Ben

This day was a no good one.  The men and women of this world were destined to push my buttons.  I woke up irritated and stayed that way much of it.  It started with the highway trip.  A normally mundane affair that should have taken at worst an hour was extended by forty minutes by construction.  How dare they?  Did they not know I had an appointment to keep?  Nobody bothered to advise me of these delays.  Somebody was going to hear of this, the gall.

And those highway men and women who control the traveler’s world with their red STOP reversed with yellow SLOW signs.  Who do they think they are being all cheery and wonderful day with me.  I am presently frustrated and also irritated because you and your kind neglected to advise me, your travelling public, you were going to hold me up and make me late this day.  And how dare you deign to just walk over and talk to me, trapping me in my car, strapped to this road, boxed in by you, your gravel trucks, you signs, and corn fields.

Sod off and leave me alone.  I am frustrated and irritated.

And while you do so tell those trucks and all that heavy equipment to stop raising dust.  I just had my car detailed.  Geez.

Late, irritated, frustrated, tired, and dusty.  This is not a good day.  I arrive at my appointment and the man I am meeting with is all so cliché rurally cheerful and it all so feels trite.  But I am on a mission and he is my means to my end.  But he is proud of his work and he insists on telling me of every feature, of all the love he has poured into his craft, and I am just annoyed wanting to be left alone so I can personally assess his wares for myself free to ask questions should I consent to ask them.

And I leave this store after being late, and still irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, and annoyed.

I have travelled all this way and I have never been here with time on my hands and really one shouldn’t get on a highway feeling irritated, frustrated, tired, and annoyed.  I wander this town.  A museum beckons me, an interesting way to pass some time and learn of this place.  But of course some volunteer who so loves this place has donned an ethnic  costume worn by farmers when this land was first settled and said costume has not been washed since it was first sewed back in 1850 and he insists on sticking close to me every step of my time in the museum imploring me to touch this and that and regaling me with his knowledge all the while spreading his olfactory assaulting scent to my nose and clothes.  I stop his dissertation by condescendingly pointing out errors requiring correction in his display of music and instruments and he dutifully sets about correcting the exhibit. 

I pull my condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky self to a display of school books written in the language of my childhood.  As I leaf through the story books, puzzling out the words, and teasing out the story, my malodorous friend returns rendering me incapable of thought and causes me to flee the museum marginally wiser but exasperated and bothered.

My mid day shall be taken at a turn of the century lunch counter lovingly placed in an antique store.  As the cook-proprietor prepares my simple fare I wander the store touching the history and marvel at the lives of people who touched and loved these objects before me.  I know these things, I have seen these things, and I appreciate their simplicity and beauty.  Of course overly cheerful well studied daughter of the cook- proprietor must take me a simpleton as she insists on pursuing me with the tenacity of a plaid panted, white shoed, white belted, hair slicked, used car salesman endeavoring to keep me informed of each piece I touch and attempting to regale me of the unique singular history of the wares.  My stomach knots and I settle into an antique restaurant booth waiting for my simple sandwich in an exasperated funk.

The tuna salad made with home made mayonnaise on home baked bread washed by a Coke fills the void in my belly and I carry on.

It is time for my stomach knotted, funk driven, condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky, exasperated, bothered self to leave this town and I exit stage east.  I drive fast down the highway enjoying tunes from my radio and the cool air whipping through my open windows.

And there I see it.  A pile of blonde fur set in the middle of the highway.  Of course it is positioned in a way I am going to have to slow down and now, added to all my other woes, I am just plain pissed-off.  As I pass by the assumed dead animal, now obviously a dog, I see it move.  I pull to the edge of the road.

And there he is.  A massive blond head, the beautiful fur and colour of a golden retriever, huge paws, a monster wagging tale, and the most beautiful brown eyes so full of gratitude that I would just stop to say hi.  As I come toward him he attempts to stand.  His front leg is obviously shattered.  He has no collar so I lift him (he is very heavy), carry him to my car, and place upon a large pillow on the front seat.  And we drive together, his head in my hand, back to the town of my day’s angst, to find assistance.

The town has a dog pound and they inspect the unlucky fellow for ear tags and tattoos.  None, he is a genuine bona fide stray.  The pound agrees to keep him.  And I ask if they will fix his leg.  They inform me no, they will hold him for 5 days, and if he is not claimed he will be euthanized.  They also hold little hope he will be claimed because he is a puppy.  This fact surprises me.  Evidently my retriever find is in fact a cross breed, is only 5 months old, weighs 70 pounds, and will grow to about 120.

My heart is broken as I try to sort out a way of taking this lad home to the city with me.  The pound folk tell me of a rescue centre down the highway and with a quick phone call describing the situation they agree to take the boy, no issues, no problems. 

Ben, as they named him, took immediately to the menagerie of stray dogs and one nervous cat located on the farm, and they immediately bonded to him.  He showed love and friendship and compassion to me that day.

Ben melted my hardened heart.  Gone was my stomach knotted, funk driven, condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky, exasperated, bothered self.  Reborn was a man full of compassion, feeling of love, craving of friendship, wishing Ben were coming home with him.

Ben changed me that day, in just a few short hours.  The wonder of an animal, this dog grounded my mood and drew me in to the way humanity is supposed to work.  My apologies to all I was in contact that day.  My thanks to my friend, Ben.