Mrs. Powell, 'Little Dog' & Smokey

There are not many days over the past years that you could drive into my neighborhood and miss seeing her. She walks the streets of Steeplechase regularly - most days twice. Her long coat is black, whether lightweight in spring or heavy in winter, and her hair is always pulled in a soft, mid-necked, bun. Her cheeks are flushed, complimenting the twinkle of her eyes, and her shoes are modern - the kind for sport - representing the part of her not reminiscent of a more proper and gentler time.

Now Mr's Powell will always stop and talk to you - she is never in a hurry - while beside her, waiting patiently, stands her joy. He is a black and white dog, with shaggy coat, a mix of terrier and hound. His name is 'Little Dog,' and together they walk each day - her talking, he listening, both leading the other. They are become the dearest and most welcome fixtures of our neighborhood. Reminders, to us, that no matter how things change, some things remain - just as Mr's Powell, Little Dog, and their twice daily walks.

It was a week ago that I noticed I'd not seen Mr's Powell with Little Dog. This made me curious, the weather being nice, so I asked as I passed her front yard by - 'He's been sick, Pastor,' then added, 'he's getting old, like me.' 'Not so, Mr's Powell.' 'I'll pray for LIttle Dog.' 'Please do,' said she.

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On Monday of this week Belinda burst into our front door to exclaim, 'Sam, I just saw Mr's Powell! Little Dog has died!' I sat there, not really surprised, but still, feeling an intense sadness at this news. I thought of Mr's Powell companion, and realized I'd never heard him make a sound. Not one! In fact, I wasn't even sure he could. Not a bark, growl, nor whimper or cry! His was only the occasional wagging of his tail, based solely upon the encounters, comments and voice of Mrs' Powell. Little Dog had always seemed old - though I know this not to be true. Mr's Powell had told me he was a 'rescue dog' - one who'd been 'abandoned' and whom she'd 'taken in.' This was Mr's Powell kindness. Not to a fault at all. Not soupy or feigned - but careful. Careful that none would suffer or be alone. She had thought he might make a good companion for her other dog, and, since she didn't know his name, or if he even had one, she took to calling him, simply, 'Little Dog,' because, 'well, after all' - 'he was smaller than her other.' Mr's Powell laughed each time she told this, and loved adding the story of her taking him to the vet the first time. When the Doc asked, 'what's his name,' she replied, 'why he's just Little Dog,' to naught but increasing impatience that she just wasn't understanding. She took great pleasure in this, I could tell. All with that same twinkle in her eye.

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Today Belinda came into the front door with exciting news. 'Guess what,' she beamed. 'I just saw Mr's Powell!' 'And?' I asked. 'She's walking, Smokey!' Now Smokey is our neighbor's dog who lives in the backyard between us and she. He is the pet of Mr's Powell's son and family. Smokey is a delightful dog, but, like many in homes of young families today, he pines for attention and to be, well, walked. So... I ran to the door as around the corner they came. Sure enough, there was Mr's Powell and Smokey - she talking, he by her side, both walking the other.

As she looked down at young Smokey, to explain to him the way things were, Smokey looked up, and quietly wagged his tail in reply.

Pastor Sam :-)