as I snuggled deep down into sheets of flannel and blankets of wool.

  The heat from the wood furnace did not make it to the edges of the house that were relegated to the children. A glass of water set on my bedside table was likely to have ice in it by the early morning hours, but it somehow mattered less because I knew that the roads were clear and each day held endless possibilities, including a very good chance of a school-closing decision made after the school consulted with my grandfather, who was often kind enough to ask my opinion.

  Sometimes Grandfather McCray would work twenty-four, or even thirty-six, hours straight, plowing snow. When he grew tired, my father would climb onto the maintainer and take a shift, and when I got older, after my father died, I took my turn. I loved the feeling of clearing the snow, and the admiration of our neighbors was considerable.

  The elderly, sick, or poor were likely to wake and find their own private driveways also cleared of snow—a brief detour my grandfather was sure the county could afford.

  Our lives depended on my grandfather maintaining the roads. Many homes did not have phones to call for help and what phone service did exist was unreliable and frequently lost in bad weather. Without the roads cleared, there was tremendous isolation.

  Over the Christmas holidays, we were the most popular people in Cherokee County, Kansas. Around four o’clock on the Sunday afternoon before Christmas, my grandmother and my mother would make a large pot of oyster stew, cook a ham, and make an enormous bowl of mashed potatoes. Aunt Elizabeth brought her famous cinnamon rolls and cherry pie, which my cousins and I fought over as if they were lost pirate treasure.

  Around seven o’clock on that same Sunday evening, our neighbors showed their gratitude by dropping by with Christmas cookies, gifts, or homemade ornaments to string on our tree. Because we expected the company, my mother, and now many years later Mary Ann, made our old farmhouse seem like the Midwest regional office for Claus Enterprises. Half of our basement was filled with gifted decorations and no one dared, now or then, to throw away one piece of worn-out holly. Every ornament had earned a spot. Whether it was true or not, we expected that each neighbor and friend was closely watching to make sure their ornaments had earned a place in our decorating scheme.

  As the years passed, the neighbors came by not to thank my grandfather for removing snow but to see the Christmas decorations at the McCray house that had evolved and been added to for generations. Our house was a museum of Christmas treasures past and present. The Sunday before Christmas family dinner and open house was a very special part of our holiday tradition.

  It had always been my job to hang the lights, but on this day I had a helper. Todd, who of course could not come up the ladder, stood below, headphones on under his stocking cap, and handed me the lights. As I strung them around the house, the sun hid behind patchy clouds and little independent flakes of snow occasionally fluttered to the ground. Although our house is modest, it takes me more than two hours to do the lights.

  When Todd and I finished the outside lights, we went to the basement and started the trek up and down the stairs carrying boxes. My wife is very organized and each box is labeled with a destination. For Todd it was like rediscovering forgotten toys.

  Mary Ann would spend hours with Todd over the coming weeks hanging and recounting the history of our Yuletide treasure trove.

  AS THE HOLIDAY approached, Todd and I began to make a game out of the Christmas dog.

  “We get the dog on the eighteenth and when do we return him?” I asked Todd.

  “Dog goes back on the twenty-sixth.”

  “When does Christmas end, Todd?”

  “Christmas ends on the twenty-sixth, Dad—and that’s when the dog has to go back to the shelter.”

  I put my arm around Todd’s shoulder and hugged him. “That’s good, Todd. We’re going to have fun with the Christmas dog, aren’t we?”

  With all of the work helping his mother to decorate the house and cleaning his own room, Todd was pleased to see Christmas week arrive. He removed at least six large trash sacks of junk from his room and I kept making him clean more while I had his attention. Neither his mother nor I dared to look into those sacks out of the sincerest fear of what had lurked in the dark folds of that boy’s room. I’m sure he spent at least two full days on the project. When he thought it was clean, we had him mop the floor and wash the walls with warm soapy water. This might be our last opportunity to insist upon this level of cleanliness.

  As I stood in the doorway and watched him work, I could hear Mary Ann laughing on the phone with one of her friends from Crossing Trails High School.

  “I did not think I would ever see his room this clean. Not since the Lord fed five thousand with two fish and five loaves has anyone been able to make so much of so little. Todd can take one candy wrapper and in two hours manufacture an entire sack of trash. He can create clutter out of breeze and sunlight.”

  I turned back in Todd’s direction as he said, “It’s clean,” holding a rag high in the air to signal the completion.

  Wandering around the room grunting approval, I finally mustered the nerve to look under the bed. To my surprise, it was clean too. “This room is fit for a Christmas dog.” He acknowledged his assent with a grin and I went back outside to work.

  Todd probably had not slept much the last few nights leading up to December 18. He’d spent two weeks speculating to me about the kind, size, breed, and shape of the dog he wanted to adopt and this gave us both some opportunity to tease, which I gladly allowed.

  “I think I want a big one,” he said.

  “Really,” I said.

  “Big like an elephant.” Todd extended his arms as much as he could and still it was only slightly wider than his grin.

  “An elephant would be real comfortable in your room. They like jungle.”

  “Not anymore, Dad. It’s clean now.”

  “Considering all that junk you took out, maybe you could fit two elephants in there. Should we call the zoo and see if they have an elephant adoption program?”

  “Dad, I don’t want an elephant.”

  “Just a big dog. Right?”

  “Of course, I could take three small ones instead.”

  “Perhaps,” I fired back. “You could take one dog for a week or you could take three different dogs for one day each.”

  He stood there figuring for a few seconds and then smiled when he completed the math. “Nah, I think one big dog for a week is better.”

  When the eighteenth finally did arrive, Todd was at the breakfast table waiting for me, dressed and ready to go. I came down in my robe and slippers with a towel wrapped around my head, a rare sight for Todd.

  “Mary Ann,” I offered in my sickest and weakest voice, “I have a frightful headache—could be pneumonia. I’ll have to spend the entire day in bed. We can only hope for a recovery before spring planting. You and Todd will have to do the chores for me till then.”

  She stood there with her hands on her hips and said, “Oh, George, quit teasing that boy. Get back up those stairs and change your clothes this minute!”

  “I hurt too badly, Mary Ann.” I tried to sniffle and hold back a few tears of pain. “I don’t think I can walk.” I stumbled into the living room and fainted
on the couch. For extra effect, I stuck my one good leg vertically into the air and let it tremble with the last movements of life. My eyelids fluttered, my arms dropped limply to my sides, and I died on the spot.

  Mary Ann followed me in and pulled the towel from around my head and said, “George, since you are so sick, maybe today would be a good day for Todd to practice driving the truck on his own. Can we have your keys?”

  Springing back to life, I announced, “I’m feeling better. All I need is a good, hearty breakfast.”

  “Well, then, get in here and sit down and eat it before it gets cold,” Mary Ann ordered.

  At the table, I remembered my manners, and kindly commented on each and every bite of breakfast. “Mmmm, mmmm, Mary Ann, these are the finest pancakes you have ever made. Are there seconds? Thirds?”

  “Same recipe for years now, George. You just eat ’em and quit talking about ’em.”

  “Anything different about this coffee? Sure tastes good.”

  “Nope and there is nothing different about this foot.” She held her rigid right foot in the air in a menacing way. “Would you like to reacquaint yourself with it?”

  I turned to Todd, who had sat through the entire meal wearing his hat, coat, and gloves, and said, “You about ready to go, son?”

  “Yes. I am ready.”

  “Well, if you are ready, why are we sitting in this kitchen jawing with your mother? We have important work to do. Dog picking is today. Don’t you remember that today is dog-picking day?”

  He stood up and said, “Yes, we should go.”

  “Let me put on my best dog-picking clothes and then we’ll leave.”

  I stood up from the table and before I could head upstairs to change, Todd gave me an enormous hug and the connection between the two of us seemed to run down through my toes.

  Todd was generous with hugs and we did nothing to discourage them, even though they were sometimes offered at unexpected times and places. The school bus driver and the FedEx man both got used to them. There were other little social cues that Todd may have vaguely recognized but often ignored. Some of these Mary Ann worked hard to curb, like not leaving the bathroom door wide open so he could carry on a conversation with anyone within shouting distance. Other habits, like not keeping his room clean, we tolerated. Most boys stop holding their parents’ hands when they turn nine or ten, but when we were alone and when he forgot just how old he was, Todd would grab Mary Ann’s or my hand and walk along with us. This morning was special. It was not only a dog-picking day, but as we left the house for town, it was also a hugging and hand-holding day.

  Walking toward the truck, I squeezed his hand gently.

  My old brown Ford moved toward town at a pace that was too slow for Todd. Those size 12 red-sneakered feet tapped twice for each beat of the music that played on the truck’s AM radio, and though he knew how long it took, he kept asking, “How much further, Dad?”

  “At least another four or five days, Todd. You know what a long journey it is to town. We’ve got to cross the Rocky Mountains, pass through the Great Mojave Desert, go down one side and back up the other side of the Grand Canyon, and then loop all the way around Toledo.” I paused and added, “And, ’cause I know you are in a hurry, I’m not factoring in a thing for tornadoes.”

  “Dad,” he whined. “How much longer—really?”

  “Ten minutes, son. Ten minutes.”

  Todd smiled contentedly, knowing just how close he was to the shelter.

  “When do we take the dog back, Todd? Do you remember?”

  “Yes, Dad, the dog goes back on the twenty-sixth. That’s when Christmas ends.”

  “Very good. You know, if this goes well and if we all have fun and get the dog back to the shelter on time, maybe we could do it next year too. Would you like that?”

  “Sure.” Todd looked up at me with a smile. The last two weeks had given me time to adjust to the idea, but most of all I was pleased to be doing this for him.

  The sign on the edge of town proudly proclaims WELCOME TO CROSSING TRAILS—WHERE THE OREGON, SANTA FE, AND CALIFORNIA TRAILS ALL MEET. There is only one stoplight in Crossing Trails and it seemed to be unnecessary as we sat there alone waiting for the light to turn green.

  A small police station about the size of a convenience store rests on one corner and the volunteer fire department is on another. Every year the two stations have a competition to see who can decorate their respective building with the most holiday flair. Perhaps because the fire station is manned by volunteers, over the last few years the town’s Christmas Committee seemed partial to the cornerstone of their scheme: Santa at the helm of an antique horse-drawn fire engine. This year the police station countered with Santa’s reindeer pulling an antique police car.

  Main Street has seen little new construction over the years. All of the commercial structures, just to the ragged side of charming, are close to a hundred years old. Some of the buildings stubbornly cling to old wooden sidewalks cut from the durable oaks harvested from the nearby forests. Nearly all were decked out with holiday greenery and white Christmas lights.

  Two blocks ahead and on the right side of the town square is the Cherokee County Courthouse. A bronze statue of a tired pioneer, hat in hand and staring west, stands at the base of the steps. An old gazebo commands the courthouse lawn and still serves as the home for the Cherokee County Volunteer Band, which would be performing their holiday program several times before Christmas, weather permitting.

  Like many old things, the courthouse had remained antiquated long enough to become historic. A tall spire with a bell tower constructed of native limestone and brick rose high over the surrounding buildings. Judge Crawford, the county’s only permanent judge, took a break in December from his duties.

  In Crossing Trails, the farther you move away from the town square, the faster the charm wears off. Near the edge of town, after passing over the tracks for the old Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway, there is a trailer park and an old gravel road that leads south to the county fishing lake.

  We turned and followed the gravel past poorly kept and poorly constructed homes, punctuated by even more poorly kept yards, littered with worn-out cars and rusted swing sets. The less fortunate make their homes on the South Side. At one point this was good farm ground, but the water treatment plant, a trailer court, and cheap rental housing had changed all of that for the worse. If I remembered correctly, Hayley’s grandparents lived on this ground when it was still farmed. Now the South Side and the county animal shelter were places that most people (and all animals) preferred to avoid.

  As I came around the last bend in the gravel road, and the shelter was in view, Todd unhooked his seatbelt. Before I came to a full stop in the shelter’s parking lot, marked with potholes like a mortar-littered battlefield, Todd threw open the truck door and headed toward the entrance. He moved quickly past an old Nissan pickup truck that Hayley drove. I recognized it as a car I often saw in town, usually with a few dogs in the back and another couple in the cab. The bumper sticker read, DOG ABUSERS SHOULD GET WHAT THEY GIVE.

  There are several places that I prefer to not know too much about. Animal shelters are one of them. Our town’s shelter, like most, was under-funded and crowded past capacity. Makeshift trailer annexes of critter cages filled with complaining felines were permanently parked next to the original building. The dingy yellow brick structure itself was discarded years ago by the sewer district. On warm days, when the wind came from the south, it became obvious why the county moved their administrative offices closer to town.

  As soon as I had pushed the front door open, I realized that the interior of the shelter was only a slight improvement. The humans had given up their office space to make room for more animals and the reception area had become the administrative offices, so crammed with desks that one could barely pass without jostling papers or boxes that hung over the edges. Just past the reception area was the break room, where old reports and records, medicines, brochures, a
nd books were stored. Against the wall of the break room was a worn-out countertop that the vet used for routine procedures and where a coffeemaker tried hard to crank out a pot of coffee one drip at a time.

  Not seeing anyone in the front of the building, we moved through a swinging door, where we found dogs and considerable human activity.

  As Todd and I walked into the large holding area, I was immediately struck by how clean the staff managed to keep the building and the cages. It must have taken a considerable effort. One dog started barking at us and soon more chimed in, like a symphony building to a crescendo. Before long, the entire population of maybe thirty-five dogs was whipped into a frenzy of barks, whines, and howls. A woman clanged a dinner bowl on the side of a metal cage, a sound that seemed to distract them and bring a halt to most of the noise. I recognized Hayley as she walked toward us. Her name tag confirmed my suspicion. She wore her prematurely graying hair in a long braid and dressed in blue jeans and a dusty green jacket.

  “Hello, Hayley. Nice to see you again. We’re here to adopt a dog for Christmas.”

  She reached out and took Todd’s big hand in hers. After she held it for a moment and he did not respond as most adults would, by returning the shake and offering some salutation, she tilted her head slightly and looked into Todd’s big brown eyes. Her face showed genuine affection and kindness.

  “I’m Hayley. It’s nice to meet you, Todd. I remember you from the county fair.” It was as if she knew to look past his disability and speak directly to the enthusiastic boy inside this strong young man.

  “Yes, I was in 4-H.”

  “I remember how nicely you handled your animals. I recall a few blue ribbons safety-pinned to your shirt one year not too long ago, right?”

  “Yes, sheep and cattle.” Todd was very involved in 4-H, but unfortunately he was now too old to participate. It had been a great confidence builder for him.

  “Todd, I know you are an old hand with animals, so look over all of the dogs and then we’ll decide together if there is a good fit for you and your family. The unadoptable dogs are quarantined. So, just look around and let me know if you need some help or have any questions.” She reached out and held Todd’s forearm for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but instead she just turned and walked away, busily moving from cage to cage—doing what, I was not sure.