Backporch Stories: Dogie

by Jim Oddie

At a picnic table in a park-like campground near the small desert town of Anza, California, I sat composing on my laptop. A warm sun shone from the blue cloudless sky about, so I welcomed the cool breeze under the shade of a tree.

Deep in thought, I heard a female voice say, “Here, Dogie.”

I looked up and saw a dark-haired woman of some 40-plus years, carrying a brown grocery bag, walking down the dirt pathway to my left. Changing direction abruptly, she continued over the grassy area towards me. Without speaking to me, she put the bag on the table about 20 feet away. She sat and again softly called out, “Here, Dogie,” using the long sound of the letter o. A short-haired, sand-colored dog followed her onto the grass. He was about two feet tall, with pointed ears and a tail that curled over his back. I guessed he was about two years old. He stopped to mark his territory on a multi-trunked, red shank or ribbon tree, and was now meandering towards the woman in a sort of loose-legged gallop. I say meandering, because his path was not a straight line, but one of almost imperceptible jigs and jags. This puppy-like trait made me feel that maybe he wasn’t even as old as I had first thought. When he was nearly to her, she said again, “Here Dogie.”

As he sat by her, nuzzling her legs, I saw that he had a ball in his mouth. She scratched his head, and said, “Good Dogie.”

I returned to my typing.

Soon I heard her say, “Fetch,” and she threw the ball in a low arc over the grassy area. Dogie ran after the ball, a red rubber one with holes in it, and when it had nearly stopped, grabbed it between his teeth. He ran a few feet towards his mistress in his uncertain tangle-foot way and suddenly dropped onto his side. With the ball clutched between his teeth, his body withered on the grass, first on one side then on the other, and finally onto his back.

Years ago, we had a Collie named Bub who had epilepsy, and I thought at first that this dog might be afflicted, so I stopped typing and watched, not knowing what drama might take place before me. However, I was relieved to find that my apprehensions were unfounded, for when Dogie had finished scratching himself, he stood and shook all over.

When the woman called him again, he continued to her. While he sat and dropped the ball at her feet, she patted him on the head again and repeated, “Good Dogie.”

She picked up the ball and tossed it another time. I noticed that she again threw it so it hit the ground about eight feet away, and then took small bounces until it rolled on the ground. Dogie turned directly around from where he was sitting and chased after the ball in his sort of walk-run gate. He got to the ball before it stopped, picked it up and came back to her. He dropped it and sat before her, his moist tongue hanging from his open mouth.

As she again tossed the ball and the dog ran after it, I said, “He sure loves to play fetch.”

She replied, with her eyes still in the direction of the dog, “Yeah, he’d do this all day if I’d keep throwing it.”

“Puppies are like that – can’t get enough play,” I said.

Dogie had gotten the ball and was heading back to her, but when I spoke, he stopped, looked in my direction and started to come to me.
She called, “Dogie. Here!” He changed direction and went back to her. She replied, “He’s eight.”

“Oh, he looks younger,” I said and ventured, “Does he have a muscular or equilibrium problem? He seems a bit uncertain in his movement or direction sometimes.”

She got up, picked up her bag, and walked over to me, softly calling, “Dogie.” He followed along her heels, still clutching his beloved red ball.  As she stood before me, her eyes remained on the dog, she said, He was the runt of the litter. Nobody wanted him, but my husband and I felt sorry for him and took him home. He’s a wonderful companion while my husband’s away all day, and he’s not been a bother, like they warned us he might be.”
As she bent to take the ball from Dogie’s mouth, I looked into his dark brown, glistening eyes. For some reason, a tune came to mind: “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.”

The woman turned and tossed the ball down the dirt roadway in the direction of their home, and Dogie ran after it in his own peculiar way.
I said, “I can’t believe…”

Over her shoulder, she said, “Nobody can. Dogie’s been blind since birth.”