Clouds of clouds streaming down your face

Summer, 2003

There are Fruit trees and Palm trees to be watered at FlyWay Farms. Recently planted, and since it has not recently rained, Dad is concerned about the trees. Though I don’t doubt his concern, in truth he’d load his dog, Thunder, in the Suburban and head south just to be there. This time, I had said I’d go with him. I was seeking time, and also to be of assistance.

Sunday morning I meet him at his house early. We pour hot coffee into our cups, load Thunder and drive South on 59, the rising sun reflecting pink and promising behind us in the mirrors. Thunder sleeps in his crate in the back of the Suburban. From the way he leapt into it when we opened the back gate, I feel sure he knows exactly where he’s going.

At FlyWay, Thunder chases scents while Dad and I fill every five-gallon bucket we have with water from a hose at the windmill, and load them in the back of the Mule. We drive down the road to the trees farthest from the house, and pour bucket after bucket of water at their bases, the sun shining hot on our backs and sweat forming on our brows. Just as we toss the last empty bucket into the Mule, I notice Thunder trotting towards us, finally closing the distance between the house and us, moving carefree across the pebble and dirt path, dust rising in clouds behind his feet. He’s going where he wants to be. With him. When he finally arrives, we’re in the Mule and heading back for more water.

Come on, boy, let's go.

When all the buckets of water are re-filled and re-loaded, Thunder has made it back to us at the pond. We leave again. He raises his black brows at us as if this is some kind of joke that he doesn't appreciate but is willing to play along with.

It goes on like this all morning. Back and forth.

When our work is done, we have the sandwiches I made for the trip. Thunder returns to us, walking now, succumbing to the heat and worn from the distance. Dad chuckles that Thunder is losing some excess weight today, then steps from the porch and throws a training decoy into the pond. Thunder flies after it, on fire with energy when he hits the water in pursuit.

Them

They were friends, the two of them. The kind of companionship a man and dog have when the Field Trial Champ worms his way into the heart, and in doing so, slips out of the kennel and into the bliss of being a member of the family who lives with you, travels with you, and receives his own Christmas presents. The kind of friends that spend long days together, starting with sunrise. If he strayed too far, he’d answer with his presence when my father would bellow, THUNDER, in a voice loud and broad and surprising, a voice you had to hear and one I’m bottom-of-my-heart happy that a few friends can not only recall, but mimic spot on.

At many a day's end, Dad would sit in his chair, Thunder at his side. Dad would place one giant hand on Thunder's head, say, you’re a good boy, Thunder, you're a good boy. And Thunder would lift his head to Dad and love him right back. They were a pair.

When Dad died, Thunder knew he was gone, but always looked for his return.

February 16, 2006

Sometime during the night last night, Thunder stretched out beneath the picnic table on the back porch. And sometime after that, his life left his big black body, his shine left his dark, eager-to-please eyes. I do not know how and I do not know why. But I can guess.

This morning, on my drive to Austin, I was thankful to be in the muscle car with the top down. My mind needed the freedom of the wind in my hair and my heavy heart needed the wide open spaces. At one point along I-10, long stretches of geese flew overhead. Hundreds of geese, flying silent and out of reach above me. Sad and lonely and perfect. I looked at them and thought, they are carrying Thunder home. Sad and perfect.

He was loyal, eager and loving. Lord, was he loving. You couldn’t sit in a chair without him stretching his head up to lick you cheek, and if you gave him just a sliver of an inch, he’d put a paw on your knee, and if you didn’t stop it right there, you’d soon find yourself with 90 pounds of black lab standing on your knees and licking your face.

I’d like to think that right now, my father is somewhere above, his beloved Thunder back at his side. Together again. And side-by-side they watch the sun-kissed wings of hundreds of geese flying in giant V-formations below.

Welcome home, friend. You’re a good boy, Thunder. You’re a good boy.