Our Christmas Dog
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
By: Carl Nelson

Our Christmas Dog

 Wendy wasn't a particularly beautiful dog. In fact she was a down right ordinary brown mutt with white spots. We picked her from an abandoned litter of "Heinz 57" puppies at the local dog pound. She was friendly, full of life, and "my Barb" fell in love with her.
We had married in June, the day after my graduation from Annapolis. Following a short but blissful honeymoon we made our way south to the town of Pensacola hundreds of miles from Pennsylvania where we grew up.
Soon after arriving we realized how different Florida was -- we were both accustomed to a big tree, lots of snow, and a fireplace to cut the chilly air. Instead the weather was hot and muggy, and our apartment barely had space for the tiny imitation fir we bought from a local store.
I knew my Barb most of my life. She was never the whiny kind. But as this Christmas approached she became withdrawn. It was just the time of the year and all the things that had happened since June. By nature she was a private person with only a few close friends. As soon as we brought Wendy home she seemed to perk up, finding companionship in the dog, particularly on days when I was in training on the flight line.
About a month before Christmas Wendy disappeared from the yard outside our tiny apartment adjacent to an all night drive-in restaurant that constantly played Elvis's 1956 hit, You Ain't Nothin But a Hound Dog.
We figured some one thought she was lost and took her home.
As a newly wed husband, I didn't know what to do, not that I would ever be good at diagnosing a woman's off moments. I hugged Barb and listened, but nothing helped. Wendy was lost.
Every evening after work I took off my khaki uniform, put on civvies, and set about the task of finding the dog. Driving our 1950 Chevrolet on every street of that small town turned out to be fruitless.
We even bought an ad in the local newspaper and for the next two weekends we waited anxiously by the phone. It never rang.
        After weeks of trying everything, Barb buried her face in my chest. "She won't show up. She's lost and she doesn't know how to get home. Poor puppy. I want to go home -- no I don't want to go home. I just want my dog. Where is she? Where's Wendy?"
        "I know," I tried to console her as I stroked her hair. "It'll be okay, hun. She'll show up -- wait and see." But in truth I really didn't think we would find Wendy.
        It must be true, I thought, that the skin of a woman during pregnancy takes on a special hue. Barb seemed more beautiful than ever with her brown hair drifting across her shoulders. My hand touched her rounded belly and feelings I never previously experienced tugged at my heart. Machismo learned as a boy and reinforced during Navy training gave way to what I supposed were feminine feelings.
        "You must think I'm a wimp," she said. "Crying over a dog."
        I kissed her forehead and offered, dejectedly. "I'm sorry honey. I just don't know what else to do. I miss her too."
        Barb suddenly stiffened. She stood up and wiped away her tears. "My gosh, what kind of a Navy wife will I be if I let a missing dog get me down? There's still hope! We can still find her and... if not, maybe someone nice has found her."
        I've got a lot to learn about women. Just when I've given up, she rebounds.
        On my way home from the flight line, a few days before Christmas, I spotted an old two seater bi-plane parked on an open field next to a dirt road. Curiosity got the better of me. I stopped and walked around the old relic touching the wings and tugging at the rigging. I was about to leave when an older man with a grease-streaked beard eased his head from under the cowling and asked, "You one of those Navy flyers?"
        "Not yet, sir. But if I get through the training I will be."
        "Well, I watch you fellows day after day -- never had any fancy school training myself -- been fly'n all my life though. Ole Babs here gets me around -- not as fancy as those planes you fellows fly. Course, I don't fly her all the time -- just a few times a year."
        "You call your plane, Babs? That's funny. My wife's name is Barbara. Some of her friends call her Babs -- I call her 'my Barb.'"
        "That so," said the pudgy man, pinching his eyes into a twinkle.
        "Yes, sir but we've got a problem."
        "Hmm. Well, some men and women do have problems."
        "No, I didn't mean it that way." Then I told the grizzled pilot about Wendy and how her loss was effecting our Christmas.
        "Tried to spot her from the air yet? Course not. Well, my contract isn't until later this week -- I have to check out the route anyway -- come along."
        Before I could say no, the old man closed the engine cowing, wiped his greasy hands on a rag, jumped into the back seat, and started the engine.
        He motioned me to the front and shouted above the noise and vibration. "Climb in and lets take a look."
        The plane bounced down the dirt road and took off skimming just above the tops of cars passing on the nearby highway. I knew the Navy would skin me alive if they ever heard I was flitting around in this rattletrap.
        We climbed just above the telegraph poles and searched the city for my Barb's dog. Old Babs weaved across the town buzzing places a dog would go, like where children lived, schools and drive-in restaurants. Whenever we sighted a white and brown spotted animal we circled, wing tip pointed down, like flying around a pylon. Our heads poked out of the cockpit until I motioned, no, it's not Wendy. Then we would fly on with the old man's white mane blowing with the wind.
        After more than an hour he landed the plane.
        "Well, son. Tell your Babs that my ole Babs gave it her best shot."
        I shook his hand, thanked him, and was about to leave when he said with another twinkle. "Had a similar thing happen to me once -- with my wife -- went out and bought her something new -- like a new hat. It took her mind right off the problem. Maybe you should consider trading in that old 50 Chevy.  I don't know.  it's just a thought."
I thanked the pilot again and drove off.
In my heart I had lost hope of finding the dog, but after work the next day I did what he suggested. I went searching for a substitute for Wendy -- a new car. I found a used 1955 Chevy with air-conditioning, sporty fender wings and a new radio.
        It wasn't easy to convince Barb to go see it. She thought her "50 was just fine and besides she was too busy. "I have Christmas presents to wrap and things to do for our first Christmas. Besides, I hope you haven't fallen for the old "buy her a new hat" trick. That's a typical man's trick. I'll still miss that puppy and I won't give up hope."
        I gulped and told a white lie, "It's not like that."
        I persisted and finally convinced her to come along -- to at least take a look.
        It was the first time Barb had left the house in several weeks and although she sat passively, I could see her eyes flitting from yard to yard obviously still looking for Wendy.
        "How do you like it?" I asked, pointing to the shiny "55 Chevy.
        "Too expensive," she said.
        "But do you like it?"
        "It's nice, but... "
        "It's Christmas, honey. Let's make this "our" present. We need a newer car, one that'll get us back home to Pennsylvania for a visit without trouble." I implied a trip even though I knew my military schedule wouldn't permit it. I was trying everything to divert her thoughts from the Wendy.
        Barb seemed to brighten as I showed her the new interior and described how smoothly it would drive.
        "Take it for a ride," the salesman said. "But, look -- don't take me wrong, but -- this is Christmas eve -- don't take too long. I've got to get home to my wife and kid."
        "You drive, Barb. See how you like it?"
        "Don't want to."
        With the salesman in the back seat we drove around the block and when we returned we agreed to buy it. After signing the last document and writing the check I offered her the keys again. "You drive."
        Again she said, "No. I don't feel like it."
        Once out of the lot and on to the main street, I began testing the features of our new car and explaining them to her. I turned on the car radio. Silent Night, and other Christmas carols filled the airways.
        As we drove her eyes never stopped looking but I could see they had filled with tears.
        I reached to touch her, to comfort her.
        "Just leave me alone." She said, wiping her eyes so she could continue to scan the street ahead. Barb and I rode on in silence. Obviously buying the new car was not a substitute for Wendy.
I was still demonstrating the car's new features when we turned onto our street. It was almost dark. I switched on the headlights.
A white spot moved briskly from the shadows into the glow, along a row of hedges. The spot stopped and scratched itself.
        "Stop the car," Barbara screamed.
        Her face changed. The sadness evaporated and her lips spread into a smile.
        I slammed on the brakes and Barb jumped out. She ran to the dog, picked her up, and hugged her.
        "It's Wendy. I knew we'd find her," she said holding the dog for me to see. "Poor girl. She's covered with grease, but... Oh... what a wonderful Christmas present!"
As I stood watching my beloved's happiness return, there was an interruption on the radio: "The police are seeking the pilot of an old bi-wing airplane seen buzzing dangerously low over houses."
I heard an aircraft and said to myself, "I know the sound of that engine."