I was at a place that served good burgers and cold beer. There was a Labrador running around, begging from customers. Dolly Parton’s voice was overhead.
The old man beside me was eating a burger.
“You aren’t from around here,” he said.
“No sir,” I said. “Just stopped for supper.”
“Well, you picked a good place, they got decent food.”
Things went silent. The gentle quietness that passes between two patrons at a bar is sacred. You don’t interrupt a man and his ground beef. It’s irreverent.
The Labrador showed up at our feet. The old animal sat right on his haunches. He wagged his tail when the old man made eye-contact.
“Dadgum dog,” he said. “What’s a dog doing in here anyway?”
The old man removed a piece of bacon from his hamburger and tossed it to the dog. The dog ate it in one bite. Fido indicated he was willing to go for two.
You can tell a lot about a man by the way
he treats a dog. And you can tell even more by the way the dog treats him back.
My grandfather used to attract local dogs and small children. They followed him wherever he went.
So he’s originally from Chattanooga—the old man, not the dog. I don’t know where the dog is from. We pump hands and introduce ourselves.
A long time ago, he was an EMT. He spent the better half of his life saving people in the backs of ambulances.
“Started in EMS back in the early days,” he said. “Back when we had low headroom vehicles that looked like white hearses.”
The dog is still staring at him.
The old man tosses the stray a few French fries.
“Yeah,” he went on, “I’ve seen a lot in my time.”
When he was a young man, he…