Surely this is his second favorite time of the day. First would be the evenings out on the ranch, when the entire family sits on the front porch. In second place, these cool and breezy mornings when the sun rises to feel so nice against Hercules’s oil coated fur.
As he stands with his four sturdy legs on the concrete sidewalk, his eyes scan the many cats and kittens romping about. The early birds continue to chirp overhead and the moos of fat brown cows reverberate through the vast land surrounding the yard. In the distance, car sounds serve as a reminder of the modern world that is so different from the life Hercules knows.
The youngest daughter of the family, the one he sees so seldom, sits outside this morning on the swing. Always friendly and caring, Hercules walks slowly over to her. The weight of his huge body puts much pressure on his joints and tendons as one rough paw steps in front of the other. He does not run across the hundreds of acres of pastures as he did when he was younger. Now he is an old, sick dog.
Close enough to see her clearly, Hercules’s face forms what can only be a smile. His thick tail swings back and forth with the weight and speed of a pendulum ticking away the sands of time.
Because he wants to say hello and have a silent yet meaningful conversation, he sticks his massive head into the daughter’s personal space. Tail still wagging, his eyes gleam so bright in the warming sun. She pets him; she talks to him; he responds through unspoken words.
After a few minutes of the attention, she goes back to reading her book and Hercules walks away. He strolls a few feet and then curls his head and neck around to look at her. Small black nodules dot the sagging skin of his hound dog lips, as well as larger ones all over his body. His stomach, the biggest it has ever been, protrudes like a fully rounded tomato. Inside of Hercules, the thick and mighty fluid of disease runs in and out of his cells, his blood and his bones.
As he looks back at the daughter, she glances up from her reading. His eyes find hers to connect through an unexplainable magnetism. Though he is a Red Bone Hound, Hercules becomes a human as he and the daughter begin to communicate. She knows about the cancer. He knows that she understands. With her big, brown eyes stuck on his, she tells him she loves him and that it will be okay. He says yes, yes it will. Then he looks away from her and looks at the ground.
He carries his faltering body and tired soul over to the soft mat by the front door. He plops down, stomach dragging him towards the innards of the earth. He rests his head and his eyes remain open to watch over the ranch. Twelve years ago, Hercules was born on this land and soon he will be dead, buried with the dry Texas soil underneath an old oak tree.
