This one will touch your heart and make
you smile and cry.
"ON WITH THE SHOW!" ...
His Master's Smile ... Ron Hevener
He had won.
He had made his master proud and he had won.
It wasn't that he understood exactly "what" he had done to make everyone so
happy. It wasn't as if he had fought off a raging bear, or saved a lost child. He hadn't
run for help or chased a thief away from those he loved. He hadn't done any of those
things. He hadn't done anything but be himself, standing now before a crowd of strangers,
beside the one he loved. And, there it was: His master's hand upon his shoulder; his
master's voice at his ear; his master's smile upon him.
It wasn't always like this. In the long-ago mists of Before, when he nudged his mother's
breast and scrapped with his brothers and sisters, he was blind to the life that lay ahead
of him, blind to anything but himself. Listening into the night, his mother's breath
comforted him in a world of what he could feel, hear, or sense around them. But, from his
earliest awakening, he was aware of a presence around them; an intelligence. From as far
back as he could think, there seemed to be a mysterious something watching over them,
providing an order to things; a mysterious someone who seemed to care.
Day after day it was like this. Day after day, as he dozed in the manner of the newborn,
he felt himself touched by something greater than he, himself, seemed to be. It wasn't
that he knew himself. It wasn't as if he knew he was any different from a rock or a tree
or the flowers decorating his life. He only knew that his life was protected by someone
with the power to change anything around him.
It was a power that could change the bedding on which he lay. It could bring him food. It
could bring water. It could take away his mother, making him wonder if she would ever
return. It could fill the air with music all night long and calm him with a reassuring
voice. From the moment he first saw it, he knew he was important to this powerful someone.
He knew it from the moment he felt his master's smile upon him.
As it is with all young dogs, there were ups and there were downs. There was the time he
escaped under the fence and followed a yellow butterfly. Yes, it was true he could hear
his name being called. It sounded nice, hearing his master shout his name to the Heavens
like that. But, a yellow butterfly! Now that was something he had to know about! He had to
know about all kinds of things in the Early Days. He had to know about powdery wings that
fluttered and lifted a butterfly into the air. Did he have wings, too, he wondered? Where
were his own wings? ... Where, he suddenly wondered with a sinking feeling in his belly,
was his master's voice? Yellow butterflies melted into darkness and shivers as he learned
the meaning of loneliness ... and longing.
But, wait! He could see a light! He could hear the rustling, crunching sound of dry leaves
and familiar footsteps! "There you are!" came the words that showed him all
things are possible even when all is lost. "I've been looking for you," came the
caress of love as they turned for home and he felt his master's smile upon him ....
There were other times, many of them, when he tried new things. Some were praised and
others were not. But through it all, through the good times and the bad, his spirit
flourished and he grew. As his spirit grew, so did the body in which it dwelled. He grew
taller, stronger, and wiser with his master never far away; feeding him, watering him,
turning on the radio and filling the night with music ....
With his master's help, he grew to understand that collars, leashes and manners were
important things to know about. He grew accustomed to riding in a car, accustomed to the
slippery floor of a veterinarian's office and the bitter taste of medicine ... He grew
accustomed to many things, to please the one he loved.
There were others like his master at the kennel. As time went by, he saw many of these
gods, for that's what they were to him. He heard them speaking and did not understand
their words, he saw their eyebrows raise and fall, he saw the gesture of their hands and
felt their laughter. "Is that thing worth racing?" they asked.
"We'll see," came the answer from the one who mattered to him most. "His
dam's the best brood I ever had, and his sire's a winner."
As spring burned into summer and summer leaves began to fall, they worked. They worked
together, side by side, early in the morning. They roamed the pasture and fields, just the
two of them, a master and his dog; a master and his dog sharing a secret. "You can do
it," he heard his master say. "I know you can."
After what seemed like endless mornings and endless nights, when it felt as if chasing
rabbits and squirrels and white-tailed deer would be his lot in life forever, something
changed. "We've done enough now, my friend. It's time to show them."
Show them? Show them what? What are we going to show them?
"We're going to show them what you were born to be," came the answer, as he felt
his master's smile upon him.
He was frightened that day. Was he good enough? Would he do the right thing or would he
let his master down? What was ahead for him, he wondered, as he hopped into the car. Were
they going to the vet's office? Please say they weren't going to the vet's office for
shots or medicine. But, they weren't going to the vet. This time, they drove past the vet.
He breathed a sigh of relief and fell asleep.
It was the sounds that woke him: sounds of barking and excited chatter. The smell of
sausage, French fries and dogs -- hundreds of them; more dogs than he had ever seen in his
life -- lured him to full attention. Where are we, he wondered, pressing his nose against
the window. What's happening?
"Come on, fella," his master said, opening the door and snapping on a leash
after they came to a stop. "Good boy!"
"Good" is what he always tried to be. Was it his imagination, or was his master
standing extra tall today? Were people looking at them in a different way than they used
to?
"Where'd you get that one?" somebody asked.
"Bred him myself," came the answer.
"Yeah? Who's he out of?"
"The best brood I ever had and his sire's a winner, too."
"Wait a minute -" came a voice of disbelief. "That can't be the same one I
saw at your place. That pup was just about the scrawniest thing I ever saw!"
Nobody had ever told him he was scrawny. Nobody had ever told him he was any different
from a flower or a cloud or a beautiful butterfly. Nobody had ever told him anything ...
except that he was important; except that he was loved.
The race was called, the entries paraded to the starting box. Just as he had been taught
to do, he entered the box and waited. As still as a living statue he stood, though every
fiber of his being wished to jump into his master's arms.
BAM! The door flung open and he was free. Into the pack of dogs he rushed, chasing after
the lure as it hurried away. Faster. FASTER! Passing one dog and then another, he raced,
oblivious to anything but catching the lure as it sped away. Visions of desert sands and
leaping antelope filled his memory. Faster ... Faster!
And then it was over. As quickly as it had started, the race was over and he sensed that
he had done well. Maybe he didn't understand exactly "what" he had done to make
everyone so happy. After all, it wasn't as if he had fought off a raging bear, or saved a
lost child. It wasn't as if he had run for help or chased away a thief. He hadn't done any
of those things. He hadn't done anything but be himself, standing bravely now before a
crowd of strangers; standing proudly beside the one he loved.
And, there it was: His master's hand upon his shoulder; his master's voice at his ear; his
master's smile upon him.
www.RonHevener.com
If a Dog Be Well Remembered by Ben Hur
Lampman from the 1925 Portland Oregonian
We are thinking now of a dog, whose coat was flame in
the sunshine and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or unworthy
thought. This dog is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at
its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave.
Beneath a cherry tree or an apple or any flowering
shrub of the garden is an excellent place to bury a good dog.
Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the
drowsy summer or gnawed at a flavorous bone or lifted head to challenge some strange
intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter.
For if the dog be well-remembered, if sometimes he
leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, laughing, begging, it matters
not at all where the dog sleeps. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are
roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a
pastureland, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog and all one to
you, and nothing is gained and nothing is lost -- if memory lives.
But there is one best place to bury a dog. If you
bury him in this spot, he will come to you when you call -- come to you over the grim, dim
frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again.
And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they
shall not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he belongs there. People may scoff at
you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper, people
who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them, for you shall know something that is
hidden from them, and which is well worth knowing.
The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart
of his master.
