J.B. Garrington
The first time I met him I was impressed by the far-away look in his eyes. They were such sad eyes, eyes that made you think of old sorrows, old dreams, old mysteries of life. They were certainly the windows of his soul. We were soon on familiar terms and I noticed a quick response to a kindly spoken word, a manner that expressed keen interest in any small attention. You know the type, I’m sure, the sort that unless you try entirely absorbed in yourself you can not help liking, cannot help wanting to be kind to.
Our mere acquaintance developed early into a warm friendship and we had numerous walks together. His was ever a silent friendship and only by his manner were you sure he was enjoying the beauty and freedom of the country roads, the lush meadows, the cooling waters of the brooks we met. I used to enjoy watching his enjoyment, his feeling of companionship, his sense of being in friendly company, and I find myself responding to his moods and cheerful abandonment to the joy of the present moment. There was no guile in his heart, evidently, and with him I often forgot the pressing cares of the years, the youth that I’d left along those same roads, along those same brooks. I, too, could walk with a lighter step, feel the impulse to run and jump and let cold care go hang. When sad eyes sparkles and every step betrays enjoyment it’s hard to be a clam and not hear singing voices, feel new thrills in old veins. At least this is the way it always seemed to me when I walked with my friend.
I’ve seen him sitting quietly, pensively, as if trying to look beyond the distant blue hills, and I wished I could read his thoughts, and fathom the soul in those sad brown eyes. They were always appealing, the eyes of a trusting helpless one, one dependent on human kindness, and I couldn’t think of anyone wanting to be rude to him, or being unwilling to share a friendly meal if he happened to be around when the dinner bell rang. He was so appreciative of attention, though he never overdid it, or made you feel that he was only nice for what there was in it. So many can be nice when they are looking for some profit. This fellow was more thankful for a kind word than for any other gift. He simply couldn’t be happy without believing the human world was a friendly one. You have met this kind. I don’t mean the whiners, the fellows that beg, but the genuinely kind soul that gives himself and his friendship and love and only asks a return in kind.
My friend was ever a wanderer and I thought his wanderings were chiefly in search of sympathetic and friendly companionship. He was quick to see when his advances were understood and then his whole manner changed from one of sadness to one of joy and animation. I confess I liked his friendship. It flattered me. I was glad I was one of his sort, and that we could meet and exchange greetings, walk the roads together, and without a word on his part, be conscious we were enjoying each other’s society.
I was from the first in doubt as to his exact nationality. He appeared to be of mixed races, with predominating characteristics that pointed back somewhere to British ancestors. There was a remainder of John Bull in the squareness of his jaw and in his sturdy body, and on one or two occasions I discovered that he was entirely capable of defending himself from uncalled for rudeness. He eventually lived on the Shakespearian principle of:
Beware of entrance to a quarrel;
but being in Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
He never walked by my old home without stopping to exchange greetings, never passed me on the road that he was not ready to wigwag kindly a sentiment. He was known to many passer-bys and few but had a kind word for him. I have left the old town and the old boyhood home I loved, but I shall hope as the years go by and my friend reaches the middle years and beyond, that he may always have some place to call home, some place to end his days in comfort.
The older years are so full of sad memories for all of us. True friends are few and the honest simple souls are easily forgotten in the stress of life these modern days.
Of course Mike is only a dog, but somehow I can’t help believing that dogs have souls and that our own are made better by our response to their honest love and faith.