The little redheaded boy found his grandfather on the porch swing, late at night. The old man was whittling basswood, listening to a ballgame on the radio. The kid let the screen door slap behind him. The boy wore Evel Knievel pajamas.
“What’re you doing up?” said the old man. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Had a bad dream.”
The old man patted the swing. “Step into my office, Kemosabe.”
The kid climbed onto the swing and leaned against the old man who smelled like burley tobacco, Old Spice, and sweat. The crickets were singing their aria.
“I’m scared, Granddaddy.”
He resumed carving. “Hush now. Ain’t nothing to be scared of. Just a dream.”
The ballgame droned in the background. The Braves were playing the Cardinals and getting shelled.
“What’re you carving?”
The old man held up the block of basswood. “It’s a dog. Hunting hound. This is Shelby.”
The boy looked at the crude canine figurine. It looked more like a deranged ferret than a dog.
“I know it ain’t pretty,” said the old man. “But she ain’t done yet.”
“Who’s Shelby?”
“My old dog. I got her
when I was a little older’n you. I found her. She was caught in a mess of barbed wire in our east field. Nobody knowed where she come from so I took her home and kept her.”
“That was a long time ago?”
“You have no idea.”
“Was she a good dog?”
He inspected his wooden handiwork. “She was.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Well. Old Shelby came ever’ where with me. One time I took her to a church dinner on the grounds. She embarrassed me so bad when she jumped on the table where all the fancy dishes were. Looked like she was surfing. Broke ever’ piece a china.
“I had to work a custodian job at the church that summer for punishment, sweeping the floors, touching up the pews with wood stain.”
…