I met Boo today.
Boo was sitting in the dust out in the small fenced-in front yard of a home I visited. I’d pulled up out front; the house was at the end of the road on a wide circle, about 10 miles from our Village. There was an old Ford station wagon with dust-covered windows sitting on flat tires. The whole car listed towards the driver's side, hood and fender leaning down into the bank of a shallow ditch as if the car were a boat digging into a wave out on the gulf.
Boo circles around in the yard on his tether beyond the gate of the low, rusty chain link fence. The fence slumps on the left side of the gate, it's missing part of the piping that holds it up.
Boo has short thick, dusty black fur. He is a mongrel, looks to have a splash of pit bull, lab and who knows what else stirred around in his blood. His coat is foggy, its shiny black patina dulled.
Boo, however, is a skittish dog, really skittish. He’s tied to a long chain, the kind you see on a child’s swing set. The chain isn’t long enough to make the distance as far as he wants between him and me. He’s not happy but I’m not sure he knows why.
I talk gently to Boo but he keeps circling around in the dust, moving up and over the old plywood ramp up to the tattered screen door on the porch and back, uncertain of my intent. Boo seems to me to be the kind of dog who would long for human friendship if he’d ever known it.
“Come on in, he won’t bother you, he isn’t very sure of strangers. His name is Boo.”
The voice comes from a living room beyond the screen door. The room isn’t very well lit but I can see a man in a chair.
“Mr. Drye? Is that you?”
“Yes, come on in.”
I turn from Boo and walk up the ramp to the screen I pull on the handle but the door will not move.
“You’ve got to open the latch.”
I look around for this missing latch feeling a little inadequate that I can’t find it.
“The latch is on the inside, you have to reach through the screen to get to it.”
I see the lower right corner of the screen is torn at the door handle, a tear easily big enough to put softball through it. I reach in and feel around for the latch and lift it.
I walk into the living room traversing the porch that is littered with old furniture, chairs, and pieces of ordinary life long since abandoned. The room is shaded, not dimly lit, but barely bright enough to read my case notes. Some game show plays on the TV. Mr. Drye reclines in a large upholstered chair. He has the thin double plastic oxygen lines in his nose, the tubing runs back in the kitchen behind him. A hospital bed sits in front of the couch behind him. A wheeled walker with handbrakes sits in front of the bed. There is a hospital toilet stand in front of the walker.
“I’m sorry I can’t get up to show you in. I took a fall yesterday and I’m sort of staved up today. I’m not getting out of my chair anymore than I have to today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you ok?”
"Yes, I’ll be alright. I was in the hospital for about a month, had a pace maker installed. They thought I wasn’t going to make it but I did.”
He says this in a matter-of-fact way but with an obvious determination that projects no grief or despair, just expectation that comes from hope. He is fairly positive given all that has happened. I don’t follow up on his health.
“Mr. Drye, my notes say you have some drywall that needs to be done and something about leveling a floor.”
“Yes, if you look in the back bedroom you’ll see the floor has sunk about 3 inches, I’d like that jacked up. My son put up some drywall in the bedroom but you can see the ceiling needs it. I think in places you can see the light shining in from the outside.”
I go through the door into the back rooms, stepping down to a floor is a little mushy. I can see no easy way to raise or level this floor; the house sits on single cement blocks, maybe eight inches clearance. I look into the back bedroom; there are two of them, one of each side of the bathroom.
The front bedroom is full of stuff. Two single mattresses are standing on edge; one looks like it has had rats eating in it. There is a makeshift closet running across one side of the room. Boxes in the floor. It is too full for me to get into the room itself. Clothes hang in the closet and it appears as if they have been unused for a while. The walls have been dry walled but the seams aren’t done. The ceiling is old ¼ inch paneling and the face ply is delaminated and hanging down a bit. I see a rat hole in the corner at the base of the wall in the closet.
“My son did the walls of the bedroom, could you to jack up the floor and do the ceilings. I’ve been waiting three years for this help, you know.”
I look in the bathroom, the commode rocks on the floor. The flooring is probably half-rotten, I think. We can't get under the house with its low clearance except by directly cutting out the existing flooring. To do that we will have to find a place to move all the collected items stowed in the room.
I look in the other bedroom. This one was obviously Mr. Drye's at one time. Again the same wall length closet with a row of old, untouched clothes. The same weathered paneling on the ceiling. The room holds a double bed, its been made up. I notice two or three rat droppings on the bedspread. I’m thinking this four-room house is falling down. He doesn’t need to be here and if we spend effort and his money, or his niece’s for materials, are we doing the right thing? I'm not sure I see a good path out of this. I have to talk to his niece. I feel like I'm stuck in one of Camus' stories.
Coming back into the living room, I leave him my phone number and those of my associates.
“Would you look at those wrens? They’ve been building a nest on my front porch up over the door. Isn’t that something? They are really working hard on it.”
“I’ll work something up on your house Mr. Drye, and our case worker will figure something out. If anyone has a question you can call one of us on these numbers.”
I take my leave, back out the front door. I look at Boo. I decide I’m going to try to get him to let me scratch his head. I kneel down on the ramp and talk to him gently. He just paces. Once in a while he narrows the circle he paces, getting a little closer to me, but even my slightest move makes him back off.
After about 5 minutes of talking and coaxing him, I can see him relaxing a little. I ease a little lower so I don't present an intimidating stance. I don’t turn to follow his movement or keep obvious eye contact as he moves up onto the ramp dragging that chain. I know he wants to figure out my mystery. Boo edges closer behind me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye as he edges up and sniffs my back, but I shift almost imperceptibly and he quickly draws away, moving back around in front of me.
I continue to talk softly and gently to him. He edges back towards me. I slowly extend my hand in front of my body. He edges even closer and finally gets the nerve to sniff my hand and then gives my finger a couple of tentative, slight licks but immediately pulls away again as I move my hand to pet him. I stop moving and we repeat this little ritual two more times.
He is terribly distracted by fleas. He twists his head as far as he can towards his back and gnaws viciously his backside, his leg reflexively scratching the ground. I feel so bad for him; his torment from the biting is obvious.
“Mr. Drye, he seems to have a bad case of fleas.”
“Yes, I know. I have some stuff to put on him but I can’t get out in the yard. I’ll have to have my son do it.”
I really want Boo to relax and let me make friends with him; I’d really like to dose him with that flea powder. I kneel again and try to get on Boo’s good side. He approaches me the same way, slowly circling towards my backside and then as I slowly extend my hand and hold it out for him, finally he edges up and nudges my hand with the same tentative lick.
Mr. Drye is watching all this through the screen door from his chair. He periodically gives Boo encouragement.
“He is really pretty wary of strangers.”
"I haven't met too many dogs I couldn't befriend, Mr. Drye.”
Once after he edges up and licks my hand again, finally Boo lets me scratch his forehead. I see his eyes relax and he lets me scratch him only for a few seconds before he moves away. He is still too skittish to stand near me for very long. We repeat this once more but he decides he’s had enough. I know I’ve made a friend though.
Squatting there with Boo warming up to me; I wonder if I should stay and try further to gain his confidence. I look at my watch, it is getting late and I need to get back to the village for dinner. Boo will have to wait.
“Mr. Drye, I’ll be leaving now, but I’ll be back after we decide what to do. I want to call your niece and talk about what we do next.’
I pass through the gate, carefully closing it behind me.
“See you Boo.”
Driving off, I can’t stop thinking about what I'm going to do with Mr. Drye’s house, and how I’ll get that flea medicine on Boo before too long. Boo’s not Churchill’s ever-present companion, his black dog of despair. Just like Mr. Drye, Boo just needs some attention.
No comments:
Post a Comment