Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Nine, Dozer

My very first thought in planning this trip was that I would need a companion. Lewis had Clark, after all. It's a big country to travel alone. I wondered who I could get to go with me. I made a short list in my mind. A couple of old girlfriends, an Internet stranger, my friend Dozer the Dog.

Dozer was not my very own dog, but he needed to get out of town. He had recently disgraced himself by eating a little girl. He'd swallowed her whole; he coughed her right up. A quick rinse and she was fine. But it wasn't the first time he'd done such a thing. A long walk might do him some good.

In some ways he would be the ideal companion. I was still a little scared at the time. Not of snakes or bears but lunatics. Dozer would have them for lunch. And a good hundred pounds of dog will really warm up a tent. But I did not want to take him away from his family. I did not want him hit by a car. I did not want to carry his food and water and worry about him all the time.

I learned today that Dozer has died. Suddenly and too too young. He was big and ugly and dumb as a post. He used to bite everyone. He would beg for carrots and then spit them out. I loved him. He was my friend.

This is Kentucky. Harder men than me have wept over some old hound. But I still felt just a little foolish weeping over my breakfast. And wondering if my waitress would be offended if I asked her to give me a hug.

I fell into conversation with a very old man. I did not share my sad story with him. He was all but ninety years old. He's lost a friend or two. We talked about the sad state of politics. He's a "dyed-in-the-wool Democrat." And has worked for years in Africa, helping them improve their crops.

It's a bit condescending to say "sharp as a tack." Some old people do fade. But nothing got past this old codger. I sure like talking to him. About Africa in the 1960s. He worked for USAID. And a couple of universites. I have seen Born Free twice.

I wish I could have talked to him longer. I think it was time for his nap. Before he left he paid my check and gave me some parting advice. "Give the waitress a good tip." I was only too glad to comply. "A man should always have something invested in his breakfast."

That was in Bardwell, Kentucky, six miles on from my tent. And perhaps the friendliest little town that I have been to yet. People were eager to welcome me and anxious that I should like their state. And I do. It is pretty here and was as warm as a summer day.

My road wound in and amongst the trees. Many of them are still green. But there are too the yellows which have been lacking and some very fine shades of orange. There are a few small farms. I crossed a few creeks. There are some beautiful hills. Kentucky is an awful nice place. I risked my life to get here.

I walked on through Arlington. I stopped and had some pie. And a cheeseburger while I was there. I was going to eat less today. Which always sounds like a good idea, but I was hungry again. As I am now. Let's change the subject. I do have a case of the poops.

I blame myself. It comes from washing my face without properly rinsing my beard. And then whenever I eat or drink the soap gets into my food. And lubricates, as it were. It makes my tummy uneasy. I mention this only to prevent my friends from making the same mistake.

I'd hate to think it was the pie. I had two pieces today. Pie is Nature's Perfect Food. And in Heaven it's all you get.

It was on from there to Clinton, Kentucky, a fairly good-sized town. But I did not get to study the matter. It was by then getting dark. So I marched on through. I am in the woods, ten miles from Fulton. It is expected to rain tomorrow and that is just fine with me.

I've got it all worked out. I wake up and walk almost all the way to Fulton. Three miles short it starts pouring. I am soaked and forlorn. I check into a motel and doctor my feet and take a four-hour bath. And don't feel the slightest bit guilty about it. A boy can't walk in the rain.

I SAW GRITS on the menu for the very first time. I'll order them one of these days. I don't know if I'll like them or not. Maybe I'll just order one.

DOZER was not a mean dog, he just took his guard dog duties very seriously. And being a little bit nearsighted, he'd err on the side of caution. Bite 'em all and let God sort 'em out. That was Dozer's motto.

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