The Old Man

The old man sat in the chair, his head tilted slightly forward, eyes closed, arms resting comfortably on the arm rests. He sat facing the television, which was tuned to the golf channel. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, and left a striped pattern on the couch to his left. The sound on the TV was turned down to a low background level. He was not asleep, although at first glance one might have thought so.

He was dressed in a plaid shirt, and loose fitting shorts. His thin legs where very pale, almost milky in their whiteness. He wore a cheap pair of tennis shoes which were slightly tattered and comfortable. His chest rose and fell with steady even breaths. The brows above his lidded eyes were gray, and shaggy. They clung there like stringy, twisted trees growing from the cracks in a cliff, hanging on to life.

There was a small table to his right where his glass of water sat on a coaster. The glass had only a little water left.

Images floated through his mind like a kaleidoscopic collage of seemingly unrelated memories. He knew he was awake, but he did not know where, or even who he was. He could hear the TV but did not understand what the words meant. The old man didn't feel confused, it was just his reality, the way things were with no reference point for comparison. There was only the now, a jumbled mass of fractional memories without cohesion.

Suddenly, he was startled by a happily barking dog. His head jerked up, eyes snapped open, and there on the TV was an English Setter hungrily gobbling down some unknown brand of dog food. The site of the hunting dog penetrated the fog of his mind and tapped into a memory locked away in the part of his brain where long ago events were still safely stored. It was like a door opening, light flashed into his mind and suddenly he was lying in bed anxiously staring at the ceiling of the darkened room.

The sky outside his window was dark, but slowly lightening as the sun approached the horizon from deep in the east. The young boy had not slept well that night. His anticipation of the day's hunt had kept his mind working hard. Aside from dozing a few times, sleep had evaded him as he imagined what it would be like to shoot his new shotgun. He visualized his dog Jack casting to and fro, head down intently searching for the telltale scent of bobwhite quail hiding in the heavy cover of the abandoned field.

He had gotten the gun for his twelfth birthday the day before. His father had taught him how to handle guns, and he had shot them. But this was different. It was his OWN gun, and while he had accompanied his father on hunts before, he had never been a shooter. The door to his bedroom opened, and Dad came in smiling broadly.

"Looks like your ready to get going Son. Let's do it" He burst from the bed and dressed in a frenzy. After an egg, a piece of toast and a glass of milk, he was out the door. He carefully loaded his gun in the car, while Dad loaded Jack in the back seat. The dog was so excited it didn't take much effort to get him in. He knew what was up, and his excitement added to that of the young boy's. The motor turned over slowly several times, and then coughed to life with a rumble. A slight grind of the gears, and the vehicle lurched into motion as Dad wrestled it onto the worn country road.

The young boy stood at the edge of the field, heart beating fast, eyes locked onto Jack as the dog burst into full hunting mode. The gun felt heavy and solid in his hands. He checked the safety like his father had taught him, pointed the gun at the ground and stepped into the field. He noticed Dad examining him out of the corner of his eye, and felt a warm secret pride as he saw the grin slowly spread over his father's face.

The dog was all business as the young boy advanced slowly through the field. His tail whipped back and forth as he searched every bush and jack pot of brush for quail scent. In the distance, the boy heard a train. He knew the tracks cut through the far corner of the hunting ground. He was so intent on watching the dog, that he didn't give the approaching train much thought. The dog bounded on. Then suddenly Jack was frozen hard, like a bronze statue in an ice storm. The boy and his father froze as well.

"Easy now" crooned Dad. "Whoa there boy." The dog crept forward two steps and hesitated. The young boy brought his gun up, and flicked off the safety switch with his thumb. Nothing happened. The train whistle sounded again, considerably closer this time. It was a false point, and the dog moved rapidly ahead, tail now waving in a circular motion, nose down, the young boy watched him grow more frantic as the scent of birds filled his nostrils. The dog was at the railroad tracks now, as the boy turned to see the freight train burst out of the trees and into the field. He heard his father call for the dog. "Jack! Jack! Come! He watched his dog bound across the tracks and lock up into a solid point about twenty feet on the other side. This time the dog's head was down, and the boy noticed how the tail was stiff and extended, the dog's right front paw was up and frozen in midair. The he and his father watched the dog, as the train closed the distance. The boy noticed the sound of the train growing louder and suddenly it eclipsed the sight of the pointing dog with a blur of wheels and cars flashing by.

The noise was tremendous. The screeching sound of steel on steel, the clacking of the wheels as they rolled over the rail joints, the groaning suspension of the cars as their heavy loads rocked back and forth filled the young man's ears as he continued to stare at the spot where he had last seen the dog.

Then the train was past, and to his amazement, the dog had not moved a muscle. The wind from the departing train bent the grass, moved the brush, and blew the dogs long hair for a moment, then everything was still again. The dog waited motionless, focused intently on a small patch of blackberry.

His father's voice broke the spell. "Well I'll be damned! C'm on son let's get on up there!" The boy faithfully remembered to switch the safety back on as he stepped out toward the dog. They slowed their approach at the tracks, and crossed carefully. The young boy slowly moved ahead. "Easy now son" whispered his father. "Remember, pick out one bird to aim at, don't shoot at the flock, take your time and relax." He thumbed off the safety when he was within 10 feet of the dog. Slowly he continued, gun at his chest, watching the dog. He stopped at the dog's hip, set his feet, and brought the gun up into the ready position. He could hear quail peeping in the brush directly in front of him, he felt the light breeze on his cheek, and noticed the sound of the train in the distance growing fainter, the dog was trembling.

"Git 'em Jack!" The dog pounced, the sound of frantic wing beats filled the air, and the boy brought the gun to his shoulder and sited down the barrels at the fleeing birds. He picked one near the rear of the group and moved the front site slightly ahead of the bird. His finger tightened on the trigger. The sharp crack of the gun hurt his ears, as the stock pounded against his shoulder. The boy watched in amazement as the bird tumbled head first into the tall grass. Feathers lingered in the air, and slowly drifted with the breeze, it was suddenly quiet.

"Great shot son!" his father roared as he slapped him on the back and gently shook his shoulder. "Nice shot!"

The gentle shaking continued, but the voice changed. "Wake up Dad, it's time to eat." The old man opened his eyes and looked up into the eyes of his son. He recognized him and said "Ok boy". "Are you hungry Dad?" "Yes, hungry" he said. The food smelled good, he ate as the golfer on TV sank a 40 foot eagle put. He didn't notice, he didn't remember his dream, he tasted the food, and it tasted good.