A Familiar Sound

Dedicated to my friends, Red McSweeney, an Afghan war veteran, alcoholic, Eugene Pitcher, who danced jigs for loose change, and John Paquette, who froze to death in a boxcar. All from the seaport streets of Halifax, Nova Scotia. This one’s for you boys, RIP.

A grizzle-whiskered old man stumbled in darkness into overflowing garbage cans in a deserted alley. Defeated by life he slumped against a graffiti smeared dumpster for balance. Disheveled in appearance, confused and blinded to reality, his arms flailed in wild circles to ward off imagined blows from unseen, unkind hands.

“Don’t get near him, he’ll clock ya.”

“Get away from me ya bugger! Leave me alone, for God’s sake, I ain’t done nothin’.”

He tried to prop himself up on a scrawled, street artist’s wall tag, as the dizzy world swirled, he toppled backward groping empty air. Flat on his back, face-up to invisible stars in a rumpled heap, he groaned,

“Nobody gives a damn, the heck with them, I don’ need nobody. I can manage on m’own.”

A filthy, knitted toque, unraveling at the ears, cushioned his ginger head as it dropped with a hollow pop on the stained alley stone. Too obliterated to hear the incessant siren’s ooo-weeee wail that sounded close before fading into the night. He slurred an invocation to save his soul and passed out. A light drizzle coated his rosy, wind-burned cheeks and dampened his graying hair, making him look beatific in delirious oblivion.

Shame means nothing to people living on the street, unhoused and out of homes. Those whose lives are devoured by alcohol, drugs and hard times have no place left to live. With his face, more puff than buff, he crawled into his cardboard box with blanket home and passed out motionless and ignored.

What mattered most to ‘Red’ was the place to bum money on his sidewalk beat fronting the walled graveyard of Saint Mary’s Basilica. There, he cajoled handouts to feed his addictions to hasten his inevitable end.

He’d had family and friends as a young dentist until a girl died in his chair. He believed it his fault. “Bad heart,” they said. The shock of this innocent child dying in his arms, or maybe it was something deeper killed his spirit to carry on. To block the pain of loss and escape the guilt, he started drinking and using easy to find opioids, first one day, then two, until the days blurred beyond his notice. His family were unable to stop his fall from grace and he disappeared into the anonymous street world of strangers.

Red didn’t want to quit his addictions; he wanted to quit life. With a deck short of cards, he was playing a losing game. But even the down-and-out can sometimes catch a lucky break. A homeless man in Michigan won a big, instant cash lottery and gave it away to his homeless friends.

“My life’s fine, I don’t want to change a thing.”

When life’s not normal; kindness can bring joy to suffering. Red was a nameless, anonymous body teetering on the edge of life, a counterweight to directed people who by their own efforts are fed, clothed and loved.

His Rudolph-nosed associates called him ‘Red or Old Man’ even though he wasn’t all that old, but his hair was red. He was an alumni bum of the old school with a good heart and lost soul who’ll be saved from death by an unlikely, furry angel.

After a snowy night in his cardboard home, he pawed the building’s wall to get to his feet. Lame, he pushed his arthritic, aching bones into motion. Two rules for aching bones: get up, and get them going. Forcing stiff legs to walk a few, slow steps take more than a few minutes of effort.

He gagged at the thought of breakfast, a few streets away. Nothing but spittle came up. He inched along the sidewalk shadowed by the sandwiched buildings, avoided by the scarce-few night-workers heading home to warmth and comfort.

Bleary, but on a familiar track, he stumbled and mumbled, working his way along the sidewalk. Wavering from the street’s curb to building walls, he ignored the slight brush on his lower pant leg as he stumbled down the sidewalk Again, he felt a brush against his pants. Was it imagination or delirium? He stopped, tried to turn too fast, and the world reeled around him.

“Whoa!”

Grabbing the bus shelter for support, he looked down to see a small dog’s trembling paw touching his shoe. Its narrow chest sported well-defined ribs and a mangy coat covered its scrawny, vibrating body. A left ear bent at half-mast countering the right; up, dirty-pink and listening. Tiny feet and spindly legs made it look more like a chipped porcelain ornament than an abandoned dog. With one eye swollen in a permanent wink, its bent tail wagged as if Red was its long-lost pal.

The dog’s dark, soulful eyes studied him. Red, blank-stared back. At the man’s attentive look, the dog shivered and sneezed for effect. In rough shape, built small and to the point like the man, made it a subject of the man’s attention. It looked into the old man’s heart with pleading eyes hoping for a warm response. Even in his dismal physical condition, hardly able to walk, the poor dog’s plight touched him.

“Hi, little fella,” he slurred. The dog wagged its tail and managed a “Wruff” without taking its brown eyes from the man’s face.

Red thought, ‘The dog’s a momentary diversion, there’s no place in this world for it other than its present spot, just like me.’

He turned away from the scroungy mongrel to step into the street. The dog side-stepped and stood in his path to block his forward motion.

“Hey!” he tried to give it a kick. A red-light, speeding taxi flashed by and almost sideswiped the unbalanced drunk wavering on the curb.

“Holy sufferin’ . . .” before he finished his curse, he fell to his back on the sidewalk.

Dazed, he gawked with amazement at the little dog as it slathered his face with wet kisses. He smiled. “We’d better watch where we’re going, eh, little doggie?” He spoke to it like a friend, a longtime since he felt any kindness in his heart.

The dog, by instinct, welcomed the unfamiliar voice of affection. It did what any good pal dog would do; it protected his master and friend from harm. Wiping his face from the dog’s wet, raspy tongue with his sleeve, he said:

“Thanks lil’ fella, you saved my life and the bath is extra.”

He inched up from his knees and used the bus shelter to steady his legs. The animal wagged its tail and panted an open mouth reply, eyeing him all the time. In motion, it took position ahead on his friend’s right side.

Red crossed the familiar street and his new mascot walked in-step with him on his zigzag shuffle. At the Mission door he chuckled at how the dog followed his crooked path back and forth down the sidewalk.

“What a side-show we’re putting on today, huh?”

At the door, the dog bounced up on his hind legs and turned in a spinning, dancing way and woofed, “Wruff” again. He stared at the entertaining creature and managed a grin that split his dry-chapped lips. A smile, as rare as a diamond to a single girl on date night formed on his frozen face. He stopped walking; the dog dropped, spun around once, twice, three times and hopped up on its back legs.

“Where you from little fella, the circus? You picked the wrong guy for a handout man. Heck, I can’t take care of myself let alone you. Scoot! Go find someone who’s got something to give you. It ain’t useful to beg from a bum.”

The dog stood on its back feet and whirled around, watching his new buddy. It yipped and gave his friend a, ‘What do you think of that’ blink with its eye. Hard to resist the performance, he bent and stroked it head-to-tail. The dog luxuriated in the affection and stretched into the petting by extending one leg back for an underbelly scratch. The little animal was in dog heaven. (‘Will work for food’ paraphrased for a homeless dog is: ‘Will love for friendship’.)

Patting the dog’s head, he heard the ‘pinging’ sound of coins tossed across concrete. He knew the sound―it was the old familiar sound of money clattering on a sidewalk. He thought; ‘Money ha, too bad it’s just a fligment of my imagination.’

To his surprise, the coins danced across the sidewalk and stopped against his shoe. Lost in his reverie with the dog, he hadn’t noticed people passing by. He was shocked to see the woman who dropped the change, he nodded toward her and she smiled back, entered a cab, and sped away.

He shook his head in disbelief. “A smile coming my way, boy that’s a new one. I ain’t seen anyone smiling in my direction for a month of Sundays. “Thanks, lady” he called out as the taxi’s tail lights faded down the street. He gripped the coins like long-lost keepsakes and rubbed his head.

“What the heck?” Then it hit him―the dog! He gave his good luck pal a vigorous rub.

“That-a-boy. What a GOOD boy.” He looked into the dog’s eyes and saw a pure soul saved from oblivion. The dog wasn’t sure what it did, but was pleased something brought his new friend, the stranger, joy. It rolled over onto the concrete and invited a stomach rub by curling its two front feet in supplication. The man obliged, happy to give its dirty pink belly a light scratch.

“This could be a banner day little doggie.” With his before breakfast bounty of coins, they proceeded with a tip-toe-happy step toward the Mission. He might be a drunk and occasional drug user, but wasn’t stupid. This dog was pure gold, and he knew a mining opportunity when he saw it.

“You’re a lot like me little fella; living on the street, homeless and hungry, beaten by life and tortured by your failings. Those you loved didn’t have any use for you. I bet you never guessed life could be so tough, even for a cute little dog. When you ended up scruffy and skinny, that was the end of kind words and handouts. I know the feeling.

“You’re glad to find someone who cares about you. I would be too. If you want to hang around, I could use some company that don’t drink.”

He rubbed his eyes; he was talking to a dog! “I better give up drinking or go work in the movies talking to animals, if this keeps up.”

“I’ll get you a bite to eat in the Mission. I know the guy serving, he’ll let me have something extra, and he’s one of the ‘boys’, we stick together.”

Each day began with a bun and instant coffee breakfast with a sandwich to go at the ‘Mission’. Every midnight destitute huddled in the meeting hall and prayed at the pastors’ lead in unison; “Give us this day, our daily bread….”

They mouthed words of redemption, received the benediction, ate their bun with heavy sugared coffee and walked out the door. The free sandwich in his pocket would be squashed and forgotten before noon.

“No way I’m gonna kill a good drunk with a stinkin’ church sandwich.”

He stumbled inside, the hungry dog waited patient at the door. The man came out with a flat fried egg sandwich in a napkin and a Styrofoam cup of water. The dog wolfed it down and its pink tongue licked the cup held in his quivering hand. “It’s been a long time since I made anyone happy. You’re a real winner little guy.”

That the dog waited for him, made him feel good, and he rubbed between its ears. The dog’s eyes met his as though it understood what the man said. It didn’t, but dogs are ready to do ‘whatever comes next’ if it has a buddy to do it with.

They walked down the street together, a vaudeville team looking for an audience. The man added a bounce to his step and hummed a tune. A good booze-up was on the way after all, this was his lucky day. The dog fell into step with him and they moved as one. He skipped a step; the dog did the same. Red laughed at the dog’s antics and smiled a toothless grin through his patchy, salt-and-pepper beard.

He stopped in front of Saint Mary’s Basilica,

“I’ve got to go to work now lil pal. Lay here on my togue by the wall, you’ll be okay. I ain’t going anywhere ‘til I get some change in my cup.”

And with fresh hope for a good day’s handout, he followed his targets like an experienced predator. He smiled, begged, and tried a few one-liner jokes but couldn’t remember the punch line―so that didn’t work. The need for a drink overpowered his senses. He spat out grumbled insults and finally, out of pure desperation touched a shirtsleeve and begged for their kindness. This is a panhandler’s death knell; touching strangers always ends in a brush-off and hard “don’t touch me” tongue lashing.

For his parting effort he tried to sing an old sailor’s tune; a ‘ditty’ as his mother called them. To his surprise, the dog joined in with a melancholic howl to match his off-key voice.

“Heck doggie, the pickings are lousy, but the music’s pretty good.

“That’s two laughs today, a record for me. You’re my kind of buddy.”

He gave the dog a chest full hug, forgetting about his ‘work’.

A smile lit his swollen face. He put a hand into his coat pocket and touched the lucky coins from earlier. Closing his eyes for a moment, he realized what his life was missing―caring for someone who cared for him in return. He’d been a long time from loving, and caring felt good.

He was surprised by his affection for this homeless creature, his spirits lifted as he watched him sleep, curled snug against the sun warm wall. Red was a fighter who didn’t give up easy, or he’d be already gone. He missed a young secretary fumbling through her change before boarding the bus. He was too slow for the businessman who ‘huffed’ him away after leaving the taxi.

After an hour, without a penny for his time, he grumbled,

“I don’t have enough for a jug with the boys yet. The story of my life; I figure I got it made, and it all goes to nothing before my eyes.”

Shuffling to the wall he sat down, dejected, and petted the dog as consolation,

“I’m sorry, it’s not clicking today. Let’s get something for you to eat. It makes no difference if I have a little money or none. It’ll cost at least two dollars to get a good buzz on with my drunk friends, and I’m a long way from that now.”

When the afternoon dissolved into twilight and the graveyard dead haunt new blood, he’ll be safe in his alley cardboard hideaway. When death’s icy tentacles hunt him down, from practice, he’s slippery, evasive and can’t be held fast.

As he sat with his hand stroking his new friend, he heard the familiar sound, of a coin landing on the sidewalk. He glanced up and heard the elderly man say;

“Get that dog and yourself some food son. You both look like you need it. Have a good day.”

The dog treated the coin with indifference, but Red’s heart filled with ecstatic joy:

“A two-dollar Toonie! Are they still making these?”

Red scooped it up. He had his share to chip in for a gallon of wine with the ‘boys’.

He bought bulk-food kibble at the corner store with the first donation to his worthy cause. When the owner noticed the mangy dog vibrating at the door, he put three dog biscuits in the bag. Red hadn’t seen such kindness since the War’s end when drinks were free at every bar in East Town.

The starving dog crunched the kibble from the bag in a fury with tail wagging, a metronome marking quick time. This was more than food to the little creature; it was love it could eat. Watching it devour the grub, he realized; he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much for a dog’s age. The happy dog made him feel good.

He returned to Saint Mary’s graveyard wall for one last go. In position on the sidewalk the dog noticed someone walking toward them. His ears perked up as it stood, stretched, and trembled, but it didn’t move. A matronly lady with a hat and flowing scarves headed toward them at a stern stride.

“Oh, oh, this is the dog’s owner and I’m done for; he’s gone forever. Man. Well, that’s the way it goes.”

He let the dog run to the lady and sat by as his heart melted. The dog stepped forward, caught the lady’s eye and sprang into action. He rose on his hind legs, did a quick spin, and dropped to all fours. He completed another spin and gave the lady a “Wruff”. Up he jumped again, but this time he gave a one-two hop, a bounce, and a spin for good measure. (When he later shared the story, Red swore at that point the dog looked over at him and gave him an undeniable: “We got-it-made” wink). It turned, dropped to all fours and focused its gaze on the lady’s face.

“She’s waiting for you, you cute little devil. I’ll see you later.”

The lady stopped, to open her purse, took out a paper ten-dollar bill and handed it to the nameless vagrant on the street with a suggestion:

“If you wash that dog and make both your ribs disappear with a decent meal, when I pass this way again, you’ll have a repeat performance of my generosity. I’m an actress in the city and love a good show. Have a nice day, kind sir, and you too, you cute little dog.”

“Kind Sir”, this generosity shocked him. He opened his hand to match his open mouth and with a nod accepted the beautiful bank note. He closed his mouth, closed his hand, got up, and did a quick, two-step jig.

The dog danced too, unable to resist the festive atmosphere. The lady laughed and continued on her way. Red, true to his word, bought a small bag of dog food and a bottle of dog shampoo to honor her request. The dog was making him a responsible citizen, and he was enjoying every minute. Thanks to his new friend, another homeless vagrant, Red had enough to pay his part in a gallon of the finest ‘rotgut’ the liquor store had for sale.

~

Most days he holes up with his buddies near the rail yard or below the viaduct bridge; safe havens for the homeless. There, a fire in a metal drum, a slug from a bottle or taste off tin foil and guff-by-the-gallon are free of charge.

His vow to quit drinking, self-improvement plan ended with three bubbles of cheap vodka. (A bubble is a drink direct from the bottle; each bubble rising in the bottle tipped to the mouth makes one good bubble, gulp.) Blunk... blunk, blunk: Three bubbles are an awful guzzle of hard liquor and impossible for a normal drinker.

The all-out-drunk lasted three days. The boys pitched in to keep the party rolling until they all passed out in a stupor.

The little dog never deserted his new friend and master. He slept snuggled in and curled to his chest, warding off the chilly night air. Together they lay on a manhole cover cut into the edge of a bustling downtown street. The police and building security felt sorry for the old man and his dog trying to survive the long, cold winter nights, and let him be. Like two hot dogs on a midnight steam table, they lay wrapped in blankets snugged in a wool cocoon surrounded by the warm encapsulating, rising vapor.

The bag of food hidden in the alley kept the dog fed, but the old man’s company soon became slurred abuse.

“Get out of here you stinking dog, I’ve enough of ya. Beat it!”

Verbal abuse wasn’t enough to drive it away; it would not desert its sick friend. When no one cares if you live, or die, a little love will take you a long way.

He covered small territory on his ‘drinking jag.’ The dog, his guardian angel, stayed at his side never deserting him. At night, it kept troublemakers at bay with a growl and a quick, sharp bark. Thus, the unwavering loyalty of a dog; to protect its master with its life.

Red finally came to his senses; the last twenty-four hours he’d spent knocked out cold. Thursday was Salvation Army shower and fresh clothes day. Thursday was getting ready for a good weekend-with-the-boy’s day.

“Well, maybe not this week, I feel really sick.”

He had a bad case of the ‘shakes’ that followed every bender. His hands trembled as he tried to light a squashed cigarette butt and he couldn’t pull his hat over his matted hair the shakes were so bad. The dog studied the old man’s face. He’d never seen the man suffer such a horrible illness.

“This is gonna kill me,” he slurred, as he crawled to his feet on his sailor-on-shore leave wobbly legs. He tried to make it into the sunlight before he lost the ability to walk. Pale and losing control of his ability to move, he trembled to the door and inside the Salvation Army Men’s Hostel.

They all knew Red, a regular on the rounds, and his dog was a favorite with the boys. It accepted the homeless and hungry better than it did regular people where a mangy looking dog gets more abuse than love. The puppy knew a person’s energy was a truer sign of their character than their looks. Dogs (and cats) are pure spirit, energy connecting animals, not interested in good looks.

It waited by the door for the old man to come out. Hour after hour, he studied everyone that came out the door. His ears perked up with hope and dropped disappointed at each exit; not his friend.

By nightfall, when the old man still hadn’t come out, it returned to its cardboard refuge in the alley and waited at the door all the next day. The other men brought him food, but they weren’t like his friend who loved the little dog. Love is something you feel, not what you eat.

After the second day a man in a wheelchair explained to it that Red was in the hospital. He was sick and might die. The dog didn’t understand the words, but got the idea that if he waited long enough, the old man will come back.

He shied away from the touch of the other men and lowered his head when they tried to pet him. True to his heart and faithful to a fault he never left his vigil at the door. He wanted to be with the old man again, wanted to join him in a step dance and lively jig.

Day after day it waited for him to return. The boys felt sorry for Red’s loyal friend and wondered where it holed up at night. There, they found the bottle of dog shampoo and gave it a warm water bath to clean up its act. It looked a different dog, furry and fuzzy and handsome all from one wash. On the seventh day, he thought he heard the old man’s voice, but the voice was clear and strong:

“Come, little fella. I’m back. I’m here Boy!”

The dog’s heart jumped, and it filled with joy. It looked, but didn’t recognize the old man. Red looked and didn’t recognize his clean, fluffy white-fur friend either. Someone was playing a cruel joke on them. Its ears drooped, shoulders dropped, and it looked at the ground sad, and gave a deep sigh of disappointment. The man took a chance and called,

“Hey little fella, here, over here.”

Alert to the familiar sound of his voice, it looked down the sidewalk and stared. Someone was trotting along toward him and it thought, ‘that couldn’t be him, this man was different; he moved like a regular person’. As the man came nearer, the dog recognized his voice as he stooped to his haunches and called again;

“Come-on, I love you Boy.”

Its tail spun in full helicopter as it barreled toward the old man with all the love a dog can have for its human friend and master. It jumped into his arms, smelled his neck and licked the old man’s clean face to confirm it was him. It vibrated with delicious ecstasy.

It jumped clear of his arms, spun, bounced, pirouetted and jumped back into his arms. The man smelled different, his face wasn’t swollen and puffy, and his eyes were clear and blue as the sky. This was the dog’s miserable life’s best day ever. This was the day faithfulness and love triumphed over loneliness, rejection and heartbreak.

“I’m a new man, little buddy. I was in rehab, and all I could do was think and worry about you. I wondered if you had food or if the dog catcher got hold of you. I felt I’d let you down here all alone without an explanation.

“I see the boys gave you a bath, we both needed one, eh?”

He grinned at the good fortune to have such a loyal and loving friend to companion his lonely life. “I had to get better to see if you were okay.

“I see things straight now; I’m done with drinkin’. You put my life back-on-track and its worth living again, thanks to you.”

Red snuggled the dog to his chest; it stretched long into his embrace and its tongue searched a new place to kiss. As sure as love knows no bounds, they heard a familiar sound; coins tossed by a man rushing to catch a bus landed to their side. They locked eyes with the benevolent stranger who smiled in return. When he saw loving hearts and kindred spirits joined as one, the stranger couldn’t resist helping.

Rosy-cheeked, clean cut and sharp minded, Red stared into the little dog’s eyes;

“My real name’s Ray, lil pal, let’s find a place for us to live. We’re in this for keeps and I wouldn’t miss spending it with you for a king’s crown or kingdom to wear it in. Come on ‘lil Pal,’ that’s your name buddy. Let’s skedaddle out of here, we got things to do.”

The End