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Brave Banner
By
Tom Preble
Damn, I’ve hit a
dog! Right under the front bumper and a sickening bump as he went under the
duals. The school bus is stopped, brake set, flashers on. I turn off the
engine, grab the key and tell the kids to sit tight as I run out the door. The
dog is of a good, medium size but he doesn’t seem so now. A tiny crumpled mass
lies on the clean, empty dirt road. Why is it that death seems to shrink us?
The vault of purple blue morning sky and expansive prairie accentuate Banner’s
smallness. Yes I know his name, I
know this dog.
On my knees, I am at his side in what must have been only seconds. A twitch of
leg, eyes going blank into an endless stare of uncaring death. Oh, he is a
mess. “Hit by a bus” is a cliché, but the reality is awful and quite final,
mercifully. I weep quietly, down on one knee. I know this dog. Sun just up,
it is a cold, still morning. Steam rises from things that shouldn’t know the
open air. His eyes glaze, the dirt road accepts Banner’s blood blankly.
Cradling front paws in one hand, rear in the other, gently I drag him over to
the ditch by his driveway.
Standing, dusting off my knees and looking down, I look away. Away from him,
away from the silent bus with it’s flashing lights on the empty road. Until
now, I’ve been lucky. All my years of driving and swerving
all sorts of vehicles, I’ve never hit a dog. Bus driving is low key, but in the
back of the mind are thoughts of children, other people’s children who trust you
unquestioningly. Bus drivers don’t, bus drivers can’t swerve - not much.
For months we have passed Banner’s house eight times a day. Pick up the big
kids, turn around at the dead end and come back. Later, get the little kids and
the same routine. Then there’s the afternoon runs.
Fortunately this morning it was not the little kids, but the high schoolers who
were on the bus now, looking out the windows at me. I knew it but didn’t look
up, couldn’t. For months Banner has chased us, barking at the wheel,
challenging the big yellow monster to fight or to just leave his protected
territory. Brave Banner, I had asked the kids the dog’s name.
“Please talk to the family, ask them to keep him in. One day he’ll get hit...”
Nothing had changed, of course. So many people will not respond to reasonable
requests, but only to discomfort in their lives.
Stuffing hands into the slash pockets of my bus coat, I walked, crunching gravel
up the short drive to do my duty. Banging on the door and ringing the bell
brought no response. No answer. No one to hear my confession and see my
rimmed, wet eyes. No one to maintain composure for as I described what
happened. I jammed the school’s business card in the door and turned to leave.
There was the bus and all eyes were on me.
Straightening up, I crunched back down the gravel drive. Halfway back to the
bus door I glanced left at raw, crumpled little Banner, then right - away from
him, away from the bus and looked straight at the rising sun and the new day.
Climbing the steps but not looking down the aisle, my knees unlocked and I
plopped into the driver’s seat.
“Are you okay?” the girl behind me asked.
A husky and muted, “No, I’m not” was all I could muster.
“It’s not your fault! He ran right under the front of the bus! You couldn’t
have stopped in time!”
I didn’t care. “Fault” wasn’t on my mind just then. I’d killed an animal.
Many times I’d seen Banner playing in the yard with a little, not yet school age
boy that lived there. I’d killed his friend.
The kids, to their credit sensed my mood and had seen it all unfold. For the
first time ever, the miles long ride to our rural school was in complete
silence. Our old bus felt like a church during a funeral. Driving in
that silence, thoughts harkened back through mists of ancient, unvisited memory
to my dog, when I was a little boy forty three years ago...
“Cousin Douglas” was our collie. As a lad, I sometimes slept on him. Even now
I remember soft fur and warmth. Cousin Douglas would chase me back and forth as
I swung from the long rope swing that hung from a tall tree in our woods.
Sometimes I would ride the old dog like a pony until one day my Dad told me that
I was getting too big for such play, that I would hurt Cousin Douglas. I
remember being mortified at the thought of hurting that old dog, my best
friend. To a child surrounded by the swirling, bewildering
world of adults, Cousin Douglas was always a friend, steady as a rock. When I
talked to him I could look at him, he was just my height. I wasn’t looking at
kneecaps like when I talked to the giants in my world.
Thoughts returned to the present. Banner had chased us over the months but not
for fun. Banner meant it, his barking and demeanor were all business. “Stop
and fight, you big yellow coward!” And “Stay away from my house, from my little
boy” he seemed to say.
Barking, running right out to face me with front legs splayed out side to side,
ready for the fight, this day you won, Banner. You finally stopped the big
yellow monster. Brave, brave dog. Brave to the last. I only wish you knew and
could have seen what a good, brave dog you were. Protecting your home, your
family, your little boy. Do any of us deserve a friend so good, honorable and
true?
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