The Wanderer
E WAS 11, and for a shepherd, that was already old. He sported a lush and luxurious fur coat that begged to be pet, and that which was draped over a large, gentle body. When I first met him, he was quiet, always watching. He sat looking at me curiously, never saying a word. His friendly demeanor though, struck me, and I was immediately drawn to him. His large brown eyes were soft and liquid, his hair full and thick, and besides loving him right away, I knew right then what he needed and felt a kinship.
Over time, Cody and I grew to be great friends. Although old, he would do a sprightly jaunt away from me when I would first walk in the door, giving me the gift of his last burst of energy for the day. It was then that he showed me glimpses of the sprightly pup he once was. I would see him wandering across the street, and run out to get him. He was going deaf, so couldn’t hear me, but once he saw me, his eyes would light up and he’d mischievously bounce away from me, towards the house and inside, like it was nothing.
Still, he was a determined dog, and strong. He would elude us daily, escaping the yard to wander and roam the neighborhood, the old traveler. The sage, the Jerry Garcia playing his mandolin for the nightly crowd that gathered round to hear his song, the bird, the squirrel, the groundhog. He would get out so frequently that I started to call him the Wandering Jew. Once, we drove around the neighborhood, late for work, because he’d disappeared into thin air that morning, only to come shuffling back 30 minutes later from some unknown rambling path only he knew about.
We would walk him and he would take little, mincing steps, because he was starting to hurt a bit, being old and all. But that didn’t deter him from picking his way through the yard and snow still, to sit, to contemplate, to look up at the moon.
When we cooked rich cuts of meat, Cody would stand in the kitchen and bark, as if asking for a piece right then. He loved the smell of sizzling steaks, juicy burgers, a fresh pork right out of the oven.
We spent many sunny fall and summer afternoons in the front yard, he and I. He would often station himself in the front yard, surveying the property. He particularly loved the snow, and would sit for hours. He best loved going out in the midnight hours, after 2, 3, even 4am. That was Cody’s witching hour and the one he most favored. With a bark we would open the sliding doors for him, and he would slip away into the darkness for a long, long time, doing what only ancient wild wolf-dogs liked to do in the darkest hours of the night, which is perhaps scavenge, or sit by the light of the moon, the wind ruffling their thick coats, or to sniff the faintest scents on the breeze, like field mice - the neighbor’s dinner, beef stew perhaps, or the musky smell of a dead deer, the squirrel making its home in the tree, safe and far away. And even still perhaps, wilder, fainter scents on the breeze - the scents of memory on the wind, of being a puppy, and of jumping in the air, with many bounds. The feel of his owner’s hand, warm on his head, as he drifted off into sleep with a full belly, of the delicious treat of jerky or steak he had snuck. His wanderings and ramblings took him far; he wasn’t to be domesticated – well, not fully, anyway. What Cody knew in his shepherd’s bones and belly was that the feral wolf dog was still strong in him, and to heed that call when it came.
Unfortunately, for us, that call was often at 3am, and our nights revolved around Cody’s, but routine, as he would bark and we’d let him out, lay back down, and await his bark to come back in.
He knew the joys of dog hood; that is, a good bone, the fine scent of a forgotten old crust of burger, the rich smell of an old shoe, the excitement of finding a carcass in the wood, the fine scent of stew.
Every so often he would hear the faint whistle of some great Dog, the one Out There, and Cody would lift his head and listen, in a veeeery still-like manner, until the whistle trailed off onto the wind and sounded just like the wind itself, and Cody wasn’t even sure that he’d heard anything, really. He’d wait, then decide it was nothing, and put his head back down on his paws and drift back to sleep, lazy, content and settled.
As time went on Cody was pretty happy, although he slumbered more often than normal, dreaming that golden dream of puppyhood and of pets and fine cuts of meat simmering their tantalizing smells on the stove.
His ramblings got shorter and shorter, his surroundings a little more confined. He would find his way back to his bed more often, laying and snoozing, his sides heaving like a great steam engine train. It felt good to lay, and besides, he was tired now, and jumping and wandering seemed far away. His two dog family members lay snoozing, too, but they were more active, and often slept around him or jumped hard around him and where Cody once jumped with them, he was only getting knocked over now, too slow for their energy. This great Dog, though, he often dreamed of him, in whispers and in rumblings, and Cody would wake sleeplessly, and wander a little off into the night, but really, it was easier to just lay more often than not…
Days got longer and slower, and winters set in, springs came back around, and Cody was still there, smelling those good meats wafting from the kitchen, enjoying the field mouse poking his nose inside the house and saying hello. He really didn’t chase things anymore; he was too old for that, but liked a good conversation every now and then. The mouse would bring news of goings on out in the fields, and of the farmers and the crops, and where the good, soft hay was, and when the ravens would gather for their great conventions. All this time around him life was happening, but he was content to just sit this time without wandering. His human people came and brought their faces round to him frequently, showing great love in their eyes and this made Cody buzz with warmness.
And when the great Dog came to call him home, to really call him home, Cody lifted his head from his resting spot and this time, he did not ignore it, nor did he drift back off to sleep, because he knew it was time. He could hear the rush of the great Dog and his pack coming for him, and they were massive and they ran as one. They called out for Cody triumphantly, moving in the trees. The great Dog howled and this time, Cody knew it was time. He got up, wobbling and shaky, for he was an old man at this point, and old men had old legs. His hocks were creaking with arthritis and it took great effort and much panting to raise his old frame up but to miss the Great Howl, he wouldn’t miss this for the world, because now, he could wander again and there were big grasses out there to run through. His steps were slow, and steady, and he didn’t look back, not at his bed, not at his two snoozing companions, where they lay, bellies fat, nor his human’s bedroom door, where they slept soundly, because, well, that was yesterday, and Cody knew if he only took a few more steps forward, he was looking into tomorrow, and tomorrow meant puppy legs, and hunting, and maybe the fine scent of stew….
