Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

My sleep had been dressed in pleasant dreams.

I dreamed of an old pal. He thought he was a cross between a pit bull and a Rottweiler, but he was a Chihuahua. How could he not know he was a Chihuahua? He didn’t spend much time in front of the mirror.

I’m a tall drink of water, and Sancho was about the size of my boot. I’d obtained Sancho from a nice woman who wondered why I wanted a dog the size of my head. He fit easily into my coat pocket. I was full-grown at that time, but I like to think that Sancho and I grew up together. He accompanied me on many a photo or birding expedition. I’d had a history of association with cattle dogs. Sancho was a car dog. He went for rides. He didn’t care where, as long as it wasn’t to the veterinarian’s. He was a dauntless adventurer who never complained. He was just as happy to be turning left as he was turning right.

Sancho was my friend. I told him everything. He was a good listener. If he didn’t understand what I was talking about, he cocked his head to one side. That was the way Sancho asked a question. I repeated what I’d said until his head straightened.

He shook a lot and it wasn’t always because he was cold. He had a keen understanding of the world situation. He was the Barney Fife of dogs. He was always wound up and he was self-winding. He barked for good reason and for no reason. He yipped and he yapped. There were more yips than yaps on average. He was my faithful canine companion. I’m a married man. I’m a father. Just by existing, I do things that anger loved ones. Sancho overlooked my many faults. He forgave my stupidity quickly. When I’d come home, he’d bounce about the house, saying in Chihuahuaese, “You’re home! Finally! Don’t go away again. And promise me that you’ll never change because you’re perfect just the way you are.“

We growled at pushy insurance salesmen together. He was more than willing to get all Chihuahua on someone. He thought he could huff and puff and blow a squirrel out of a tree.

Sancho had two superpowers. He could mark his territory all day long and he could make me smile.

This is a heart-touching story about another man owned by a Chihuahua.

When he played basketball in junior high, he wanted to be like Steve. Steve was one of those players who everything seemed to come naturally. He had an ability that others could only dream of having. He never became as good a player as Steve, but when he got himself a Chihuahua, he named the puppy Steve. If he couldn’t be like Steve, maybe his dog could.

He harbored no hopes that Steve the dog would become the canine Michael Jordan, but he liked the name.

Steve became a member of the family, much more appreciated than some other members of the family, like his wife’s twin uncles, Pete and Repete.

A few years later, he, his wife and their three children vacationed in Idaho. They had no map or GPS, so they became lost frequently, but had a great time. Thanks to being lost, they needed to hurry their way home. When they got home and unpacked the car, they discovered that Steve was missing.

The family was devastated. The kids cried until they could produce no more tears. They blamed no one and they blamed everyone. They went back to Idaho and retraced their steps. They searched, put up posters with Steve’s photo on them and offered a reward. They talked to everyone, but to no avail. No Steve. They hoped that because it was Idaho, Steve might be able to live on potatoes. He’d eaten a french fry once.

The family wasn’t the same without Steve.

Three years later to the day, he was watching the 10 o’clock news when there was a scratching sound at the door. It sounded just like the way Steve scratched at the door when he wanted in. He pictured Steve there, wagging his tail. A happy ending. He ran to the door and opened it wide. He looked down.

You won’t believe this, but there on the steps, looking wet, dirty and skinny was something familiar. What were the odds?

A raccoon.

The raccoon ran into the house and dove into the kitchen garbage container.

The man named him Steve.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.