Let’s get this straight at the outset: Sporty is not my dog. I didn’t like her from the first. Officially, she belongs to the landlord’s daughter, age 12, which, practically speaking, means that, aside from a daily feeding by the landlord, Sporty is largely on her own. There was another dog when I first moved to the farm, named, honestly,  Lucky.  She died unexpectedly a year or so ago. There are no plans to replace her.

                I have no idea what kind of dog Sporty is. I am thinking now, writing this, that I should be ashamed of that fact, but remember what I said: Sporty is not my dog. To my admittedly ignorant eye she looks like a black spaniel, only about twice the size.  She has a short, curved

feather of white above her left shoulder blade, and a longer, fuller one running from just beneath her chin to her breast bone, where it blooms into full plumage on her underside. She has four white socks. In the spring her coat fails to shed completely, leaving a huge matted

mass of dead fur and burrs flumpfing out around her, from about the middle of her body downwards, a frazzled gray tutu that vibrates disturbingly as she trots along. It looks like a cruel prank, like someone dressing up a pet in a little costume and then forgetting about the clothes, leaving them on year-round, except that in Sporty’s case it is unintentional and to no one’s particular amusement.

                This last winter, as her new winter coat started to come in, I couldn’t stand it anymore; I took a pair of scissors and set about trimming as much of the  thick, clotted mess as I could manage. Sporty fought me at every turn, not by trying to get away but by trying to turn the  barber into a playmate. She is very insistent in this, and very tenacious.

                Sporty has always been annoyingly needy in this way. It is so much a part of her character that I would expect her individual organs, once removed, to demand attention in the same manner. When anyone steps out into the yard she assails them with whines and whimpers and squeaks, with jumps and hops and hard, smeary jabs of her cold nose.  When Lucky was around, Sporty would never allow me (or anyone else) to pay attention to the other dog. She’d force herself between my hand and Lucky’s head with the persistence of an all-pro line-backer. Sporty yes, Lucky no.

                Lucky was the Albert Camus of dogs, an existential master, so this never bothered her. She got her head pat and was satisfied. But Sporty would keep on coming, frantically demanding affection to the point that often I hated her. Bastard that I am, I purposely gave Lucky more

attention on many occasions. It’s not that I didn’t pet Sporty, mind you, I did. I love animals, and this was never an issue of my being a  ‘cat-person’ or having some  breed prejudice. It was really a case of, “Geez, Sporty, give it a rest.”

                My sister visited one time after Lucky had died and she chided me for my harsh opinion of Sporty. Susan bought a box of Milk-Bones during her stay, and after she left, I continued to give them to Sporty, as I didn’t want to waste them and they were a little unwieldy for my cats.

Naturally, it brought us a little closer together, me and Sporty. As the box neared the bottom, I found myself mentally adding a box of Milk-Bones to my shopping list.

                Over time, in the same way that one season layers imperceptibly into another, I found myself paying more attention to Sporty.  A little more petting, a  belly rub now and then. Her neediness, like some sort of prolonged magic trick,  somehow became ok, normal, deal-withable. I

formalized the giving of the Milk Bone by associating it with my return home. On those odd days when I have to make several trips, Sporty gets as many bonuses.

                Some evenings she isn’t there when I first pull up, but as I step out of my car I am instantly aware of her excitable presence in the crashing of twigs and branches and the crackling of leaves, the twin sirens of a great, needy heart thundering through the woods on four legs to greet me.

                Despite all this, I only recently saw Sporty for the first time. It was one of those days when she wasn't waiting for me.  I was getting out of my car, watching her race across the west yard towards me, a charging black singularity against the long reach of the sunset. The breeze was sweet and I'd had a pretty good day. I was, quite without forethought, present in the moment, and, of course, that's when God always decides to rattle my cage a bit, if for no other reason than to remind me that I’m in one.  I was suddenly terribly aware of being "in here", looking out on a vista I had no hope of understanding, which overwhelmed me with both its vast, tactless beauty and its quiet terror, and in the center of which was a churning dark blur, as intrinsically alone in time and space as I was, yet determined, consciously or otherwise, not to surrender to its fate. The simplicity of the moment is carved as fiercely into my memory as a fossil into

rock. Rippling tides continue to flow out from that event, fundamentally altering the sediments of my experience in ways that are still unsettled and unsettling.

                Yet there was nothing more to it than that brief instant of awareness. Sporty reached me and began her intricate choreography as I patted her and sweet-talked her and walked her to the back door where the box of Milk Bones waited. I remember thinking her coat softer, her whines more endearing, my connection to her deeper, but the other-worldliness of that one moment had passed. She knew it too. She took her Milk Bone and trotted off to devour it in her favorite spot, beneath a wizened, obstinate oak. I went on about my business.

                I've still not found time to take Sporty on the long, romping walk I've promised her, or even to sit outside and read with her at my side. But the giving of the Milk Bone is an important part of my daily ritual that I will miss a lot when time comes for me to move on. Sporty is not my dog, but I recognize her now.

Dried Plums

By

Larry Latham

                Walter was really hungry, but tried not to show it. The rest of the

funeral party wouldn't appreciate it and he was, after all, only a

recent addition to the family. He had never in fact even met Aunt (God,

what was her name?) prior to her departure. If he wasn't expected to be

genuinely sorrowful, it was at least required that he be respectful.

                Unable to share in the reminiscing, Walter spent a long time

staring blankly at Auntie's knick-knack cow collection. It was so far

beyond tacky as to be otherworldly. It took up most of one wall of the

tiny mobile home's den, displayed on custom shelving that itself, in

outline, suggested the shape of a cow. Cow lamps with cow-skin shades

illuminated the figurines unevenly from below, making some of the

ceramic figurines sinister, threatening. Walter tried

not to feel superior, but in the end he failed. He hoped no one saw him

shake his head in disbelief.

                When time came to descend upon the buffet, Walter was first in

line. Nothing in the aluminum pans and crock-pots really appealed to

him. Most of it was swimming in grease or else cheese, which Walter

regarded as simply thicker grease, but he hurriedly filled the cocktail

plate with little portions of everything. He squeezed back out into the

den, past a large plastic cow that lowed whenever its motion detector

was disturbed.

                His wife was deeply engaged in swapping 'back in the day.'

stories, so he took his miniature lunch and wandered out onto the

enclosed back porch. The breeze off the desert, cool and dry, rattled

the louvers and window screens lightly. The charged brightness of the

spring afternoon flooded effortlessly into the mobile home, over and

around all obstacles, and as he settled on the couch, Walter could feel

the light soaking in through his every pore until he thought

he could feel his blood vessels glowing. He recalled a joke from a long

ago Pogo comic strip, a book entitled Spring in the Air and Why You

Should. He chuckled as he bit into a chicken wing, tearing the meat off

greedily.

                "Hi. Earl Childs."

                Walter looked up into a weathered, leathery hand, its fingers

splayed widely in offering; beyond that was the rest of the man who

called himself Earl Childs, a wiry little cherub the color of an old,

worn belt. Walter fumbled with his plate, clumsily wiping his mouth

before he took the outstretched hand. He tried to apologize that his

mouth was full, but of course his mouth was full and the words came out

as gibberish. Still, he got the point across and Earl graciously

excused it and sat down on the couch next to Walter.

                Walter struggled to choke down the half-chewed chicken.

                "Walter Farson, " he said finally. "I'm Virginia's husband."

He toothpicked a L'il Smokie into his mouth.

                Earl nodded gravely as he sipped his coffee. "Gladys was my

older sister.

Practically raised me. I'm sure gonna miss her.

         Gladys. That was the name. Gladys Gladys Gladys. The Cow Lady.

Walter pounded the name into his memory to avoid future embarrassment.

                Having nothing to really offer on Gladys' demise, Walter

turned his attention back to his plate. He speared three L'il Smokies

onto the same toothpick with three fierce jabs, then swirled them in

the runny sauce. With the practiced ease of a circus performer he spun

the Smokies into his mouth, closed his teeth around them and drew the

toothpick through the slight gap between his uppers and lowers. He

chewed fiercely, looking abruptly back to Earl. "What do you do?"

                "I'm in prunes. Got three orchards up near Seattle."

                "Hnnh," said Walter, with as much emphasis as if it had been a

meaningful comment. "Prunes." The flatness of the delivery overstated

Walter's interest.

                "Yep, prunes," Earl continued. "You eat prunes?"

                "I have. When I'm, you know..." Walter trailed off politely.

                Earl grimaced and waved the comment away. "That's nonsense.

Any dried fruit'll do that for you, you eat enough of it."

                "Oh, I didn't know." The last of the L'il Smokies fell prey to

Walter's toothpick.

                "Most people don't. Most people don't know anything at all

about prunes, other than that single, solitary fact. It's the greatest

hurdle we face."

                Walter knew he should resist the trap, but he found himself

strangely compelled. "We?"

                "Prune Advisory Council," Earl said emphatically. "We set

prune policy for the entire country. I'm chairman, four years now." He

turned to face Walter more directly. “Did you know that a prune has

more potassium than a banana? A single prune. Well, a single serving.

About three. Do you have kids?"

                "Huh? No. Why?"

                 Earl scooted closer. "Snacks. Kids eat too much junk. I want

to take the grade triple A prunes, they're too little for commercial

use, pitted they're about yea big, take the triple A's and put 'em

three in a package, lunchbox size, sell 'em as snacks. Twenty-five

cents a package, kids'll be healthier, parents will love it, increase

our business as much as two or three per cent a year."

                Early on Walter had noticed a family resemblance between Earl

and the corpse. He now saw a psychic one as well. He wondered if Earl

had a wall of prune knick-knacks displayed somewhere.

                "I think I'll go get me some more of these little wieners,"

Walter said, and returned to the buffet.

                He was ravenous. The buffet was picked fairly clean, but

Walter scooped up the remnants as if rescuing the survivors of a

shipwreck.

                He hung politely on the edges of several conversations as he

ate, but in spite of his best intentions, he found himself back out on

the porch with Earl.

                "Now you take the notion that prunes make you go," Earl

started as soon as Walter was in proximity. "People think prunes,

that's all they're good for, when you get plugged up. So I'm telling

Sunsweet, or the council is telling Sunsweet, they're the major

distributor, there's others, but they're number one, telling Sunsweet

that we have got to change the name, it's the only

sensible course."

                Walter instantly forgot his resistance. "What else would you

call them?"

                 Earl made a billboard with his hands. "Dried plums. 'Cause

that's what they are, see? It's a mislabeled product, and the public is

being deprived of the product's full benefits because of it. It's not

just about profit, it's about the quality of life. You know, the first

prunes were....."

                Walter stared dumbly at Earl. The sound of the man's voice

seemed to thicken as if coming from another room, yet Walter soaked up

every word as Earl went on about a prune's chemical composition, its

varieties and subtle flavors, its role in famine relief, its origins in

antiquity, its impact on commercial trade. The voice was

hypnotic.Walter began to hallucinate. Deep in Earl's chest he saw a

great prune heart beating. Earl's large, round eyes leaked prunes, were

prunes, became prunes. Vaporous prunes floated out of Earl's mouth to

hang in the air like Christmas ornaments. Earl sang out operatic

ditties about prunes being used as airplane

replacement parts, and how certain strains could reliably reproduce

verses form the Koran in their wrinkles.

                Earl was a gondolier, navigating the canals with precision and

ease, a golden disk of light shining from the back of his head, the

embracing rays enriching everyone in their path. The canal was a

deep-set line across the rough palm of Earl's hand, unswerving and

clear, and culminating in purpose and great glory.

                Walter absently glanced at his own palm. It was a map of a

mighty tropical river dissipating in too many tributaries, each one

drying up and fading into insignificance. There was no goal, no

destination, no driving current. He vaguely remembered using a Sharpie

to carve a continuous line, but he guessed it had faded with time.

                "So what do you do?" Earl asked.

                Walter fumbled for a moment as the glare of setting sunlight

washed over him. "I'm a painter."

                "House painter? I painted houses when I was young."

                "No, art. Landscapes mostly." Walter made a weak swirling

motion in the air, as if wielding a paintbrush.

                "Really? Well, what's that like?"

                Walter shrugged. "It's just a job." He picked up his plate and

disappeared into the darkness of the den.