August...
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 "A Boy and His Dog" (Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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The Dog Called "Hey You"...
"The July Static" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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Friday mornings at Bean & Birch always began the same way.
The first mugs of coffee were poured before the sun had climbed above the rooftops of Lone Pine. Maren moved easily behind the counter while Lucy greeted customers as though they were family returning home. By nine o'clock the regulars had gathered around the big round table by the windows overlooking Main Street.
Tom was halfway through a cinnamon roll.
Sam was studying the grain in a piece of maple he'd tucked beneath his arm.
Martha had a notebook open, though she hadn't written a word.
Even Toby, who usually had a joke waiting before he'd sat down, seemed content simply to sip his coffee.
It was Erica who finally broke the comfortable silence.
"You all remember Harold, don't you?"
Everyone nodded.
Harold Jensen had lived in Lone Pine for nearly fifty years. He had spent most of them as a carpenter, building porches, restoring old barns, repairing whatever needed fixing. He had buried his wife, Eleanor, three summers earlier. Since then he had continued tending the gardens she'd planted behind their little white house, saying simply, "She loved August. The least I can do is keep her flowers blooming."
Every Friday morning Harold stopped at Bean & Birch for the same order.
One large black coffee.
One cinnamon roll.
Every single time he'd grin and declare, "This thing's much too big."
Every single time he finished every crumb.
Tom smiled.
"I remember."
"So do I," Martha said softly.
Erica wrapped both hands around her coffee mug.
"Well...this happened last August."
August had settled over the northwoods with its familiar warmth.
The tomatoes in Harold's garden were beginning to blush red. Rows of beans climbed their poles. Sunflowers stood like cheerful sentries along the fence, while sprawling pumpkin vines stretched broad green leaves across the rich black soil.
By afternoon the cicadas hummed steadily in the old oak trees.
Harold preferred working early, but every day after lunch he'd carry a folding chair beneath the maple beside the pumpkin patch, where there was always a little breeze.
One especially hot afternoon he heard something rustle beneath the leaves.
At first he thought it was a rabbit.
Then a frightened little face appeared.
A scruffy tan-and-white dog.
Thin.
Dusty.
One ear stood up while the other folded over.
The little fellow froze.
Harold froze too.
They regarded one another for a long moment.
Finally Harold smiled.
"Well now..."
The dog disappeared back beneath the leaves.
Harold chuckled.
"I wasn't planning on chasing you."
He went inside and returned with a bowl of cool water.
He set it near the edge of the pumpkin patch and walked away.
The next morning the bowl was empty.
For several days they repeated the same quiet ritual.
Fresh water.
A little food.
No sudden movements.
No expectations.
Gradually the dog began waiting where Harold could see him.
Then one afternoon Harold was eating a ripe peach beneath the maple.
The juice dripped down his fingers.
He noticed the little dog watching with enormous hopeful eyes.
Harold laughed.
"I suppose sharing one peach won't hurt either of us."
He offered a slice.
The dog took it gently.
Another slice.
Another.
Before long they were sitting together beneath the maple while the cicadas sang and dragonflies darted above the garden.
Neither seemed in any hurry to leave.
A week later Harold looked down at his quiet companion.
"I can't keep calling you 'Dog.'"
The little fellow tilted his head.
Harold thought for a long moment.
"You know..."
He scratched behind one floppy ear.
"I guess until I think of something better..."
"...you'll be Hey You."
The little tail began wagging.
And somehow...
The name stayed.
Every morning...
"Morning, Hey You."
Every afternoon...
"C'mon, Hey You."
Every evening...
"Guess we'd better water the tomatoes, Hey You."
Soon half the town knew the little dog.
Children waved.
Neighbors laughed.
"Morning, Harold!"
"Morning, Hey You!"
It became impossible to imagine one without the other.
One Saturday Harold walked past the bulletin board outside the grocery store.
There, curling around the edges from weeks in the summer sun, hung a faded flyer.
LOST DOG
His heart sank.
The picture was unmistakable.
Hey You.
He quietly copied the phone number.
That evening he made the call.
Three days later an old pickup eased into Harold's driveway.
A woman climbed out slowly, leaning on a cane.
She looked tired.
Very tired.
Harold met her by the gate.
"I think..."
His voice caught.
"I think I have your dog."
She nodded.
"I've been hoping someone kind had found him."
Harold opened the gate.
"Hey You!"
The little dog came racing around the corner.
The moment he saw the woman he barked happily and bounded toward her.
She knelt with difficulty.
"Oh, Oliver..."
She buried her face against his neck.
Harold quietly looked away.
Then something unexpected happened.
Oliver trotted back to Harold.
Then back to the woman.
Then back again.
His tail wagged furiously as though trying to tell them something they hadn't yet understood.
The woman watched him for a long moment.
Tears slipped quietly down her cheeks.
"I suppose..." she whispered, "...he's already made his choice."
Harold shook his head immediately.
"Oh, no."
"He's yours."
She smiled sadly.
"Maybe once."
She rested a hand on Oliver's head.
"I'm moving into assisted living next week."
"They don't allow dogs."
"I've spent every day since he disappeared praying someone good would find him."
She looked toward Harold's flourishing garden.
The pumpkins.
The tomatoes.
The flowers Eleanor had planted years before.
"I think my prayer was answered."
From her pocket she removed a worn leather collar.
The brass buckle had been polished smooth by years of loving hands.
She placed it gently into Harold's palm.
"Would you..."
"...take care of my boy?"
Harold looked down at the little dog sitting quietly beside him.
Then back at the woman.
"I promise."
She smiled through her tears.
"I know you will."
Erica paused.
Outside Bean & Birch the August sunshine spilled across Main Street.
No one around the table spoke.
Finally Tom glanced toward the window.
"There they are."
Everyone looked.
Harold was walking slowly down the sidewalk, a grocery bag in one hand.
Trotting happily beside him was a scruffy little tan-and-white dog wearing an old leather collar.
Every few steps Harold would glance down.
Every few steps Hey You would glance back up.
Neither seemed able to stop smiling.
Erica lifted her mug.
"You know," she said quietly, "everyone thought Harold rescued that little dog."
She watched them disappear beneath the shade of the old maples.
"The truth is..."
"I think Hey You rescued Harold."
No one disagreed.
Even Toby couldn't find a joke.
Outside, the cicadas sang their timeless August song while two old friends walked home together, each certain they had somehow become the luckier one.
And perhaps they both had.
~Wylddane
The first mugs of coffee were poured before the sun had climbed above the rooftops of Lone Pine. Maren moved easily behind the counter while Lucy greeted customers as though they were family returning home. By nine o'clock the regulars had gathered around the big round table by the windows overlooking Main Street.
Tom was halfway through a cinnamon roll.
Sam was studying the grain in a piece of maple he'd tucked beneath his arm.
Martha had a notebook open, though she hadn't written a word.
Even Toby, who usually had a joke waiting before he'd sat down, seemed content simply to sip his coffee.
It was Erica who finally broke the comfortable silence.
"You all remember Harold, don't you?"
Everyone nodded.
Harold Jensen had lived in Lone Pine for nearly fifty years. He had spent most of them as a carpenter, building porches, restoring old barns, repairing whatever needed fixing. He had buried his wife, Eleanor, three summers earlier. Since then he had continued tending the gardens she'd planted behind their little white house, saying simply, "She loved August. The least I can do is keep her flowers blooming."
Every Friday morning Harold stopped at Bean & Birch for the same order.
One large black coffee.
One cinnamon roll.
Every single time he'd grin and declare, "This thing's much too big."
Every single time he finished every crumb.
Tom smiled.
"I remember."
"So do I," Martha said softly.
Erica wrapped both hands around her coffee mug.
"Well...this happened last August."
August had settled over the northwoods with its familiar warmth.
The tomatoes in Harold's garden were beginning to blush red. Rows of beans climbed their poles. Sunflowers stood like cheerful sentries along the fence, while sprawling pumpkin vines stretched broad green leaves across the rich black soil.
By afternoon the cicadas hummed steadily in the old oak trees.
Harold preferred working early, but every day after lunch he'd carry a folding chair beneath the maple beside the pumpkin patch, where there was always a little breeze.
One especially hot afternoon he heard something rustle beneath the leaves.
At first he thought it was a rabbit.
Then a frightened little face appeared.
A scruffy tan-and-white dog.
Thin.
Dusty.
One ear stood up while the other folded over.
The little fellow froze.
Harold froze too.
They regarded one another for a long moment.
Finally Harold smiled.
"Well now..."
The dog disappeared back beneath the leaves.
Harold chuckled.
"I wasn't planning on chasing you."
He went inside and returned with a bowl of cool water.
He set it near the edge of the pumpkin patch and walked away.
The next morning the bowl was empty.
For several days they repeated the same quiet ritual.
Fresh water.
A little food.
No sudden movements.
No expectations.
Gradually the dog began waiting where Harold could see him.
Then one afternoon Harold was eating a ripe peach beneath the maple.
The juice dripped down his fingers.
He noticed the little dog watching with enormous hopeful eyes.
Harold laughed.
"I suppose sharing one peach won't hurt either of us."
He offered a slice.
The dog took it gently.
Another slice.
Another.
Before long they were sitting together beneath the maple while the cicadas sang and dragonflies darted above the garden.
Neither seemed in any hurry to leave.
A week later Harold looked down at his quiet companion.
"I can't keep calling you 'Dog.'"
The little fellow tilted his head.
Harold thought for a long moment.
"You know..."
He scratched behind one floppy ear.
"I guess until I think of something better..."
"...you'll be Hey You."
The little tail began wagging.
And somehow...
The name stayed.
Every morning...
"Morning, Hey You."
Every afternoon...
"C'mon, Hey You."
Every evening...
"Guess we'd better water the tomatoes, Hey You."
Soon half the town knew the little dog.
Children waved.
Neighbors laughed.
"Morning, Harold!"
"Morning, Hey You!"
It became impossible to imagine one without the other.
One Saturday Harold walked past the bulletin board outside the grocery store.
There, curling around the edges from weeks in the summer sun, hung a faded flyer.
LOST DOG
His heart sank.
The picture was unmistakable.
Hey You.
He quietly copied the phone number.
That evening he made the call.
Three days later an old pickup eased into Harold's driveway.
A woman climbed out slowly, leaning on a cane.
She looked tired.
Very tired.
Harold met her by the gate.
"I think..."
His voice caught.
"I think I have your dog."
She nodded.
"I've been hoping someone kind had found him."
Harold opened the gate.
"Hey You!"
The little dog came racing around the corner.
The moment he saw the woman he barked happily and bounded toward her.
She knelt with difficulty.
"Oh, Oliver..."
She buried her face against his neck.
Harold quietly looked away.
Then something unexpected happened.
Oliver trotted back to Harold.
Then back to the woman.
Then back again.
His tail wagged furiously as though trying to tell them something they hadn't yet understood.
The woman watched him for a long moment.
Tears slipped quietly down her cheeks.
"I suppose..." she whispered, "...he's already made his choice."
Harold shook his head immediately.
"Oh, no."
"He's yours."
She smiled sadly.
"Maybe once."
She rested a hand on Oliver's head.
"I'm moving into assisted living next week."
"They don't allow dogs."
"I've spent every day since he disappeared praying someone good would find him."
She looked toward Harold's flourishing garden.
The pumpkins.
The tomatoes.
The flowers Eleanor had planted years before.
"I think my prayer was answered."
From her pocket she removed a worn leather collar.
The brass buckle had been polished smooth by years of loving hands.
She placed it gently into Harold's palm.
"Would you..."
"...take care of my boy?"
Harold looked down at the little dog sitting quietly beside him.
Then back at the woman.
"I promise."
She smiled through her tears.
"I know you will."
Erica paused.
Outside Bean & Birch the August sunshine spilled across Main Street.
No one around the table spoke.
Finally Tom glanced toward the window.
"There they are."
Everyone looked.
Harold was walking slowly down the sidewalk, a grocery bag in one hand.
Trotting happily beside him was a scruffy little tan-and-white dog wearing an old leather collar.
Every few steps Harold would glance down.
Every few steps Hey You would glance back up.
Neither seemed able to stop smiling.
Erica lifted her mug.
"You know," she said quietly, "everyone thought Harold rescued that little dog."
She watched them disappear beneath the shade of the old maples.
"The truth is..."
"I think Hey You rescued Harold."
No one disagreed.
Even Toby couldn't find a joke.
Outside, the cicadas sang their timeless August song while two old friends walked home together, each certain they had somehow become the luckier one.
And perhaps they both had.
~Wylddane