The Dragon and the Rabbit
By John Waldo Miller
He had the uncanny ability to wake me up every morning, raining or not, exactly at 7:a.m. You would have thought he had an alarm clock in his head. Finally, I decided after much thought, it had to be a God given talent and it would be an insult to God to complain.
Even so, I did say something to him about the howling outside my bedroom window. I even offered a pleading alterative. Please use some other type of wake-up call; a mere low bark or two would be sufficient.
I even suggested that I didn’t think that Labradors were supposed to howl, and if they could, only Wolves were prone to howl. He would have been very effective in London during their air raid to sound the alarm of on coming German Airplanes.
However, after what I thought was a compliment, he only smiled and said I was wrong about the howl. He did not intend to change from a loud howl to a complimentary soft bark. I would be the one to offer it up. Now what in the hell does that mean?
Sometimes he would stand a certain way and then looked more like a bear. His tail was as big as a coke bottle. If you cut his tail off, he could easily pass for a black shiny bear. Not an anemic black, but black all over with a coat soft as a mink. I couldn’t find a white spot anywhere.
Probably the biggest of his litter, maybe even for his breed, and people were afraid of him until he said, “‘Hello!” His gentleness stole your heart and that was his “‘Hello”, and that’s why I loved him. He weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. People thought he was a fat ass, but he wasn’t, he was just big. At night, he could walk under a security light, and it wouldn’t turn on.
You could have named him “Stealth,” but his real name, “Dragon.”
Yes, you are right; he was my friend, my soul brother, and a dog that was my confidant. I could tell Dragon my most private secrets. He wouldn’t tell anyone. Everybody thought he belonged to me, but he didn’t. He belonged legally to my next-door neighbor, the Duckgates, but spent most of everyday with me in my golf shop.
Every morning, rain or shine, he would be at my shop door at 9:00 a.m., that is, after his wake-up howling. He would stay until 6:00 p.m., maybe longer. Then I walked him home, stopping for a sniff or two. If I didn’t walk him home, he would try to spend the night by hiding in the shop. He already had his jams-jams on. When he did spend the night he didn’t sleep by my bed but slept on the tile floor in the bathroom where it was cool.
Then a little after daylight he would come to my bed and want out. I always honored and respected his demand to avoid any problems with the living room floor rug, which he had already admired. Outside after finishing his commitment to mother earth, the son-of a bitch would find my bedroom window. There he had the nerve to brag about the situation with that familiar howl. He couldn’t keep it a secret after that, everyone on the block knew.
The son of a bitch hated hot weather, but had a respect for it like no other dog. In August, when it got hot, he would pull on my pants leg meaning he wanted to go riding in the truck. The truck had air conditioning. I would ride around the neighbor with Dragon sitting on the front seat with his head next to the big vent, cooling off. The neighborhood called it, “cooling Dragon off.” We would go past and I waved, and Dragon would smile as he turned his head toward the door glass. What a conceited show off completely innocent of any humbleness.
The neighbors would wave back and I could read their lips, “There goes John cooling Dragon off.”
Another thing that Dragon and I shared, we were born life-time Dimocrats. Dragon came from a long line of aristocratic Dimocrats. His grandfather up in Missouri was a judge, a blanket Dimocrat known as “Dimocrat Duckgate. Judge Duckgate told me one time he would vote for a yellow dog, if it the only Dimocrat in the race. Dragon entire family was absolutely unquestionable stout on being a Dimocrat. But when it came to dogs, the Duckgates were a bipartisan family.
Dragon had a strange, aloof, running mate, a dead faced hound. Most of the time we only saw him at night, jest in time for supper. It seems Fritz enjoyed all day visitation with his neighbors, even if they didn’t. Some had compared him to the local preacher-man, the Reverent Horace Dumbwrinkle. Now famous who never knew when to go home?
One day I asked Dragon about Fritz’s politics.
Dragon- “Fritz couldn’t help but be born a nuisance with a sorry neurotic Rebublican attitude. Bless his heart, a permanent, horrible, and unfortunate sore-ass Republican without a cure. You might say, an all time confused dog, completely void of any social manners. His rudeness has no bounty, tries to bite everybody, not a friend in sight, picks his nose, can throw up on your shop floor in a second. But does occasionally yodel!
Surprised I asked, “Yodels plus a confused permanent Rebublican. He really is sick. But the yodel, what do you mean by that?”
Without hesitation, Dragon answered, “To begin with, he goes around all the neighbors’ yards in a two block area, and pisses on their flowers. The same that the Rebublican do on the Senate floor, piss on flowers, and Democrat’s leg. Only a Rebublican would do that. He’ll never give it up!”
I said, “Wow! And he yodels! Dogs don’t yodel, only Swiss people, cowboys, and stomped feet. I would like to hear that. Who taught him that?”
Dragon-“You could say nobody! But the arrangement was by special invitation to a tree trimming, and free bones. Mr. Duckgate and Dr. Shorthorn, our veterinarian, did that! They though it would slow him down from sneaking around and biting people, especially Dimocrates. But they got a surprise instead, a beautiful yodel.”
Well, that was sneaky. I’ll be they didn’t give him any warning.
Dragon- “It came as total surprise, but it didn’t do any good. He still takes time to search out, biter and pee on Dimocrates. Says its jest a point of politeness, good manners, he ought to be along in a minute!”
We didn’t have to wait long. Fritz trotted up just as Dragon finished talking. Fritz was a black and tan coon dog, ugly faces bastard coupled with a pretense to bite everybody, but especially Dimocracts. And now gifted with something unusual for dogs, he could yodel, and apparently had a lock on the feat, one out of a thousand, maybe more.
I reached and petted his head, “Hello Fritz, been visiting this morning? Understand you traded something for a new song. Tell me about it.”
Fritz stopped; spread his front legs as the set down on his butt and you know what? He cut loose with a five dollar yodel like I had never heard.
By god, that son of a bitch could yodel! Then Fritz smiled and said, - “Nobody is home! Every door I barked at, nobody at home. Not everybody can be gone! I think they were in there! They just didn’t want to come to the door. Now why in the hell wouldn’t they come to the door?”
Without any hesitation, Dragon barked, “Because you are a nuisance, dummy! Why didn’t you try your new song? They work better for wake-up calls and getting someone to the door!”
I replied, “Ah, Dragon don’t say that! He’s your running mate you know. Don’t call him a dummy. Maybe no one was a home or they didn’t hear him.”
Fritz- “Oh, it’s alright, maybe that what I should’ve done, give’um a big yodel. But I did piss on all their flowers, the bastards!. Now that I think about it, maybe a complimentary yodel would have done the trick. Some haven’t heard my new song.
I smile and said, “Well, you sure did pay a high price for that yodel. Do you miss’um?”
Fritz- “Hell yes I miss’um, both of them! Wouldn’t you? Jest one is no good without the other.”
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Dragon asked, “What do you mean, jest one without the other?”
Fritz- “Well, silly! You need both of them for a decoration ornaments. Who in the hell would jest wear one! They wouldn’t give’um back, the bastards! I was gonna put’on my collar. That would have been different. Well, I got to go now and chase some squirrelly Dimocrats up a few willow trees. Just plain dumb! Jest like a bunch of confused Dimocrats, thinks willow trees have nuts. Hell, that do the same when they are on the Senate floor, vote on the wrong goddamn bill. Bye now!”
When Fritz trotted off, Dragon mumbled, “Jest like a Rebulican, always trying something different and new.”
One summer the Duckgates went off on vacation for two weeks. I had Dragon as a registered houseguest. Directly across the street one of my neighbors had something Dragon like to tease. In her backyard, she had a big white New Zealand buck rabbit, her precious Billy-Bob. He’s the apple of his owner’s eye, Ella Mae Wopkins. Ella Mae is a good neighbor but she’s silly and obsessed with that rabbit. She talks to him.
Billy Bob sits in a big cage built on a high stand so no dog can interrupt his dinner or get the jump on him. But Dragon enjoyed a visit to his neighbors, especially Ella Mae’s big Billy Bob. He means no harm what so ever, just a friendly visit. So he just likes to sit and watch Billy Bob. What so bad about that? Well, I have to admit, he does sometimes overstays his visit jest like that preacher-man.
Ella Mae Wopkins, who is as I said, both crazy and silly about her Billy Bob, pays close attention too Dragon when he comes to visit. And Billy Bob doesn’t care for Dragon putting out those strange looks at him. The sight of Dragon always makes him start running around his cage until he knocks his water over and finally retreats to a corner shaking all over.
That’s when Ella Mae calls me on the phone and shouts, “John, call Dragon home. He’s making poor Billy Bob nervous again! I jest knows he’s gonna have a heart attack.”
So, I would come out of the shop and call Dragon home with a loud shout, “Bones Dragon! Bones!” Dragon would come on back to the shop.
One Monday morning something strange happen, Ella Mae called and asked me to watch Dragon, this coming weekend. They were going out of town. They wanted to make sure Billy Bob had plenty of water. And were afraid Dragon might pay a visit and cause her precious Billy Bob to knock over his water and have a running rabbit fit, which he always did.
I said, “Sure!” and hung up.
On that following Friday morning, I let Dragon out the back door for his morning situation. He waited until I got back to sleep. Then went around to my window and did his wake up howling call right on time. If he hadn’t I would have been surprised. Then he went visiting in the neighborhood. Like Fritz he like to roam but for a different reason. The neighborhood gave him the name “magnificent moocher.”
Then along about 10:A.M, Dragon stuck his head in the door but he wasn’t alone. He had Ella Mae’s precious Billy Bob dragging from his big Labrador mouth. He was one happy dog wagging his tail and sporting a proud smile on his black face. With only a moments hesitation he then deposited Billy Bob down at my feet.
I screamed, “Oh no Dragon! Not Billy Bob!”
Billy Bob looked quite dead and I immediately thought, “Ella Mae is going to kill us both.”
I looked down at Dragon, who still had this look on his face, “Look John what I brought!”
I quietly advised him, “I know Dragon, you are proud of him, but Ella Mae is going to kill us both. You know how silly she is about that rabbit, talking to him and all that. You would have thought that rabbit was human. Women! They are so irrational at times. I’m glad we aren’t that silly, Dragon.”
I checked Billy Bob out, and advised Dragon again, “Yep, he’s dead alright, about as dead as a rabbit can get. What in the world or you going to do Dragon?”
Dragon gave me that look and I knew what it meant, we’re partners, bud.
Then I remembered a movie that Dragon and I had watched last week, “We can’t bring him back alive, but we can make him look alive, jest like in that movie. Let’s go in the house. I’ve got an idea. Miss Joan isn’t at home, and that’s to our advantage. We can use her bathtub.”
Dragon and I took Billy Bob and put him in Miss Joan’s bathtub. Then we washed all that mud and leaves off. We even used some of Miss Joan’s smelling shampoo soap. Then we took her hair dryer and fluffed up his hair to make him look alive. Dragon watched ever move I made. He didn’t want us to lose Billy Bob. I don’t think his tail ever quit wagging, looked like a run away electric fan.
Then we carried Billy Bob back across the street and put him back in his cage. I sat Billy Bob up on the side of the cage, which made him look like he was just sitting there. Then we beat it back across the street to the workshop, very proud of ourselves. We both made a pack. I wouldn’t tell on him, if he wouldn’t tell on me.
Sunday night, Ella Mae called and said, “John, a strange thing has happened. After Wilbur and I had been home for about an hour, I looked out the back window toward Billy Bob’s cage. I was shocked! I called Wilbur to come have a look. I asked him did he see what I see. He saw him too. Billy Bob was in his cage. We were both shocked. We thought we were seeing a ghost! We don’t understand, but here’s the strange part.! We buried him before we left Friday morning. Billy Bob died Thursday night. Do you or Dragon know anything about this?”
I replied, “Dragon and I are sorry Billy Bob died, we know how much you loved him, but we don’t know nothin’. But we’ll be at the funeral.”
And I hung up!
The next day, Ella May, Wilbur, Fritz, Dragon, and I gave Billy Bob a decent burial. Dragon, Fritz, and I made a burial wreath out of carrots and lettuce leaves that read, “God has called Billy Bob home.” Dragon and I were dressed in black, and Fritz even allowed us to tie a black ribbon around his neck.
Then Dragon did something I’ll never forget or anyone else who was there. Dragon knew how to break up a sad funeral. Even thou I admired Dragon for his ability to say ‘Hello’ and keep secrets; I also admired his ability to perform those silent “social injustices.” You couldn’t hear it, but unfortunate, you sure could smell it. Still, one had to admire his ability to get away with that odorous deed. He was a genius at passing gas in a mixed crowd, at long funeral, and at the same time, blames it on someone else. I don’t think I have ever met another dog with such a remarkable talent, plain brilliant.
Dragon said later that Fritz wanted to give a yodel, but he wouldn’t let him in fear that he would act like one of those Rebublicans, those on the senate floor that wouldn’t quit yodeling.
Dragon died March 2002, on a Sunday, at 4:31. He liked Sundays. He knew it was fried chicken day. I cried for seven days and a half! Then I stopped. But Dragon left a hole in me, a hole I think I’ll never fill.
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Thanks for the wonderful story John... J. Wolf
