Montana
John Hardoby

 

Montana chewed on the patchy grass, spit it out, then sniffed the masticated pile of dirt and green blades. He causally limped across the yard in the direction of the cracked porch. Montana spun in a painful circle, his limbs aching then giving out. He rested his head on the splintery deck and let out a huge exhale of relief. “I don’t have to stand for another few hours,” he thought. A familiar hand touched his head, giving a mild scratch to his ear. Montana would wag his tail if it wasn’t so painful, but his owner knew that was the case, he knew Montana enjoyed it.

Radford Finch found Montana last month wandering helplessly in his backyard, lost as a shipwreck’s cargo. Radford didn’t know the old mutt’s name and the penny-colored dog stood without a collar, so he decided to name him after his best comrade from The War. Timmy Montana was the oldest solider in his unit, nearly six years his senior. The copper dog didn’t hear Radford as he slowly approached from behind and was startled when a wrinkled hand patted his dirty head.
“Hi there bud. You look lost.”
Montana smiled at the old man, relieved to see a friendly face after the extreme adventure he just experienced.
“You’re filthy. Let’s give you a bath.”
The old man leisurely headed for the house. Montana eagerly followed. The two walked side-by-side like a pair of tortoises, neither capable of grabbing the lead. Once they reached the broken house Montana was amazed at its condition but he understood why it appeared the way it did.
On the previous Thursday one of the most destructive hurricanes Florida has ever witnessed blew through the southern tier of the state like a runaway fright train, destroying everything in its path, including Radford’s weathered home. Mr. Finch’s house received severe damage but wasn’t completely destroyed like most of his neighbors. The rest of the block was a pile of rubbish while his house stood roofless with no windows left unshattered. Hurricane Jordan did its destruction in less then a day; its powerful winds flying through temporary ghost towns.
When the storm struck Mr. Finch sat in his basement. Years ago, as a younger man, he built a bunker for such occasions. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Montana found shelter under an old-fashioned playground behind a nearby grade school. They say animals know when natural disasters are going to strike before they do. The word got around, so Montana took off. His original family couldn’t find the old mutt so they left him there and fled north to stay with a friend and wait out the storm. Being left on purpose or not, Montana didn’t mind. He was planning his escape for a while and new the best time to put the plan in to action would be before a hurricane.

Radford found his tin tub behind a large rigid tree branch. He fished out his garden hose and filled the tub, almost surprised the faucet still worked. Montana hated baths but was looking forward to this one. The hardened clumps of muck were beginning to weight him down.
“Alright boy, hop in.”
Montana couldn’t hop, but limb-by-limb, stepped his way into the freezing thigh high water. The old man didn’t have a sponge or soap, his arthritic fingers would have to do. It took Mr. Finch a while to get all the dirt from Montana’s shaggy fur but soon enough the elder pooch was shaking his body, spraying the old man with droplets of bath water. Radford’s gray wool slacks were afflicted with stains that he had no choice but to tolerate, so a few splashes of water could actually help the cause. The two strolled inside the vacant home, Montana still damp and dripping.
“There’s not much to see up here Montana, let’s see if we can find some food downstairs.”
Mr. Finch opened the sodden door leading downstairs. He took it easy making his way down because the last time down he slipped and nearly fell. Montana tracks behind him, anxious to reach the bottom since his senses already picked up on the beef jerky in the bunker’s pantry. But he didn’t rush it, he allowed his new best friend to take his time. Montana knew what happened to joints after years of stress. Sitting in the dugout below the dining room, while the two shared a pile of jerky, a bag of potato chips, and a two-gallon jug of spring water, most of which Montana drank, the mutt thought about his family. He wondered what happened to his crowded cage that was placed as far away from the TV as it possibly could. Montana wondered if Little Bobby’s room survived the massive hurricane since it was where he slept most nights. But these thoughts quickly vanished after recalling all the unpleasant times.

When Montana lived with the Baileys, by the time he received dinner, the Bailey family had already finished theirs. He couldn’t remember the last time he tasted beef jerky, all he knew is it was an accident, a small piece that slipped from Mr. Bailey’s hands and landed on the floor. After dinner they would sit in the den, their belts loosened, soda cans atop their bellies, watching two transvestites go at it while a pumped crowd chanted “Jerry, Jerry.” Montana was named after a talk show host who spent more time breaking up stage fights then interviewing his guests. Locked inside his smelly cage Montana would bang his head against the crate’s bars every time the crowd began to chant. He thought the TV was calling him. Mr. Bailey would flick through the stations like a jackrabbit, the only activity his plump figure could perform with speed. Mrs. Bailey would sit in a daze, exhausted after a long day of showing people where the children’s department is, or stacking kitchen supplies or wiping down glass tops. After ten years of experience she was use to Wal-Mart’s nine o’clock rush of customers, but some days of scurrying unemployed mother’s were worse then others. Little Bobby Bailey spread out on the purple rug infested with dog hairs that would stick to his sweat pants and socks, as he soaked in cat fights, so to speak, on the trashy talk show.
Montana’s entire life was out of sync. As a puppy there was no child to play with, there was only an overweight couple neither of which could see their own two feet, nearly kicking him every time they waddled by. It wasn’t until years later that Little Bobby was born and by that time Montana was in his retirement years. So Montana and the kid never related, they were never on the same page. The dog grew up without a buddy.

“Hey Montana, come check this out.”
The wet dog stood up before his new owner even flinched. The two headed into the next room, which was even darker then the one filled with stored food and water.
“Almost everything I owned was ruined in the storm, but I managed to save this.”
Montana saw a shadowy figure propped against the wall, wrapped in a green cloth. Radford gripped the dusty fleece cover, ripping it off like a matador would, revealing the prize underneath. Montana scratched an itch behind his ear then sat with a slight pant, his way of showing appreciation. It was difficult to make out the rectangle shaped object, especially when all four eyes trying contained cataracts.
“I was given this painting when I was in London. What do you think?”
The dog’s panting increased. He let out a single bark, not too loud, no too soft, the perfect pitch to explain his approval.
“I like it too. Wouldn’t have picked it if I didn’t.”
Montana moved in where the lighting was better to take a closer look. He saw an open field with a wooden fence outlining the background. A man sat in a chair near a two-story house located on the painting’s right side. The sun consisted of three colors. Montana thought he saw the sun setting, then remembered his eyes weren’t very reliable. There was a brown figure in the distance, near the wooden fence, which Montana had trouble making out. He looked back at Radford who sat sporting a huge smile, then back to the painting, he old eyes readjusting. The figure was a dog, running through the field, and for a second, Montana thought it was himself.

Radford Finch retired two months before his sixty-sixth birthday. After his wife passed away a few months later he decided to head south and relocate in the sunshine state, mostly for it’s impeccable golf courses. Back in Philly he worked for a large publication as an investigative journalist. In the early 70’s Radford was assigned a project involving a string of painting thefts from London’s British Museum. He enjoyed his journalistic duties to formulate articles, but more then anything he loved to play private investigator, so getting a assignment to cover a spree of seemingly flawless thefts of some of the world’s great canvases was a dream come true. He paced the museum from end to end at least eight times, finding new details on each lap. He interviewed dozens of Brits and visiting tourist. Radford eventually pieced together a highly informative story, loaded with information that detectives working the case were unaware of. In fact, Radford’s article lead to the capture of the men responsible, a well-known French antique dealer and his accomplice, a long time member of the British Parliament.
To show their appreciation, caretakers of the British Museum allowed Radford a painting of his choice, out of a pre-selected group of paintings, of course. The ten available paintings were all spectacular in their own way, which made for a difficult choice. After a long deliberation, he went with the one that reminded him of the place he grew up, Cheyenne, Wyoming. The painting was titled “a fall evening,” which was composed by Jean-Francois Millet. Radford was unaware of its value and he didn’t care. Over the next ten years he received numerous bids by collectors wanting to add the colorful work of art to their assortment, but on the flight home from England Mr. Finch told the flight attendant he would never sell. And he kept his word.
Roughly six months after Mrs. Finch died, Shepard Claxton, another military mate of Radford died in his hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. Radford remembered Shepard had the penmanship of Ben Franklin, an elegant cursive. That was about all his crinkled brain could recall. Radford hadn’t seen Shepard since the recovery wing of St. Lewis Hospital where Shepard was being fitted for a prosthetic arm. This was nearly sixty years ago, but Radford felt he needed to see him one last time, even if his friend was covered in makeup, lying face up inside a coffin.
Radford arrived at the funeral with an American flag wrapped in a triangle and placed it under his old friend’s arm. Then he left without saying a word to any of Shepard’s friends or family.
This flight home was different than the one from London. Radford was seated next to a middle-aged lady, maybe forty, who tilted her soft head back and snoozed the entire way back to Florida. Radford watched her, envying the smile on her face, and her resemblance to his own daughter, Isabella, who would have been about her age if she were still alive. His daughter’s death was the largest hurricane of them all, sweeping gusts flew through his heart, taking his soul with them.
As a child Isabella had a dog that was her age in dog years. They were inseparable, like twin sisters, except only one could speak. After the accident that took Isabella’s life, it didn’t take long for her dog to die. A broken heart maybe, or maybe it was the desire to see her friend again.

Montana’s hair was dry by now. He wagged his tail like a cat would, slowly and seductive, knowing full well it would cause him pain. But revealing his happiness compensated for that. He slowly turned and returned to where Radford was seated, planting himself at his feet. Radford realized why Montana had arrived in his backyard that afternoon, and it wasn’t the aftermath of Hurricane Jordan. The old man and his new companion were about the same age. They were capable of relating, living together for however long that might be.
“You can help me tomorrow Montana. We have a lot of fixing up to do around here.”
The old dog watched his new friend with admiration. He felt young again, like the pup he was before the Bailey’s stole his spirit, growing up with Radford, the childhood peer he never had. The two sat a while, aged and excited, anticipating the long day ahead.



 

 

 

Copyright © 2005 John Hardoby
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"