Rex

He had almost as many lives as a barn cat to begin with. Uncle Allen had shot him square

in the chest one night, thinking that the big white dog was something more dangerous. Rex ran

off and everyone figured he was gone, until he woke Lorne up the next morning, scratching at

the back screen door like always. The blood washed out of his fur, but there was always a small

scar that stopped his coat from totally growing back. Turned out a single shot wasn't enough to

keep that gentle giant down.

His white fur kept him cool on all but the hottest of summer days. In the middle of

August one year it finally got to him, and Rex curled up under the back of a parked Dundas

county dump truck. Rolled right over him. He bounced back from that too, only showing his

limp in the wet-cold of late Autumn. Around the same time the old men drinking at the hotel in

town complained about their knees.

When they were still small enough the boys used to ride Rex, but no matter how good-

natured he was with children, it was obvious he was closest with Lorne. Every night, Lorne

would sit on the cold stone step at the back of the home and call in the cows. Looking south-west

past the barn out toward the grazing land, he could see the large stoic beasts ambling back

toward him. Same words Lornes father used, and his father before that. A long low sound

imitating the cows groaning.

Sooooooo Boss, Boss, Boss! Sooooooo Boss, Boss, Boss!

And Rex would run until he thought Lorne couldn't see him. And he would walk behind the

cows, using a deep bark rather than a call. And he would walk back until he thought Lorne could
see him again, and then he would run. And Lorne would always pat him firmly on the side and

say thanks for hurryin back, boy around a lit cigarette. And he was always sincere.

He always thought Rex was slowing down because of his age, and being flattened by that

damn truck couldn't have helped much either, but after a time it was clear it was more than just

that. So when Dr. Grey finally came out to the farm to take a look at Rex, no matter how sad the

boys were, it was Lorne who took the news worst of all.

Hes in pain, the Vet said quietly. Im sure you knew that. Its his time though, Lorne.

You best

Yeah, John, yous dont need to say it.

So all the boys said their goodbyes. Lornes wife June put a little more food down for him

that evening. He and Rex went out on one more walk. Down the laneway, and south along

Stevens Road toward the crab apple tree that grew stubbornly at the edge of the first of their

fields. West along the fence, past the low garden in the lee of the farm house, and toward the

cattles pasture.

Out behind the barn, Rex lay peacefully and his master worked. He dug a grave, and sat

on its lip, watching the sun set. One of his strong leathery hands rolled a cigarette while the other

held on to that dog a little tighter than usual.

One of the boys was watching the sun go down through the screen door. He jumped when

he saw one dull flash in the distance, just before a quick, metallic thunder rolled through the still

air.

It was a while before Lorne got back to the farmhouse, walking slowly across the firm

earth. Alone. The glow of his cigarette the only light other than the stars. He washed his hands
slowly in the summer kitchen, massaging the mud and pain of loss out of his palms. Boots by the

backdoor, he looked toward the barn one more time before going inside to bed. Lorne lay awake

for a long while, until he finally drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

* * *

His eyes opened, and he winced; cancer was a son-of-a-bitch. The surgical white of the

hospital room forced his eyelids a little closer together. It smelt as cold and clean as death. Lorne

adjusted the oxygen tubes resting in his nostrils, and sat a little more upright, coughing as quiet

as he could. June was asleep in a chair in the corner of the room. Avoiding the IV, he massaged

the back of his hands and was struck by how pale his skin had become. Older, and weaker. In the

end, so much just fades away.

Among all the beeping of the machines delaying the inevitable, he missed the sound of

home more than usual. Lorne remembered the farm, from when he was a boy. From when his

father was the one calling cows, and he was young enough to have the time to sit still. He would

sit under a younger crab apple tree and look out across the fields. Men pounding fence posts into

the dark earth: the hammer would force the post down, and then a moment later the sound would

make its way to him. At night, in the still cool air, you could hear even further. He could hear the

screams of his neighbour, slowly dying. The neighbour would call for his wife, asking for

chicken.

When he finally asked, Lornes mother told him that the warmth of a freshly killed bird,

the hot moisture against his face and neck, was one of the only things that would give the man a

moment of peace toward the end. Whether through fact or stubborn belief, it would relieve the

mans pain, if only for a while. Lorne never ate chicken after that.
 The days started to bleed together in a blur of tests and visits and pain. Lorne could feel

something being drawn out of him needle by needle, scan by scan and wondered if there

would be anything left of him in the end. Those Doctors just kept taking, but somehow the

cancer was the only thing they couldn't pull out.

The days always ended the same way too: drifting into sleep, not knowing if it would be

the light of morning, or a different foreign light, he saw next.

* * *

Lorne and the older boys were up before dawn, but only the boys spoke and even they

were quieter than usual. He kept his strong leathery hands steepled in front of his face: lips

resting against his thumbs. There was something missing, and no one was unsure what it was.

Rex had been as old as some of the boys, and so for a few they had never known the farm

without their soft white friend.

They walked, like a funeral march, out to the barn. Lorne sat on his heels while he

worked. The steady rhythm of milk hitting their pails was the only sign of the passage of time.

Back in the house, the boys washed, and Lorne sat in silence. They headed off to school.

He still sat: the quiet of the house unbroken by the uneven footfalls of that old dog. He was so

used to the sound, he could almost hear it now. The gentle scratching at the back door, like he

had heard so often. Lorne looked at the door. He heard a scratch, and saw the door shake slightly.

There wasn't much white fur showing through the mud, but there was no mistaking who it was as

Lorne opened that door. A breath. Then another, but shorter, and he fell to his knees.

Jesus, boy, he whispered through quivering lips, thanks for hurrying back.

He felt a tear roll down his cheek, but Rex licked it away; the warm moisture of his

tongue killing the pain.

 * * *

Doctor Justus left the room quietly after telling June to call the family.

I think weve shot our last bolt, June. This might be the last day, he had said softly. Im

sure he would want to spend it with family. And Im sure family would like to spend it with him.

Hes in pain June, Im sure you knew that. Its his time, and at this point, there isnt much any of

us can do.

They had all known it was coming, but it didn't make it any easier. The boys tried to

smile, to tell jokes, to talk of better times. Some of them had driven a long time to see their

father, and even though it hurt too much for him to speak much, they could all see that he was

glad they had hurried back.

The youngest boy held Lornes pale hand. The cancer had sucked almost all the life from

it now, and it felt more like a claw. They were alone in the room: the rest of the family eating two

floors below.

You hungry? he asked his father.

No, Lorne wheezed between laboured breaths. He pushed himself up, and shuffled his

legs of the side of the bed. Holding the IV stand, he rose and began moving slowly toward the

bathroom. But I could use some chicken.

He wasn't sure where he would press the warm-wet of a fresh bird, but it couldn't hurt to

try. Anything to help the pain.

* * *

That last day, after their last day, was hard. Lorne and Rex walked out East to the road

again, and sound along the property. There was that lone tree again, and they sat in its shade.
Wisps of the smell of the bitter apples drifting around them. Its hard enough for a man to bury

his friend once, but the pair of them made the most of their bittersweet second chance.

They walked west slowly along the corn. The wind blew gentle in the afternoon, making

the husks whisper. Like a mother, soothing a child. Shhhh, Shhhh, Shhhh. The long isles of green

and earth, stretching further than either of the friends could see. The top ears were leaning, and

Lorne reached to touch the closest. Its tip was rounded, the the ear felt full. The silks were

brown, and rustled as he ran his hand along them. It was time.

He twisted it off the stalk, and split the husk, rolling the halves back around the ear so he

could grip it all in one hand. He pulled it down with a firm motion, and broke it off the bottom of

the cob, brushing away any last silks. It was sweet and cool as he bit into it. Golden Bantam,

small and sweet, with only eight rows of kernels. Lorne ate half, and then held it for Rex as his

friend finished it off. First cob of the season. The last first they would share.

Back behind the barn, Lorne squared off the same grave, and they sat beside each other,

peacefully watching the sun dip lower and lower.

Thanks for hurrying back boy. His arm around the cool furry shoulders.

There was a flash, and a metallic thunder, but none of the boys were in the kitchen to hear

it. The orange-red glow of a cigarette slowly bobbed across the yard.

Lorne washed his hands, but this time the pain of loss clung more tightly to them. He put

his boots beside the back door, and went inside.

And he sat by that door until dawn, hoping this time Rex would stay at peace. And he

wondered, when his time came, if someone would be waiting by the back door for him to come

home as well.