by
It was another one of those hot and smoggy afternoons in Pasadena. There was nothing much to do, so I took my old dog Atom with me and we walked down to the corner to the Bob’s Big Boy Restaurant on Colorado Boulevard near City College. They had a take-out window on the patio, where I ordered a Big Boy Combo with a Coke and a chocolate brownie. The young, uniformed waitress—customary, little stovepipe cap hair-pinned to her tightly-wrapped coif—rang it up on the cash register. She slid back my change—a buck-sixty-eight—and a receipt.
“It’ll be a little while.” She pulled closed the sliding glass window, meant to keep out the bugs.
I walked over to a patio table, sat, and waited. Atom lay near my feet. I’d gotten him as a pup. He was nearly ten now, with a graying muzzle and arthritic back legs. I reached down and scratched him behind the ear. He yawned and put his head down between his front paws.
“Nice dawg.”
We looked up. The voice had come from a scruffy, bent-over, old man who’d just strolled onto the patio. He stepped closer to our table and leaned his wrinkled, stubbled, sun-soaked face next to mine. His breath smelled of wine and he’d obviously slept in his clothes.
“Hello,” I said.
“Does he bite?”
“Not usually.”
He reached down a knuckly hand and patted Atom’s head. Then the old wino bent low and looked Atom in the eyes. Atom stared back at him. “Ya’ know, this here dawg a’ yours is the spittin’ image of a German shepherd dawg that once saved my life.” The man’s bones seemed to creak as he straightened himself, then sat next to me. His hand continued to scratch behind Atom’s ear. “It was in the Big One. WWII, that is. Back in them days, I was a young, buck private in the U.S. Infantry, stationed near the German lines. An’ my platoon was sent in to mop up after this big battle. We was ‘sposed to pick up any stray Krauts we found hidin’ in these woods. Well, our smarty-ass first lieutenant got the brilliant idea a’ splittin’ us up so we could cover more ground. Right off, I knowed it weren’t much of a’ idea, but you can’t change a officer’s mind once it’s set. I’ll be damned if officers ain’t the most stubborn animals on this earth, ‘cept for maybe a mule.”
“That so?”
“Sure is.” For emphasis, he spit in the bushes near the table. “So jest like ever’one else, I went out a huntin’ Krauts. But I got lost. An’ sceared, too, I don’t mind sayin’. So I started to playin’ my mouth harp, which I always carried with me in them days, an’ outta nowheres, along comes this German shepherd dawg. An’ he was a naturally friendly dawg, jest like this here dawg a’ yours. He liked to howl while I played my mouth harp. An’ then I started to throwin’ a stick an’ he started to fetchin’ it, an’ we was havin’ a good ol’ time. Then we both got kinda’ tired an’ we laid down together to rest. An’ ‘fore I knowed it, I was sawin’ logs.”
“Sawing logs?” I asked.
“Sleepin’, boy.” His gaze changed from a glazed smile to a serious glaze. “When I got to wakin’, it was night. Pitch. Black. Night. An’ we was both kinda’ sceared. Me ‘cause my orders was to be back ‘fore nightfall, an’ the dawg, I guess, ‘cause he could tell I was sceared. So we trampled through the black together ‘til we got close to my lines. Then, outta nowheres, jumps all these soldiers. Lemme tell ya’, I was jest ‘bout to let ‘em have it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“An’ you’da won that bet, too. But they turned out to be Americans, jest like me. So I didn’t. But the dawg ran off an’ the fools captured me instead. Seems that smarty-ass first lieutenant sent ‘em after me purposely. Said I was a deserter.”
“A deserter, huh?”
“Yup. Said I left my post in a time a’ war. Well, I started to explainin’ how I captured this German shepherd dawg, but with the dawg gone, I didn’t have no dawg-gone evidence. So they took me to my C.O., who wouldn’t b’lieve me no how.”
“Him neither?”
“Nope. So they court martialled me an’ I was naturally found guilty a’ desertin’, since I didn’t have no evidence. An’ they sentenced me to stand ‘fore a firin’ squad. An’ there I was, standin’ ‘fore the firin’ squad, when my C.O. comes up to me an’ says, ‘Private, ya’ got any last requests?’”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“A’ course! Ya’ think I was hurryin’ to get myself shot? So I says, ‘Yes, Sir. I’d like to play my mouth harp one las’ time.’ So they cut my hands loose an’ I took my trusty harp outta my back pocket an’ started blowin’. An’ ‘fore long, outta nowheres, here comes that German shepherd dawg again, a waggin’ his tail and a slobberin up to me jest like we was best buddies.” He patted Atom on the back, as if they were best buddies now. “An’ so then my C.O. knowed I was tellin’ the truth, so they didn’t shoot me. An’ to this day, whene’er I see a dawg, like this here one a’ yours, I thank him for my very life.”
“Sir. Oh, sir,” called the waitress from the take-out window. “Your order’s ready.” She spotted our soldier buddy. “You back again?”
Instead of answering, he continued to scratch Atom’s ears.
“All right.” I got up.
“Say, friend, ‘fore ya’ go . . .”
But I was already reaching into my pocket for the buck-sixty-eight cents change. “Good story. Buy yourself a cup of coffee.”
He took the money. “Yes, Sir,” he said, as though still a buck private.
I got my order from the waitress, who immediately pulled down the take-out window again, and Atom and I started up the street for home. While were stopped at the red light at the corner, I looked back. On the patio, another man in shorts and running shoes sat at the table, waiting for his order. Our soldier buddy sat beside him, talking:
Mighty nice pair a’ shoes ya’ got there, friend. Reminds me a’ the time I ran the marathon in the Thirty-Two Olympics . . .
The light changed. Dawg and I headed home.