Short story contest winners

Published 1:16 pm Tuesday, July 31, 2012

First Place

“Run dog, run”

by MIGUEL VILLARREAL

One rainy day in June, I came home to find a dog tied to an alder in my yard. His lead was wrapped around the tree with very little slack. He was wet, trembling and looked quite pitiful. A note on the door read, “Here’s the dog you ordered, he’s a border/heeler. Buena suerte. Don.”

I had mentioned to him several months before, that I was considering another dog, as a companion for my present dog, a ten-year-old border collie named Tilly. Wish and ye shall receive, I said to her. She answered back by raising one eyebrow in disapproval.

As I approached he began wagging his tail, sat up straight and lifted a paw. Tilly’s eyebrows switched positions, then back.

She was not impressed. Slipping his collar off to free him, I said, “It’s okay. Tilly, he seems like a good…” suddenly, like a flash he was gone. Running through the woods he chased everything that moved. Standing there with leash in hand, I looked over to see Tilly’s eyebrows sending another message: told yah.

At this point I would like to mention, that unless you consider pet turtles, four legs will always out run two, especially mine. It is senseless to even try. In fact, it encourages the chase. Do not attempt.

So I chased this dog, yelling HEEL!! STAY!! SIT!! STOP!! I threw in a few GEES! and HAAS! just to show him I parley herd dog. All to no avail. I paused to rethink my strategy, and tried to remember more dogology. Hmm, what would Cesar Millan [the dog whisperer] do? Then out of the brush came a big dog at full speed. He went by dodging me as I fell back, both of us tried to avoid a collision. Wow, that was close, I thought, getting to my feet. Just in time for the dog, coming through in hot pursuit, which took me out at the knees, sending him and me tumbling down a slope … into a nettle patch! He recovered to continue the chase, looking at me momentarily as if to say, you idiot!

If you’re familiar with nettle, then you know it’s high in fiber and vitamin C – and IT BURNS! This is about the time I started to bestow the first of many names that Don’s dog would have in its life.

Anyhow, I finally caught up with Good Ole Demon Dog of the Chupacabras, or Don’s Dog for short, and I can see he had neatly placed no less than a dozen chickens and two cats up in some trees. With his tongue hanging out drooling, he lay there poised like an Egyptian Sphinx – on top of the neighbor’s car.

That was nine years ago, and other than the names my neighbors have for him, Don’s Dog now goes by the name of Bufford, my dog. And despite some calamities, he’s turned into a great dog. Thank you Don Tompkins. It’s all about channeling their energy – and having great neighbors.

Second Place

“The hopping puppy”

by JANET BROWNELL

“He’s not like the other puppies,” she told us.

Lance and I had picked out a male six-week-old beagle puppy. Now the breeder was telling us, “We’re not sure what’s wrong with him. He’s having a hard time walking. He may never be able to manage stairs. It’s possible that this is a symptom of a degenerative brain disease and he may not live out the first year. Would you like to pick out another puppy?”

We didn’t. So she offered to give us the puppy, but I insisted we pay full price. We wouldn’t take a marked down dog. How would that affect his self-esteem?

We named the puppy Bix.

When Bix walked, he dragged his paws; standing in place he looked pigeon-toed. But it was his attempt to run that really had us scratching our heads. Bix had figured out a way to coordinate his two front paws: he hopped. Like a bunny.

At first, we did all we could to help him motor around. We built a ramp so Bix could avoid steps. When he jumped off the ramp, and bunny-hopped the stairs, we decided he would do just fine in his own way. At six months, I was still worried about leaving him alone, so when ski season rolled around we took him to Whistler with us.

Bix was a trooper staying in a hotel room, full of scents he couldn’t identify. After a day of skiing, I thought it might be fun to walk him through town. Give him a big adventure. Unfortunately, the “big adventure” conflicted with the start of an NBA game. While Lance and I discussed the merits of a long walk, Bix ate a small towel. We went into town.

Inwardly, I didn’t know if Bix could make it from one end of Whistler to the other without tiring out. Hopping is exhausting. Selfless to the core, I came up with a plan to give Bix and Lance plenty of time to rest on the walk – I’d go shopping.

After the first store, I came out to find Lance surrounded by five gorgeous women: all enchanted by the little puppy. Both my men were in their glory. I allowed them 30 additional seconds of revelry, and then yanked Lance away. As we continued to walk through town, salesgirls literally left their stores unattended to meet the world’s cutest hopping beagle. Bix was a rock star and Lance his manager. I was Yoko Ono. It took us two hours to make it from one end of Whistler to the other.

The next day, Lance wanted to skip skiing and suggested a long walk for Bix. This time through town.

It was that ski trip that made me stop worrying. The puppy I thought was going to struggle was a superstar. Today, Bix is ten years old. The breeder was wrong about his yearlong life span. But she was right about one thing: Bix wasn’t like the other puppies. And we are so grateful!

Third Place

“A dog, an island and a whistle”

by YVONNE ASHENHURST

She hated the boat. Her long body and short legs made it hard for her to jump in or out of the Sea Sport. But Samantha was willing to do it if it meant she would be with us.

It took her a while to get used to the new place on Crane Island. At first she refused to come into the house and stood on the deck looking in the window, trying to understand what it all meant.

At about 30 pounds, Samantha (pictured above) was a beauty of a mutt; long black wavy fur with white markings, a narrow snout and floppy ears, and the sweet easy going personality of her corgi, border collie and chow plus mix. She was rather refined for a dog, a delicate eater and a worrier. She worried about loud noises, getting tripped over, and of course the boat.

After she accepted the move she quickly grew to love Crane. She considered herself the queen of the island, ruling from her perch at the top of the path, but she felt no need to wander or look for trouble. She was happy to walk us to the dock, relieved if she didn’t have to climb on the boat, and after I told her not to worry, she was content to walk back through the meadow to the front porch where she would sit patiently awaiting our return. She was vigilant with the deer, never allowing them to get too close to the fenced garden and had a running feud with the resident raccoon, chasing him up a tree every so often.

A few times we approached the house in the boat calling and whistling to her to come to the dock and meet us. We could see her racing along the shoreline, down the rocks, across the neighbor’s beach to the dock as we crossed through Pole Pass. She would greet us with the touch of a wet nose at the ankle, herding us home. She didn’t need a leash when we walked Circle Road and if she got too far ahead I’d give her special whistle and back she would fly as fast as her short legs could carry her.

After four years on Crane she slowed down as age overtook her. Samantha was fifteen years old when she died in my arms one summer evening. I stroked her fur and told her not to worry, that she had been a good dog, and she could go.

These days when we walk Circle Road I occasionally whistle into the air and can see her on the road ahead as her ears perk up, her head turns and she wheels around to run back to my side.