Rufus watched the two men build his new home and hoped it would be better than the last. His master had built him a kennel before, but it hadn’t ended well; nails stuck out, there were gaps between planks that wind whistled through and it only took Rufus a week to bring it down by jumping on the roof.
He loved his master, but he loved him for his flaws and kindness as much as his strengths and skills, so he was glad he had help this time. The old man knew what he was doing, was sharp-eyed enough to know what Rufus was doing too, which was a good sign in this case.
The dog waited patiently as his new home rose before him. He knew his master needed somewhere warm to survive, his skin coat not as cosy as a fur one, and Rufus loved to curl up in front of an indoor fire, which their tent didn’t have, so everyone was a winner.
He even found a good place to bury his bones, with a view of the river; he burrowed around the large wooden posts that went deep into the ground and held up the porch and found ample space once he loosened the earth enough. It was an ideal spot, right underneath where his master would sit.
WHILE NEITHER SAID PROUD WORDS, BOTH FELT THEM INSIDE
It was finally done; while neither said proud words, both felt them inside. Through disagreements, sullen silences, sweat and cuts, the final result was just as he pictured it months before. The two-room, one-bathroom wood box with a porch on the front may not have gleamed with the sun, but the unvarnished shack held a modest beauty all its own.
It was a house, it was his home.
The old man had come back to help install the stove, ensure the plumbing worked, move the furniture into place. Because he wanted to finish the job. Maybe he just came back because he liked being there, but it was impossible to tell. It was noticeable he accepted a cup of coffee though, the first one made on the new stove, before his last drive home.
He left the heat on low after he poured the mugs; the stove served multi-purpose as fireplace and boiler too, so slowly the building would begin to warm through. The old man stamped his feet on the floorboards, almost smiling as they held firm and good. They walked out to admire their handiwork one last time together. Behind them the board he stamped on creaked a little, yawning from the exertion of inaugural contact and stress.
Rufus scampered out from under the porch to join them, earth from the warren he dug there flying in his wake, knocking against a post in the panting flurry. That was the straw; the porch began to lean and tilt forward as the posts supporting it found no hold in the soil, the awning above the porch was pulled downwards by the weight, the roof unfurled itself to follow the awning and porch; inside the shack, boards pinged upwards, nails flying, in support of their new-found direction. The structure wavered, then with a long, aching groan slid down the bank, splashing into the river, churning the once calm water into a gleeful orgy of flying mud and splintering timber.
Mouth agape, he started forward, but Dad’s hand laid on his shoulder; not pulling him back, just gently advising not to run into the melee – wait until it quelled, then assess the damage. “Let it go its own way,” the old man said.
The water swilled and bubbled around the remains as the house continued to disseminate into the brown muck. They both stood and stared, transfixed by quirky disaster, before the old man spoke again.
“I’ll get my tools,” he said, then turned and walked back to his car.
With Rufus at his feet, he watched the wreckage spinning in the quicksand of the muddy bank. For the first time in forever, he began to laugh.
Hove Press 