Happy Birthday, Estelle Rice

Happy Birthday, October 25, to my dear friend and fellow author, Estelle Darrow Rice.

A gathering of writer friends for Estelle Rice's birthday several years ago. She is on the far end with the red corsage. 

Estelle and I became friends when I first moved to North Carolina in 1995. We registered for a writing class with the late Nancy Simpson, poet and leader of the NC Writers' Network-west, a program set in the far western mountains of the state. As I got to know Estelle through her writing, I learned about her life. She was an only child, and she married Nevin Rice, a young veteran of WWII. They had three girls who presented them with grandchildren who all adore Estelle. She is, of course, a loving grandmother.

Estelle is a native North Carolinian who has a BA in Psychology and a MA in counseling. She is a retired licensed Professional Counselor. Her poetry has been published in The Back Porch, Southern Review, and the Freeing Jonah anthologies. Her short stories have been published in journals and anthologies including Lights in the Mountains and Echoes across the Blue Ridge

My life has been enhanced and I am grateful that I found my close friend here in the mountains of North Carolina. We wrote a book together. 

The following story, Found Hound, comes from Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins by Estelle Rice and Glenda Beall

Found Hound

by

Estelle Rice

 

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car entered the steep drive leading to the mountain house that would be our retirement home. Forgetting that our fourteen–year–old dog, Chrissy had died two weeks earlier, I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see her curled up on the back seat asleep. Instead, I saw boxes, an assortment of odd clothing, and fishing rods.

Nevin and I were looking forward to our new life; free of obligations. No children, no pets, just the two of us. In spite of the enthusiasm for our new lifestyle, both of us admitted the adjustment would not be instantaneous. For most of our married life, we had had a pet of one kind or another.

Since that cold Christmas morning when Chrissy crawled across our front yard, shivering and eaten up with mange, she had helped fill the void in our lives. All of our children were married and our house seemed unfamiliarly empty. I am convinced that God has a sense of humor. Several weeks before Chrissy wandered up, I teased our married daughters. “We haven’t had a baby or a puppy in this family for a long time. Either one will do.”

It was an unusually cold Christmas day in Spanish Fort, Alabama in 1971. When I stepped outside to watch the neighborhood children playing with their new toys, I saw a small black and white puppy crouching close to the ground like someone crawling through an obstacle course. Inch by inch she crawled to my feet. Her head was pressed flat on the ground between her two front legs. She was shivering. I picked her up. She leaned against me, put her head on my shoulder, and stopped shivering. It was as if she were glued to me. I felt something hard around her neck and thought it was a collar. It was no collar; it was a part of a clothes hanger twisted around her neck. How can people be cruel to such an innocent creature?

I took her into our garage, where it was warmer, and called Nevin. Anyone who would put a clothes hanger around a puppy’s neck should be punished. Poor little thing.

She was covered with patches of gray scaly skin where her black fur had fallen out. Obviously, the puppy had been sent to us by divine providence . . . at least that’s what I told Nevin, who smiled indulgently and agreed that we would keep her. She became Chrissy Rice and lived a pampered life.

Now Chrissy was gone. Her death hurt so much that Nevin and I vowed never to have another pet. We planned to enjoy our new home in the mountains of North Carolina, our home state, and travel frequently without worry or obligations to anyone.

We unloaded the car and stacked the boxes in the garage until we had rested enough to unpack them. We walked out on the deck overlooking the blue, gray peaks of the Snow Bird Mountains. Only two deck chairs were not buried beneath our other belongings. We sat down and propped our feet against the deck railing. The sun was descending. We could hear the chirping of unseen night creatures and a whip-poor-will's serenade.

“Nevin, here we are, just the two of us,” I reached for his hand.

“It seems unnatural, but it’ll be fun getting used to it,” he said. “Just look at those stars and listen to the sounds. Nothing like this in the city.”

After many years of marriage, you begin to think alike, and Nevin spoke the words that were forming in my own mind. “As much as we both loved Chrissy, I don’t want any more dogs.”

“Right,” I said. “We can do a lot of things we haven’t had the time for until now, and there’s no reason to take on any more responsibility. We can go fishing. We might even try white water rafting.” Nevin laughed, knowing that he’d have to do some fancy persuading before I agreed to float down the Nantahala in a rubber raft.

Watching the sunset became a nightly ritual. The stars were bright and clear, unobscured by the garish glow of city street lights. Promptly at 9:00 p.m., the whip-poor-will sang its love song, and an answer floated from the trees behind the house. Every day was one of discovery: wildflowers, turkeys, groundhogs, mourning doves. According to the men who built our house, a mother bear and her cub had sauntered across our lot in Puett Cove and calmly tried to steal their lunch. Even though we saw bear tracks in a clearing behind our house, we had never seen a bear.

One night after we had fallen asleep, thunder growled in the distance and heavy rain marched up the valley. During the stillness between lightning and following clashes, I heard something scratching on the front door.

“Nevin. Wake up! I hear something.” I punched him in the side. He groaned and went back to sleep.

I shook his shoulder, but he rolled over and kept his eyes tightly shut. “Huh,” he said.

I persisted. “Nevin, wake up! I know you can hear that.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Wake up, something’s on the front porch. I think it’s a bear.” I continued shaking my sleeping husband.

“Gosh, ‘Telle, it’s the middle of the night.” He struggled out of bed knowing that I was not going to give up. “Come on. Let’s go see what it is so I can go back to sleep.”

“It’s probably the bear the workmen saw,” I said.

“No self-respecting bear would be up in the middle of the night. Stop imagining things.”

“I read somewhere that they are nocturnal in the summer. It certainly could be a bear.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that.”

“I heard it.” Nevin conceded. I could tell he was irritated.

I stood behind my husband as he pressed his face against the sliding glass door which opened onto the deck. He laughed, opened the door slightly, knelt down, and pointing to a small brown animal, said, “There’s your bear.”

I leaned over Nevin’s shoulder so I could see why he was laughing. Looking up with pleading eyes, water dripping from his floppy ears, and wet fur plastered to his back, stood a forlorn ‘cocker-type’ dog. “Aw . . .,” I cooed. “He’s cold. He’s shivering.”

“So am I,” Nevin said. “If he lives around here, he’ll go home in the morning. Let’s go back to bed.”

I, too, dropped to my knees and spoke to the drenched dog.

“Where did you come from, little one?” I asked. His bobbed tail quivered.

“Hon. Come on back to bed. He’ll go away.” Nevin put his hand on my arm and eased me to my feet.

“No, he won’t. Why else would he be asking to come in?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. Come on, ‘Telle.” Nevin tugged gently at my arm.

“O.K., but I don’t think he’ll leave.”

I followed Nevin back to bed, but couldn’t go to sleep.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“I told you. He’s still out there.” My elbow in Nevin’s ribs woke him up again. “We can put him in the storage room and try to find his owner tomorrow.”

“How’re we going to find out who owns him? We don’t know anybody up here. We don’t even have close neighbors. That dog wandered here, and he’ll wander back to his owner if you leave him alone.”

“Let’s bring him in tonight. You’ll know what’s best in the morning.”

“Just for tonight.” Nevin agreed, shaking his head and looking at me with sleepy eyes... “But remember we don’t want any more dogs.”

“Just for tonight,” I promised. “We’ll let him out in the morning.”

We put on our raincoats, wrapped the dog in old towels, and took him to the storage room on the side of the house. When I rubbed his fur vigorously he leaned against my leg and licked my hand. “Look, Nevin. He likes me.”

“He’s no dummy. You’re an old softie, and he’s a con artist.” By this time we were both laughing at ourselves.

“You’re not exactly the rock of Gibraltar yourself.” I laughed.

“He’s too friendly to be a stray,” Nevin said.

“I wonder what his name is.” I tried all of the cute doggie names I could think of but the dog wagged his tail at all of them.

“I know what we can call him temporarily . . . . ‘Found’”, Nevin suggested.

“Found?”

“Yes. Found Hound. He’ll find his way home tomorrow. He was smart enough to find us wasn’t he?” Before going back to bed, we made a pallet for Found out of an old quilt. He wasn’t completely satisfied with our arrangement and scratched the material into a pile more to his liking. He turned around several times, before plopping down and resting his head between his paws. We both patted his head and said good night.

The following morning when I opened the storage room door, Found looked considerably better than he had the previous night. His fur was dry and nearly all of the mud had rubbed off on the quilt.

Instead of going home as Nevin predicted, Found trotted close to my heels into the kitchen. Since I didn’t have any dog food, I gave him some leftover roast and a hamburger patty.

Nevin came into the room as Found was devouring his breakfast. “'Telle, he isn’t going anywhere if you feed him.”

“Sure he will. He’s not a cat. Cats hang around but dogs will probably go home. I’ll put him out as soon as he eats.”

“Honey, you’d better get that look off your face. I’ve seen it before,” Nevin said.

“What look?”

“That motherly look.”

“I don’t want another dog any more than you do,” I said.

When Found had finished licking the plate clean, I slipped my hands under his stomach and gently pushed him outside. “Found. Go home.” The dog looked straight ahead and then plopped down on the doormat. He knew his name wasn’t Found.

Several days passed and Found made no effort to leave. He trotted along behind Nevin during the day and sat in my lap at night.

“Honey, we’ve got to do something about this dog. I’ve put an ad in the paper, called the vet and even put a sign at the entrance of our street and no one’s called. It’s time to call the animal shelter before we get too attached to him.”

“Nevin, don’t they put dogs to sleep if they can’t find a home for them?”

“I believe so, but we can ask about that when we call.”

“Nevin, I know we don’t want any more dogs, but if there’s an emergency like . . . you know what . . . we’ll have to go back and get him. We’ll make that perfectly clear when we take him to the shelter, won’t we?” I picked Found up and kissed the top of his head, now squeaky clean and soft after his recent bath.

“Sure. They’ll find a home for him. He’s one of the cutest little follows I’ve seen in a long time.” Nevin reached down and ruffled the curly hair on Found’s back.

The following day I called the humane society shelter myself and explained the situation. A friendly man’s voice on the other end of the line asked, “How old do you think he is, Ma’am?”

“He’s a young dog, but I can’t be sure. I’d guess about a year old.”

“What kind of dog is he?”

“Mostly cocker spaniel,” I answered. “What happens if you can’t find a home for him?”

“Lady, we can’t keep dogs indefinitely. I wish we could, but we can’t”

I knew what he meant without asking. “My husband and I are going to bring him to you, but if you can’t find a home for him, you must call us before taking any other action.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I understand how you feel.”

When it was time to go, Found followed us to the car and jumped in without hesitation. When we reached the animal shelter, I picked him up and held his warm little body close to mine.

Two men, both dressed in jeans and plaid shirts, stood up when we entered the office.

“This little fellow came to our house during the storm several nights ago. We’ve done everything we can to find his owner, but we’ve had no luck. There’s no way we can keep him. Do you think you can find a good home for him?” I let Nevin do all of the talking while I cuddled Found. The lump in my throat was growing larger and larger, and my eyes burned from the tears I tried hard to suppress.

I recognized the largest man’s voice as the one I had talked to on the telephone. He smiled first at Nevin, then at me, and looked straight into my eyes as he was taking Found out of my arms. “I understand perfectly, Ma’am. Don’t worry. I feel good about this one. He’s going to have a good home.”

“If you can’t find a home for him, call us. There’s no way it would be right to put this little fellow to “sleep.” Nevin reemphasized the point I had made earlier.

“You can be sure of that. Leave me your telephone number.”

Several weeks passed before the animal shelter called. Nevin picked up the receiver, and I could hear his side of the conversation. “That’s too bad.”

I walked over to where Nevin was talking so I could hear better. The knot in my stomach warned me that it must be bad news. After a few seconds, Nevin said, “You say you can’t keep him any longer? . . . We’ll be there in a few minutes.” When I realized that Found was still alive, I sighed with relief.

Within the hour, we were leaving the animal shelter with a happy, wiggling dog.

As the three of us, Nevin, Found, and I, walked out of the gate, I heard the big man say to his companion.

“I told you I’d find a good home for that dog, didn’t I? And it took only that one telephone call to do it.”