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My dad is a night owl like me. He sits at the kitchen table reading and drinking beer, a cigarette smoking in the ashtray beside him. It creates a misty halo around him. I love these times, alone with him, when everyone else in the house is asleep .
I ask if he is hungry and ofcourse he is. So using my creativity and whatever leftovers we have in the house, I put together a humungus sandwich, being sure to use the dry mustard instead of the prepared.
My dad is a quiet man, reticent and unable to show his feelings, but during these late night sessions he seems to drop the wall he has built around himself. He tells me tales of his youth, his dreams,the story of his life. I have heard most of these stories many times before. Never the less I sit enthralled, watching him in the pink glow of the red ceiling, which along with black walls, is my mother's latest decorating marvel.
His favourite stories are about his dog Minnie. Minnie is a one man dog. Doesn't much like us kids, but tolerates us because she has to. Dad tells a tale about Minnie and one of her litters of pups, of which there were many. One hot evening Dad decides to hike down to September Morn Beach. for a swim. Minnie ofcourse, was used to going with him. This time, because of her brood,she had to stay home.
Well, dad is having a wonderful refreshing swim, when he notices there are people on the beach watching him. They are pointing and laughing as if he is putting on some kind of a show. He turns around and finds that following behind him, swimming in a neat row, are Minnie and her eight pups.
Another time my father drives his truck up north to work on road construction. Of course he takes Minnie with him. He speaks nostalgically about open tundra, the comaraderie of his fellows, of evenings with the northern lights shimmering in the sky and as summer gets nearer,days without end. Being rather broke during those times, he sleeps in his truck, using his faithful dog Minnie as a head warmer. Minnie doesn't mind, she curls around his head and sleeps. She adores him and would do anything he wishes.
Minnie has been dead now for many years. In her old age she contracted cancer and my dad had to shoot her. No one went to vets in those days, one took care of one's own problems. I think a little bit of him died that day along with his favourite dog. Dad had Blondie, Minnie's daugher by that time and my brother and I have always had dogs of our own, grandchildren of Minnie's. However, they never filled the space left by Minnie at her passing.
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