THE TAIL OF DAVEY JONES

By

M.H. Litt


There are some very weird and unexpected little subgroups of humans in the world, you probably know. But one you may not know is 'The Tail Fancier's Club'.

Each year they hold an International, inter-species contest to find the most fabulous tail on an animal.

Well, my Davey would've won that handily, if I'd a mind to subject him to the crudity of fame. I didn't. He was a very dignified, not snooty, dog. A mixed breed, or 'mutt', if you will.

And now I will: Here's the tale of the tail of Davey Jones, and then some.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
David had the most beautiful tail I'd seen. Very full and long; plumed like and old feather ink quill. And it furled as he walked in front of me for 15 lucky years, like a flag in a small warm breeze.

Now, many, many people stopped to look, oooh and pet Davey on the street, living in cosmopolitan Brooklyn as we did.

So, I made up a joke for them. Goes like this:
Y'know, I always ask Davey: Where in the world did you get that beautiful tail? He just rolls his eyes up like, 'Do you really have to ask? PloomingTales!' Ba dumb dum.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For years, it seemed he'd always been there, this wondrous soul in a dog suit. How could I possibly have lived without him?

We were together thirteen years. I started thinking about him dying (before me!) when he was about eight. We didn't know just how old he was, or much about his past, but he was full-grown - at least a year old when I first met him.

I met him on a busy street in Park Slope, Brooklyn. An older lady, a small lady with the strength and goodness of a type that seems unique to Brooklyn, New York. And she, Bea Garber, held the leash that held my David.

He was wearing a sandwich sign across his back. One side said I WAS ABANDONED. The other, PLEASE ADOPT ME. Bea was part of a local dog rescue group and this was her special method for finding good homes for them. I think she was pretty good at it.

What I definitely noticed was that this dog looked embarrassed to be wearing that sign! And not happy with the proceedings, though he was quiet and dignified. And so beautiful.

I love to look at dogs, especially into their faces but never had I seen a dog that looked embarrassed. He really did not seem comfortable about this random adoption process. And he was just understandably sad and confused.

Bea had pretty heavy selling tactics. She kept trying to put his leash in my hand while she did a fast tap dance of a commercial for David, the dog in her care.

"I named him David - it means King of Men in Hebrew. He's had it tough, but he's a good dog! I'd take him, except he doesn't get along with my little Jackson. I found, I mean my group - animal rescue - well, we found him, - and he was chained to a fence on Flatbush Avenue- can you believe it? He's a good little boy though."

Well, he wasn't little. And my apartment was. It was coming at me so fast. Just a month before, my mother surprised me with an adorable puppy from a wonderful shelter on Long Island. Surprised me with a puppy...I'd felt there was surely a law against that. Would you surprise someone with a baby? I take my dogs very seriously.

Anyway, my Mom meant well, worrying about me alone in New York, no boyfriend after a bad heart rupture some months earlier. In her arms she carried a little dog that probably had his picture in the encyclopedia under the heading - The Puppy Every Little Kid Wants His Parents To Get Him. So, I tearfully refused.

Somehow, in some way, I was just waiting for David. One look into those eyes it was a done deal. I had to make this sad guy happy, to make him believe he could be loved, to believe he could trust a human. The trust never was complete, I don't think.

Dignified, wary, insecure, and so pretty. His markings were so even; he surely didn't look like a mix. I never stopped getting interrogations about his breed. I heard so many dog experts' strange decrees of breeds in his background that just couldn't be true! He looked like a collie, slightly smaller, with more gold on him and Siberian Husky eyes, one blue, one brown.

But he was the Park Buddha. Not only peaceful with all dogs, but inspiring peace in normally aggressive dogs.
But everyone in the neighborhood seemed to already know DAVID. They all oohhed and awwwed when they saw I'd adopted him. Not from when he was chained; it was only blocks away, but could've been miles away in neighborhoody feeling. People all knew him because they'd seen him with Bea. And he was so beautiful, so quiet, so young and hurt. They had been out there for awhile and it was beautiful fall weather with everyone outside enjoying.

Thinking back to that day, and I do so often now that he's gone, I like to think he'd felt cautiously optimistic about me. I don't think he saw himself as a yuppie's puppy, and there were lots of dog loving, upwardly mobile types around.

No one knew how long he'd been chained, but Bea said it was a while. They thought at first that someone might come back for him. But in most of New York City, a few blocks can make a huge difference in the type of people that lived there. Davey wasn't in such a good neighbor; mine was pretty nice. One thing I did figure out about his time chained to that fence was that he was kept going by people feeding him Kentucky Fried Chicken. The only sidewalk food he ever went for and could barely be kept away from.

David was the name of a college love of mine and it just didn't seem right at first. I thought, if he's going to have a human name, how about Steve? A better human type dog name I thought. When we took our first walks together, many people came up to me and said "you took David! Oh, we wanted him but..." That's the reason he kept the name David. I did add Jones. He was so dignified, while insecure - I thought a last name might help. I wasn't thinking of my favorite Monkee at the time.

Decidedly single, I took this dog to be my life partner - my protector. And we even found each other companionship of our own species. I'd thought he was strictly gay for many years, just cause he got romantic with male dogs only. Then one day, down here in Florida, we were at the big High School Football field, and saw a lady walking three dogs. Hers were off the leash as Davey always was by this time. (Told you he trained me well, and he deserved all the trust I gave him)
One of her dogs was in heat, and we'd gotten to talking, first with the dog talk, naturally. But when Davey and 'Sweety', a solid looking bull terrier mix starting doing some serious doggy dancing, I started off to get Davey. Sweety's owner said, and I quote with no offense intended, 'If he's shooting blanks, it's Okay with me'�. I guess he shot many blanks because we were there for hours. He seemed so silly/happy/dazed after. 'Course, when we met up with Sweety and her owner again, Davey didn't even recognize her. Sweety had been spayed.

Now Davey was always trying to find a guy for me. Even when I already had one that he didn't like. In my little wine colored VW with the top down always (the sky is my air conditioning in Florida!)

Davey would contact the fellows he liked when we were stopped at a red light by giving the full charm of smile and eyes. They always smiled back, and I had to notice, they always had dry cleaning hanging in their cars. Davey was always more practical about life than I.

He often amazed people with his smarts...though they didn't get to know his wisdom or his sense of humor. He cracked me up a few times when I really needed it.

Having Davey was such a large part of my social life...we extreme dog lovers would meet in the nice places we'd found all the time. And everyone came over to see Davey. He wasn't very interested in most of these other people, or their dogs. Many times people became insulted that he didn't want to play.

Over and over the same very thing happened. People would have a small dog...always a pure breed. Davey would go to have a smell and the owners would get very nervous.
'He's not friendly.'� I'd kind of stall and walk toward Davey.
'I'm worried about your dog, not mine because he always fights.'� I nod and stall.
I moments, this dangerous little dog would be licking Davey where his parts were long cut away, and Davey might try to mount the tiny thing or visa versa. The people were always amazed.
'But he doesn't like anyone!'�
And then Davey would get bored and we'd walk away with the people and dog looking sadly on.

So he was his own dog. Of course, in the eyes of a professional dog trainer, I don't think Davey would've seemed so smart. Tricks? He didn't even nudge his bowl or go to the door when he wanted to go out. He only had one basic communication move. He would stare intently into my eyes. I could only try to figure out what he wanted.

I bet I'd concentrated, paid more attention, I could've figured out the subtle difference between stares. He'd trained me well though. I'd try everything figuring one had to be right.

I think he really wished he could speak. He made a lot of interesting noises, and I have a friend who will swear she heard him say `Miranda'. Or maybe `errahba'. He'd heard me joking enough, saying how he'd be perfect - if only he could speak English. Some years later, I guess I thought he did, so in synch were we.

Of course, this memory is slightly colored by all my lucky years of his wonderful, rich personality tattooed on my heart.
~~~~~~~~~

After the End
~~~~~~~~~
And then, he was gone. What hadn't I done right? How can you give enough to a dog that loves you? It's all I thought about. I think dogs are just made to love better than any other species. Something very special had kissed the canine gene pool.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...