Ruth Can’t Whistle

By Steve Pinette 

James lays motionless in his new, strange bed with all those wires attached to him. Ruth strokes his cheeks. “You’re the love of my life….” Her voice quakes and she starts bawling. The hospice nurse moves toward Ruth and hugs her. “He’s gone,” she continues.

Her words confuse me because James is right there, albeit bedridden and unable to read poetry to me or let me out to do my business. He’s just sleeping, that’s all.

The nurse murmurs, “Oh Ruth, I so sorry. He fought so hard till the end.

Gone, the end? What the hell?

I pace outside the doorway, hoping Ruth will notice me, because I need to go outside for my morning constitutional—James’ words. But she and the hospice nurse seem oblivious to my desperate state. When I decide I can wait no longer, I barge in and paw at Ruth’s bathrobe. She’s proven to be an unreliable mistress since James fell ill, and I frequently must assert myself this way lest her occasional neglect becomes something more serious. To be fair, I am his dog, but if she loves him as much as she professes, she should also tend to me like he does—did. 

  She brushes my snout away and points toward the doorway. “Out.” 

Her frequent irritation with me buttresses my concern. James’ baritone voice has never been harsh, even when he found me one evening scarfing down a juicy steak I’d just dragged off the grill. On the contrary, my antics seem to amuse him. 

I do not retreat. I bark: For God’s sake, James, wake up. Time to get on with the day. Remind Ruth that I have to go out—pronto, otherwise she’ll be wiping it off the floor. Tell her, please. But he just stares. I shove my paw through the bed rail and stroke his hand; that usually wakes him. Come on, Champ … c’mon, giddy up ... Ruth and I need to go. Those two can chat later. But his eyes remain closed. I can’t wait for Daddy James to be back in action; a dog needs more consistency.

The doorbell sounds, and I rush toward the door hoping I can dash outside when Ruth greets the visitor. But she commands me to stay in the kitchen. A man and a woman dressed in blue roll a narrow, squeaking bed near. It has the odor of those towelettes the nurse uses to wipe James’s arm before she pricks him. Ruth directs them to follow her down the hallway toward James’ bedroom. What is up with these two interlopers? I grumble. The nurse has been the only stranger allowed in there. 

Alas, Ruth returns to the kitchen, weeping and shrieking unintelligibly into her tissue. My earlier verbal entreaties haven’t worked, so I amble to the mudroom and wait by the door to the garage. Silently at first, then with a pathetic low whine to signal my mounting distress. 

Oh, for cripes’ sake, it isn’t that difficult to press the garage door opener on the wall. I could do it myself if I had a chair to hop onto. 

Finally, she comes; she kneels and hugs me. “Oh Pepper. He’s gone … James is gone.” 

What does she mean? My James is fantastic, but he’s no magician. I race to the bedroom where the interlopers are lifting James onto that squeaky bed thing. He’s not gone. What hell is Ruth talking about? I race back to the mudroom where Ruth is still sobbing. I start to tell her, but she presses the opener button. First things first.

I watch the garage door slide up, revealing a large vehicle in the driveway with its lights blinking. It has the same stench as the tractor in the barn. 

“Don’t go far,” she cries before the mudroom door closes.

Has she forgotten the mean gadget I wear around my neck, ready to shock me into submission if I venture too close to the little white flags she had those men install around the yard after James fell ill? I now know how farm animals feel, imprisoned in the same pasture day-after-day, with no opportunity to explore. James hadn’t cared when I went off the property to investigate because he knew that all he had to do was whistle and I’d come home running. Maybe Ruth’s problem is she can’t whistle.

I start toward my spot beyond the flower garden but stop short remembering that new metal fence those two men erected last week, effectively barricading me from the circle of bleached grass that Ruth hates so much. Over the years, she complained to James non-stop about how much my go-to spot detracted from her prized flowers, and how he should train me to do my business elsewhere, but knowing I didn’t deal so well with change, James would plead my case until Ruth relented. But no more, she finally got her wish with that fence. It’s not very high, so I could jump it, but to what end. I’ll just wait until James gets his mojo back, then I’ll plead my case with him. My back-up spot in the horse pasture will have to do for now. I saunter over there and squat facing the dawn’s red-flare horizon. Soon, after the colored leaves have fallen from the trees, I’ll be wading through deep snow to get here, unless, of course, Ruth tramples a path for me like James did after each snowstorm. 

The large vehicle’s lights are still blinking when I turn toward the driveway. I trot over to sniff the vehicle’s tires to see if Hank, the neighbor’s dog, has been over to mark it yet. The chicken-shit pees all over my yard—on anything vertical—yet he never comes over when I am outside. Maybe he figures his foul scent will lure me to his home, but I’m going nowhere near that loser. I can’t imagine a better place to live than here—before Ruth took over. 

I walk around to the rear of the house where I usually peer through the slider doors and watch James mix that special gravy with my dry food, the juicy recipe that he and I labored over until we got it just right. That’s another thing that irks me; Ruth frequently forgets the gravy and gives it to me straight, reminiscent of sunbaked deer poop. She isn’t in the kitchen, and my bowl sits on the floor empty. What the hell? I wait a long time, until well after the morning school bus has passed, before the blue visitors enter the front foyer with that bed thing between them, the nurse trailing. A long black cover rests atop the mattress, where I thought they had put James. Ruth is howling somewhere inside. She’s never done that before. This is freaking me out. 

Indeed, James’s routine, hence my routine, has changed greatly since the start of summer when those treatment trips Downstate started. The so-called therapies only made him sicker, and our long walks and stick-fetching practice stopped soon afterward. And as I said, now, he doesn’t even get out of bed. I don’t want to live this way. I need my master like he was—toute suite.

Sally, the neighbor across the street arrives shortly after the visitors leave. Per usual, her hair is  tousled, and her face is fat below her eyes.

“Oh, Ruthie. I just saw the ambulance leave—I’m so sorry.” The two women embrace. “You both fought it so hard.” She draws back and holds Ruth’s shoulders. “Dave and I prayed for him—Lord we prayed. He works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He.”

Ruth retreats and blows her nose but says nothing. I detect a scent of uncertainty rising from Sally. Good. James didn’t seem to care much for the woman, whom he’d christened Miss-know-it-all. But I don’t follow his rationale for calling her husband Poor Dave. With all the mechanical toys Dave has, there’s nothing poor about him.

Sally continues. “Oh, I can only try to imagine how much you’re going to miss him. But know that Dave and I are here for you …. Okay?”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Miss him? He’s still in there. And here for you? Jame’s won’t tolerate those two nincompoops and their loser Hank anywhere near his house, nevermind being here for you. 

Ruth wipes her eyes. “Sally, thank you. You’ve both been so supportive these last few months.”

How? Never saw them around.

“He was a very nice man, and many people loved him, you know,” says Sally. “You are one of the lucky ones. It—”

“Lucky? Why do you say that?”

Sally rubs her hands together with a vengeance and averts Ruth’s stare.

“Well, you know, it was a blessing that you were able to keep him with you till the end, like—like he wanted.”

I scratch the slider door and whine. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Let me in! I paw the slider window and bark. Both women stare at me. James would let me back in before the second paw dropped if he weren’t in that stupid bed. 

“She doesn’t understand,” says Ruth. “Probably still thinks he’s in there.” She points toward James’s small bedroom.

HE IS.

“Why don’t you let her in to see for herself?” says Sally.

Ruth shakes her head. “It’s not safe for her with all those medications and contraptions in there, especially the chemo pills. I need to bring those back to the pharmacy—but not today.” 

I whine and bark at them. Let me in … c’mon. I want to see him.

“Maybe this will help.” Ruth takes James’ old leather slippers from the hall closet and lays them in the middle of my bed in the foyer. Then, she opens the slider, and I retreat. Dunno why I do that.

“Come here girl.” She rubs her hands together like James does when he wants me to turn onto my back so he can trim my nails. “Come on now. Come smell Daddy. You loved these when you were a puppy.”

Aw, come on … James hasn’t worn those in months 

I walk to the closed bedroom door, lay down and groan my displeasure. Something’s odd. James’s scent is only a whiff of what it was before she let me out. Something happened. 

“She’ll come around,” says Sally. “Pepper’s a smart dog—aren’t you girl.”

  I howl: You bet I’m smart, and I’m not taking this anymore. Ruth, WHAT did you do to him?

The following Friday, the house fills with people, but no James. I know all of them, but the weird thing is that I’ve never seen them together except at the Holiday Party that Ruth and James host every year. By now, I know James has gone somewhere, but I hold out hope that he’ll return soon, perhaps by New Year’s Day when he and Ruth run around the house in the dark, banging pots and pans and hooting, while I bring up the rear, barking. 

The guests are subdued at first, but the atmosphere lightens after Uncle Lenny breaks out the whisky and starts telling stories about the old days when he and James walked a mile to school, rain or shine—uphill both ways he claims. I keep a low profile, filching a snack here and there, until Aunt Irene catches me with my front paws on the table reaching for the bowl of potato chips.

“Bad dog. Bad, bad dog.” Aunt Irene wags her bejeweled finger at me. I didn’t even touch them for cripes’ sake. 

For that, Ruth banishes me outside, which doesn’t turn out so bad because Katherine, the favorite grandchild, comes out to play fetch with me. She even hand-feeds me corn chips while we watch her older cousins play cornhole in the backyard yard and tell Grandpa James stories. They even talk about his other dogs—before me—and how he’d trained all of them to round up the cows and bring them into the barn for milking. He never trained me to do that—probably because he and Ruth got rid of the cows when I was very young, but he taught me to call the horses and fetch the newspaper every morning except Sunday, when we did it together. 

“You really miss him, don’t you,” says Katherine as she rustles my ears. “He’s in Heaven now, watching over all of us. You’ll get to see him again when you die. That’ll make him very happy.” 

Whoa. Wait a minute. That’s what James said to her younger brother Timmy when their cat got run over and died. I turn away and lay down. I don’t want to be pet. James is dead, and I’m the  last one to find out. A hollow yearning rips through my stomach. I’ve got to see him. Kill me right now. I’m ready. I have no more purpose in life. My James is in Heaven. Take me there.

On Saturday, James’s son Junior and his puppy Molly come over to do the barns chores. I have no desire to tag along, except from a distance. I find myself envying the little whippersnapper as she scuttles around the horse stalls, sniffing each shovelful of shitty sawdust bedding before her master dumps it into the wheelbarrow. Once, I was clueless about this too, but James taught me to stay out of the way and wait by the granary door for his nod, my signal to run outside and call the horses for feeding. I want to coach Molly to wait for it, but the nod never comes. Instead, Junior leans out the back door and bangs the metal feed bucket with a stick. So barbaric.

Winnie and Samson ignore him at first, but they come galloping when he holds out an apple. I guess the method works, but James would be disappointed to learn of his son’s unrefined methods.

One day, Ruth finally opens James’s bedroom door. The room is like it was before James moved in, but instead of his scent, the odor of Mr. Clean permeates the room—everything. How did she do that without me noticing? It’s been weeks now since I saw him. Folks still stop by on occasion to comfort Ruth and invite her out. One lady told her she’d get to see James again in the afterlife, which I take to mean Heaven. 

I wonder if there are separate Heavens for dogs and their humans. My preference would be one for all, but if not, I hope there’s a way for me to visit James in his human-heaven. Perhaps we can resurrect our old routines. 

I’ve asked Ruth about this, but she doesn’t appear to understand my question. Instead, she offers me treats or sends me outside, thinking I need to go do my business or something—so frustrating to be misunderstood. I feel so lonely. Maybe I should be Katherine’s dog. She’ d talk to me and play fetch. Maybe even read poems to me and put gravy in my food bowl. Over time, Ruth has developed a habit of feeding me late, much of the time without gravy. Pretty soon, I’ll be getting my deer-poop breakfast at lunchtime. 

Most evenings, I lay in front of the side-by-side Lazy-Boy chairs in the living room, sniffing the carpet where he used to rest his bare feet. I shut my eyes, wishing he’ll materialize when I reopen them and read poems to me like old times. Predictably, Ruth places those old leather slippers before me, forgetting that she laundered them recently. Why would I find comfort in something that smells like dryer sheets? 

“Oh Pepper,” she inevitably murmurs. “I’m sad too. Daddy’s gone and we both need to move on, but I don’t know how to support you.”

I do empathize with her. She lost James too, and I know how heartbreaking that is—especially late in the evening when the three of us used to sit in the living room watching TV. We are two lonely, heartbroken girls pining for the same man, and we can’t even communicate our respective sorrows.

Then one evening we have a breakthrough. I’m curled into a semi-doughnut with my head positioned so that I can see Nora O’Donnell and the nightly news on TV. Ruth used to give James major grief for what she called his unhealthy crush on Nora. At the commercial-break, Ruth retrieves a flavored rawhide chew stick from her vest pocket and beckons me to her chair. I sit and offer my paw, and she hands it to me. She turned out to be a good woman, I’ll give her that. If only she were able to understand the merits of giving a dog some semblance of a routine, not this helter-skelter approach she seems to favor.

“Oh, Pepper.” She ruffles my ears. “You think it’s time us girls got on with our lives? Quit giving each other the sad-eye.”

I’m not sure what she means by our lives thing, but I lick her forearm, hoping she might give me another chewy—definitely won’t be sad after that. I rest my chin on her leg and accept more caresses on my head and back. Then, I spy the red book—his book—way back on the small table between their two chairs. I go over and nudge it with my nose. Maybe she’ll get the hint.

“What is it?”

I don’t bother responding. I clench my teeth around the book spine and pull it into her lap. 

“What is it?”

I bark and nod my head.

She holds up the book. “Oh no. You poor girl. No one’s been reading to you. James would be so disappointed with me.” She reaches for the TV remote and Nora goes mute. Ruth settles back in her chair and begins to examine the book. I bark as she turns the pages. 

“Yes, indeed, we should read, but I don’t know where you and James left off.”

I groan: Doesn’t matter … j-j-just read. 

“Hmm. Let’s have a look at the table of contents.”

She wets her thumb—something Jame’s never did—and turns the pages back. Her head bobs as she studies one page.

“How about a fairly recent one by Katherine Billings Palmer. I Wanted to Grow Old With You.” She wipes her eyes. “Might resonate for you as well. Okay, here goes:

I wanted to grow old with you,
but fate had other plans.
I vowed to love you until death
as we stood holding hands.

We pledged to be together
until our lives were through.
I thought we’d spend the golden years ahead,
just me and…. (“I Wanted to Grow Old With You – A Poem About Grief”)
Her voice cracks and her eyes puddle. Her body takes on the same scent as the day those two bed-wielding persons visited.

“Oh, Pepper. I don’t think I can do this.”

She pets my head, and I give her my most whiny peal. Please, please try.

She wipes her eyes and nods.

“If love alone could save you,
you’d still be here with me.
If love alone—I can’t. I just can’t.”

I grumble and whine. Oh, Ruthie, please. Jame always finished the poem. He never stopped partway like this. Power through. Pleeease. 

“I’m sorry, girl. Maybe we can try again tomorrow.” 

I bark: Come on, c’mon … finish it already. 

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Please be patient with me.”

I exhale loudly and turn away. I thought we’d just made great progress, but another big let-down. James would want me to help her, but perhaps she’s become one of those folks who, as James once said, has to move ahead in baby steps, which is not a tactic I can readily embrace. Perhaps the only thing I can do is be patient with her. He would want that.