Jack Daniels, an old dog named Sarge and Footprints in the Snow.
He awoke to the barks of his old
friend Sarge.
He leaned up in his bed, “What
do you want this early in the morning?” He
pulled the covers up to his chin, “Go back to bed.”
Sarge, who had grown fat and
listless in his old age, usually kept to his self, but on this morning he was
acting out of character. He barked again
at the old man.
“Sarge!” The old man said angrily, “I’m not in the
mood to be bothered by you. Go to bed!”
Finally, Sarge relented and trudged
away in frustration.
The old man attempted to fall
back asleep, but after a few aggravating moments of tossing and turning, he sat
up. He reached over and fumbled with the
miscellaneous junk on his night stand until he found his glasses. He slipped them over his rugged nose and
glanced at the clock.
“Eleven thirteen…” He grumbled,
“too early.”
Agitated, he slipped his feet
into his slippers and shuffled out of the room.
He went to bathroom and grabbed some Tylenol from the medicine cabinet,
popped them in his mouth and chased it with a glass of tap water.
He crept down the stairs holding
his aching head. He looked at Sarge
lying curled up into a ball next to the front door.
“What’s got you so bent out of
shape this morning?”
The old dog lifted his head a
bit and whined.
He waved him off, “Bah,” Then
shuffled to the kitchen. Through the
back kitchen window he could see that the night had brought a fresh coat of
snow.
“Whatever happened to global warming?” He mumbled, “I need a drink.”
He shuffled over to his liquor
cabinet but stopped before opening it.
Hanging on his wall between his phone and the cabinet was the fishing
calendar his daughter had sent him the previous Christmas. The date caught his eye. December
23… Instantly, a horrifying scene from his past replayed itself. There were bright lights and squealing tires
followed by the screams of his two passengers.
Then he saw the 13 year old version of his daughter crying over the loss
of her friend. When it was over he was
trembling. He threw open the liquor
cabinet and snatched a bottle of Jack Daniels. He started to drink straight
from the bottle when Sarge barked again.
“Ah shut it!”
The dog labored to its feet and
whined as he scratched the door.
The old man gripped the bottle
tightly and reared back to throw it, “I said shut it!” He paused when he realized what he was about
to do and lowered his voice, “I’m sorry boy.”
The old man sat the bottle on
the counter and walked to the door, “You want out?”
Sarge pawed the door and the old
man opened it but the dog refused to budge.
He leered down at Sarge, “Go on
then.”
Sarge barked again and
pointed. The old man glanced outside and
saw foot prints leading to and from his front door.
“Visitors? I haven’t had a visitor in years.”
It was true. Even Jehovah’s Witnesses didn’t come
knocking.
The old man peered out over the
snow. At the end of his drive way was
the blurry silhouette of a man getting ready to climb into a car. The old man quickly slipped on his boots and
stumbled out into the snow, “Wait!”
He was too late. He watched in disappointment as the car
pulled away.
He gestured angrily, “Bah! Probably just some ragamuffin salesman trying
to sell me more silverware anyway.”
The old man stumbled back to his
front door, where he found an enveloped hastily pinned to the wood.
“What’s this?” He asked as he
snatched it off the door. He carried
the envelope inside and sat down at the kitchen table where he tore it
open. Inside was a letter.
Reggie,
I
knocked but no one answered. I wanted to
tell you that I forgive you for what happened to Sarah. Please forgive youself. I want to talk. Give me a call on my cell. 555-7160.
-Bob
Tears filled his eyes as he read
the letter. He saw the bottle of whiskey
sitting on the counter. He hurried over
to it. He reached for it but paused, then
picked up the phone instead and dialed the number.
It rang then a voice he hadn’t
heard in many years came over the line.
“Hello.”
“Bob,”
The old man said, “It’s Reggie, I got your letter…”
THE END
