The old man stared into the fire.
Once, he thought, his life burned as brightly as that fire. Full of power and energy, his ambition had consumed everything it touched. But now, it was all dying embers.
The old dog on a blanket beside him raised her head to listen to his doubts. She eased herself up onto stiff hind legs and stared at him with blind eyes.
Where had the last seventy three years gone? What did he have to show for his life? He wanted fame and wealth and power. And he had fought for it. Fought hard. He’d coveted the stars but got lost among the clouds of his own desires. And for what? His name in the headlines, on the side of a building, in photos lining the walls of his office?
“But, what is my life really worth?” He frowned. So many things he hadn’t been, hadn’t done, or achieved. Now, time closed in around him. Lost time draped across his shoulders.
The little dog leaned against his leg. He pulled her into his lap. A hot ash floated up the chimney.
He scratched her head and slipped into memories.
Thirteen years ago. Nearly Christmas. He cursed the traffic for making him late again and pulled off the jammed freeway. He sped down dark back streets past modest houses decorated with strands of colored lights. The signal at a deserted intersection turned yellow and for a moment he thought of running through it.
He tapped his ring against the steering wheel while he waited for the light to change and searched the radio for something other than Christmas carols.
On the corner of the strip center across the street, a liquor store flashed a bright neon “open” lure from behind its crosshatch of metal bars. Beside it, a 24-hour nail salon offered its services in English and Vietnamese. The next door down stood guard over a dilapidated animal shelter. A cheery cardboard Santa leaned against the inside of a cracked window that brandished a “NO KILL!” sign with an air of stubborn pride.
When the light greened, he gunned the car but for some reason that he could ever explain, he wheeled into the empty lot and parked in front of the shelter’s paint peeled door.
Inside, an embarrassment of Christmas lights, fake trees, plastic menorahs, and random decorations assaulted him on waves of disinfectant and dry pet food. Pictures of happy families with new pets littered the walls between posters of bedraggled cats and dogs seeking “forever homes”.
“I just LOVE the holidays, don’t you?” A white-haired woman behind the desk looked up at him with a smile that broke her plump face in half. “Did you bring me a present?”
The question stuck between his brows.
“Are you a giver or a taker?”
That question nipped at his conscience.
“Did you bring a gift,” she clucked, “or are you here to pick one out?”
His confused look made her giggle. “Most people drop gifts off here,” she continued as she pushed herself out of her chair and smoothed down her skirt. “The takers usually go to the big shelters or breeders. We get the leftovers, you know, the lost ones, like last year’s Christmas toys,” she rolled her eyes. “But we love them all.” She clasped her soft hands. “So, are you here to give or take?”
He stammered. “Any dogs? Just a plain dog, nothing special. I’m just looking.”
“I know, I know,” she squeaked. “Everyone’s ‘just looking’.’, she air quoted. “But, mind you, none of our dogs are plain. They are all special. And I’ve got one in mind for you. This way, hon.”
He followed her through the swinging door black stenciled “Dogs Loved Here”. Two neat rows of a dozen or so clean cages lined the walls.
“We only have a couple of guest rights now. We got lucky this year. More takers than usual,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Down there. At the end. She came in two days ago. She’s in pretty bad shape. Abandoned. No tags. No chip. You gotta’ wonder who would turn out a dog during the holidays, especially in this cold. Anyway, she looks like she’s been on her own for several weeks.” She lowered her voice. “We can’t tell how old she is.” Then whispered, “I don’t think we can help her. She needs a lot more care that we can afford here. All we can do is make her comfortable, until, well, you know. At least she will be among friends.”
She opened the door and lifted a scraggly cocker into his arms.
A middle-aged dog for middle-aged man, he mused.
“Sorry about the haircut,” she fingered uneven tufts of fur on the dog’s head. “She was pretty messy when she came in and we had to cut some big mats out of her hair. We named her Ginger, like Ginger Rogers. She deserves a pretty name.”
The wretched, weightless dog trembled in his arms. “Ginger,” he whispered. He dug three twenties out of his pocket and dropped them on the counter as he walked out into the cold night, the dog nuzzling down in the warm folds of his coat.
All his life, he’d dreamed of being a hero, making a difference to the world, saving lives. But all he could unearth from the dust of his mind were thin ghosts of the small spats, minor skirmishes, and great wars he had fought.
What kind of man was he? Surely, he was more that this desolate landscape.
As he slipped into a doze, Fate played lights on the backs of his eyes. “Let me show you who you are.” He shifted nervously in his sleep.
She reached for her palate and eyed her painting tools. Her hand hovered for a moment. Although his achievements had been great and many, she did not select the broad brush of fame for his portrait. Instead, she picked up a delicate ink pen and began to construct his image from a thousand-thousand personal encounters that had seemed unimportant to him.
Onto this dense sketch, she flung scores of sparkling giggles that he had tickled out of children and thick, warm waves of gratitude from people he’d helped through their everyday minor desperations. She struck bold lines of comfort across his hands and overlaid his heart with soft hues of kindness too small for him to remember . She spackled around him an aura of thumbprints he had left behind as a quiet hero, mentor, constant friend, and companion.
Fate turn the unfinished picture for him to see. He barely recognized himself in the form others saw so clearly, but this picture of this man, this life, eased him.
A log cracked in the fire and he stirred as his wife came up softly behind him. She laid her gentle hands on his shoulders and kissed the back of his neck. “Dozing again?”
He nodded and smiled down at the little life he had saved.
“Let’s go to bed. You have things to do tomorrow.”
He eased out of the chair cradling the dog in his arms. A log broke in the fire. Embers blazed in the darkness and cast his long shadow on the wall as he crossed the room.
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Elliot's Tales 