Bailing Out A Friend

Cell to cell I move knowing there is only one inmate that I can free, rescue from mud laced with excrement common to the freeze/thaw of winter and an outdoor kennel, 540 barking cell-mates that bail out their voices in a clod stew of fear-anger-boredom and the unknown pains of living; the tart flavor of isolation of heart that only comes from being removed from the world of man, knowledge that you were abandoned by the one voice trusted? I tread time like water in Dalhart TX., evaluating dogs at the local D.A.W.G.S. canine shelter for a companion to be-friend me over the lonely roads ahead, flare in yimes of danger, a token of protection, a friend that will make all of my conversations spoken to fence and sticker plant now perfectly sain and purposeful. My heart has settled on a gentle giant that has bowed to a life of locks with the fly over of birds being his only tonic still flavored with freedom. I keep looking from cage to cage as paw after paw strikes the chainlink fence in desperate hope of being noticed, touched, forgiven for some assumed sin. Spattered with flicks of mud, and what is not mud I keep my mouth closed and eyes squinted through a maze of canine hope, knowing I have already chosen. Chips have been placed.
It is hard not to think of rainy days that will come and saturate with the smell of wet dog thrust against everything I own, the increased drain on my finances for food and tack, hair snowing on cloth and cover with static annoyance. The cost in future doors not opened to me because I have a dog tethered to my days that looks like he could eat bears is also considered then set aside. In the end I will not have taken in all angles in this decision, but this is a tower I am sketching into life, my life. I have felt something leaving me that knows no tide for returning. It is a time to cease being alone and hold something besides myself in check. Nearly a year and a half has seen me move over this land. It is time. Weight lost has been replaced without the mass I once held. Many lonely miles have brought me to the downing of another sun. That song has been mastered. There will be the unexpected complications...and joys. I write this all the while weighing gear and cutting extra buttons off shirts as if they matter, mentally trying to figure how much graveled dog mix I can carry to feed my new companion...and can I eat it too if times get hard... rather, when they do.
He is quiet, an unloaded weapon returned from the war with parkerized finished worn to hard shine, as I come to his regulated world. My eyes are on the girth of his neck measuring with eye the tight shank of it,the power of his jaw, cabled legs moving up into a forge of lung fueling heart, the clarity of his eyes moving through fence as well as the heavy intent held in a gaze. I notice the impression of a drawn sword in his stance, tang bent into into earth commanding sheathless respect. He too comes from life of road and dust, being tossed from defunk barns and the slow strike of a snake that allows a meal. In the end it was the law that brought him in because He did't blend in. He caught an eye without having proper papers or a master to bend to. We are the same tribe though I see his beauty more pronounced, the edge filed from his blade.
Kat, an attractive woman in molded jeans, carhart brown vest over grey sweat shirt, white thermal top and Kalvin Klien shades perched high above the ooze moving up over her shoes as she talks to me through a warm smile under eyes I can't see but wish I could. Hearing my thoughts she lifts her glasses and we shake hands again. She is covering Rocket's (temp name given by Kat) story as we walk to his enclosure. With just a brief description Kat says that she knows the dog that I mean. She is right. I find that I am more than glad that this madness in canine numbers have her for every over burdened ship needs a hero on deck Laughing into high waves. As soon as Kat opens the gate and steps in "Rocket" becomes loaded--with love. With a mouth that could easily crush a skull, he is a flurry of filthy paws on Kat's clean morning clothes, his mouth is anxious only in kissing, his every contact is a need for touch met. Kat is giddy and boyant as she sways and counters in a tangle of affectionate unrehersed flow. 'Rocket' is weightless in his courting. I feel privledged to be in their space, their moment. As soon as Rocket steps out of the pen to join me for a walk the entire prison explodes a in canine fury of a united barking protest so loud I pull my head into my shoulders wincing. Rocket is a child fallen to the earth in hope of safety. It is the order of the masses to protest a dog being free while they are host only to retainment. Rocket has to be carried to the front gate in Kat's arms, all 60 pounds. "Great," I think silently, "I am falling for a flower."
In my head I want a dog built with enough spit and fang to turn a mountain lion east, or ink out the glazed thoughts of a drug head set on harm, or theft. In my heart I feel soft relation reaching out in a tender plea only my ears are deaf to. There is a beauty in Rocket set down behind the wet of his eyes, two small coins tanished bronze with worry. His coat on the other hand is all the colors of woodland paint handled hard before drying, strokes of Austrailian blue moving behind weak dirty clouds, browns of questionable smears arching into grey half-tones if sunlight through branches, and shadow blacks. Along with the removal of his tail, his ears are jagged stubbs, testiment to one of his trials delivered by sizzors and a heartless hand. His paws are large fists that dig into the road in force. Rocket was designed to survive.

After a walk with Rocket over a thawing dirt road that winds back to town and away from the smells of Dogville, I am many opinions inside my head as I return him to his straw lined plastic doghouse. 'Rocket' never voices a word in all our interactions, not while we are running down the dirt road, Rocket loping exactly like a young bear beside me, not when he throws his hulk onto me feet in the center of the quiet dirt road demanding love as soon as I think of walking him back to confinement. His silence becomes all too consuming as we return to the world of chain link fence and the waste sour wind that has combs over the coats of hundreds of dogs heavy with weather rank earth, a silence so deep that it has woken me from my sleep for two nights in a row, Rocket always tuning back to watch me leave. I look at a small pile of strapping I have gathered from the roadside leading to Dalhart, my mind is already weaving a harness without knots, while my hands remember the soulful healing warmth of fur moving life against life under a patch of Texas sun.

For over a week now I have been with the Labunski family, Tony and Sarah and their four children/young adults, Susannah 17, Andrew 16, Angela 12, and a fireball named Valerie 10 that shows me just what having a little is all about. Having just moved to Dalhart from far up north, the Labunski's and I have gone from strangers to a united moving crew, in and out of days I take the lead in the kitchen for several meals that give thanks deeper than words, and I gave the oldest daughter Susannah a lesson on processing a deer into a well stocked freezer--and many more great meals. With a kind family by my side we have all visited the dogs of Dalhart, smuggled the inmates bits of venison and bird, and waited out the course of yet another storm.
I alter my cart with a saw, stare my pack into getting smaller though it will not shrink, and as mentioned above, I weigh the addition of a dog to the journey. Something inside of me that is louder than all reason becomes fingers moving through two inches of fur and a new life moving toward mine. I call Kat and we talk for the fourth time.