“Thurlow’s letting us take him,” Hazel Marie told me, although I sensed a whiff of apprehension in her words. She knew as well as I did that it’s usually the woman of the house whose duty it was to look after any and all pets.
Mr. Pickens stood leaning against a counter, a pleased expression on his face as he saw the delight of his little girls in what he had wrought. “Yeah,” he said, “Thurlow put me through the third degree as to the care and feeding of this valuable animal. I feel like I’ve been cleared for a highly sensitive government job.”
“You want to take him tonight?” I asked.
“Lord, yes. There’d be no sleeping if we didn’t.”
“Well,” I went on, “we still have some dog food you can have, but, Hazel Marie, Lillian’s been cooking for him, too. She can tell James what she fixes—whatever it is, Ronnie loves it. You can take that comforter, too. Oh, and, Mr. Pickens, he needs to go out first thing in the morning, then again after he eats, maybe once in the afternoon, then after supper, and finally right before you go to bed.”
With a grin at his wife, Mr. Pickens said, “You taking notes, honey?” Hazel Marie rolled her eyes as he laughed. Then he said, “Okay, girls, let’s get going. See if you two can bring the comforter. Lloyd, where’s the dog food?”
As they began to collect the essentials, I noticed Ronnie carefully ease away from the little girls and sidle up to Mr. Pickens. Ronnie sat down beside him and leaned against Mr. Pickens’s leg as he alertly watched the preparations for his leave-taking. Mr. Pickens’s hand dropped to Ronnie’s head, and that dog’s eyes closed as a look of absolute bliss crossed his face. A man’s dog, I thought again.
Lillian, Lloyd, and I stood at the back door watching as the four of them plus Ronnie got into the huge car, the little girls up in their car seats in the second row and Ronnie sprawled out in the rear space.
Lloyd said, “Look at that. Ronnie’s just leaving without a backward glance.”
“That’s right,” Lillian said. “Mr. Ronnie leavin’ like he hadn’t been treated like a king or something here.” Then, as we watched Mr. Pickens back out of the drive, she said, “I hope James know how to treat a dog.”
“He’ll be all right,” I said, referring to Ronnie, not James. “But I think we’re all going to miss him.”
“Well,” Lillian said, “I’m not gonna miss havin’ to step ’round him all day long. He almost make me trip up a dozen times, but he do be good comp’ny when y’all are gone.”
—
“Miss Julia, you’re not going to believe this.” That was the way Hazel Marie greeted me the next afternoon when I dropped by to see how Ronnie was doing with his new family. Or rather, how Ronnie’s new family was doing with him.
“I hope you know,” Hazel Marie went on as we walked into her living room, “that J.D. did not want a dog. Especially one that’s as big as a horse. He had just come around to considering a little lap dog—one that the girls could carry around—when the possibility of Ronnie came up. But it wasn’t until he heard that a dog might disturb the people next door that he decided Ronnie would be perfect. And now,” she went on as she tiredly pushed back her hair, “they’re inseparable. That dog makes every step J.D. makes, lies down and watches when J.D. is working outside—letting the girls crawl all over him—and lying at J.D.’s feet whenever he sits down. He rides with him, too, sitting up like an actual person in the passenger seat, and curls up in J.D.’s chair when he’s not here. I’ve never seen anything like it. But the worst thing is that Ronnie seems to read J.D.’s mind. Every time somebody gets out of a car next door to work on that house, Ronnie stands right at the edge of our yard and barks his head off. You ought to see them scurry into the house. And J.D. just laughs. When I suggested that letting him bark like that wasn’t being very neighborly, J.D. said that being neighborly wasn’t his intent and that Ronnie was simply earning his keep. There’s no telling what they think of us.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Hazel Marie,” I said, secretly delighted with Ronnie’s understanding of a guard dog’s duty. “Those people haven’t exhibited one iota of concern about the damage they’re doing to you, so if Ronnie is letting them know they’re not wanted, well, then I say, more power to him.” Then, becoming more aware of irritating thumping sounds, I looked around for the source. “Is that your washing machine?”
“Oh, no,” Hazel Marie said, “it’s just Lloyd and a friend who came home from school with him. J.D. put up a basketball goal out back, and they’re playing.” She shrugged. “It’s monotonous, but you get used to it.
“Anyway, as far as the neighbors are concerned, I’m afraid they might sue us or something. Or call the dogcatcher or complain to the police or who-knows-what.”
“They’re not going to do anything. They’re in comtempt of the law themselves, so they won’t want to call attention to what they’re doing. And, by the way,” I went on, “do you see much of Madge Taylor? How often is she over there?”
“Every day, seems like. She comes early and stays most of the day, receiving things that people bring by for the house or overseeing the workmen who’re in and out.”
“Does Ronnie bark at her?”
“Worse than at anybody else. So far, though, he hasn’t left our yard—he just stands out there at the end of the fence and barks until her car is gone. I mean, it’s not as if he’s about to attack her or anything, although who knows what J.D. will think of next.”
“Your
