“Archie” By Trisha O’Keefe

“Archie”

By Trisha O’Keefe

Archie looked like a mistake. He wasn’t a hunting dog—long-eared, keen nose, and vocal cords like a gospel choir. He was pigeon-toed in front and spraddle-legged in back; the kind of dog that made you laugh just looking at him. His eyes were slightly crossed, his tail arched at an angle, and his ears didn’t match. One went up and the other down and then they would change places as if they couldn’t make up their minds which one should be on top.

          But Archie had heart. He was a scrapper and could hold his own in a yard fight. He would wag that crooked tail if you just looked at him, let alone spoke a kind word. He would do a little dance on those bowed hind legs for treats, the picture of ecstasy at such attention. He was used to being ignored.

          I forgot to mention Archie was a stray. Tossed from a car on a country highway, he wandered into our yard limping with a torn ear. Probably some fox thought this little mutt would make fine eating or a coyote pack approached him with the same thought in mind.  In spite of being slightly worse for wear, there he was at suppertime, wagging that crooked tail.  You can’t do much with an animal like that but love him.

          Archie had been abused, it was plain in the way he shied when you raised your hand too fast. He was particularly afraid of feet, being on the same level as they were and no doubt on the hurtful end of some kicks. Little dogs get underfoot sometimes. He therefore would growl at your feet and make a pre-emptive strike if you got too close.

          Archie was with us only a short while when he saved the church. It was a stormy night; the worst lightening we had seen all summer. All the dogs were asleep in a pile except him.  His crossed eyes were wide open and his ears moved up and down with each thunder clap. He seemed to sense something was going to happen. We don’t know why, but all of sudden, he started scratching at the door to go out. You see, Archie hadn’t grown accustomed yet to three squares and pigs’ ears treats. He often had to go charging out in the middle of the night, so someone  opened the screen door and off he went as if he were on a mission.

          We never saw him alive again. Apparently, he raced down to the village in that raging storm. A lightening strike had set the roof of the wooden church ablaze and the choir was inside, oblivious to anything but making a joyful noise when in rushed Archie, yapping insanely. Now we had put a collar on Archie, but no tags. He’d had the requisite shots, though we kept the tags at home, just in case they got lost. Nevertheless, he cleared out that church in a heartbeat before the fire even burned down to the first beam. He gave every appearance of a rabid dog.

          Then he raced back to the volunteer fire station to see if they were doing their job. They were, climbing on the ladder truck and heading toward the burning church. The volunteers came flying in their trucks, a flashing red light on their dashboards. One of them hit Archie in the pouring rain; we don’t know which one. It doesn’t much matter.

          We found our little hero by the side of the road, just a small grey mound of fur. The fireman held a service for Archie and made him posthumously a member of the volunteer fire crew. They even buried him in the churchyard behind some rosebushes. Somebody made a little headstone. It said “Archie of the Julia Springs Volunteer Fire Crew. Big heart. Little Dog. Died saving the church. We’ll Miss You, Archie.”

          Archie would have loved all that attention. I just hope there are pig’s ears up in heaven.       http://www.loiaconoliteraryagency.com/authors/trisha-okeefe/