The Return of Beau Geste

It was hard to say good-bye to Beau.

He'd been eight weeks old when we brought him home and decided to name him after a character in my husband's favorite movie. Fourteen years later, that little bag of wrinkles and paws had grown into a golden Great Dane prince and become my constant companion and familiar, sleeping under the covers at the foot of our bed, scarcely ever more than an arm's length away. He helped carry in firewood, accompanied me on my morning run, allowed himself to be a pillow and yoga mat for our two tabby cats.

His longevity defied statistics and his passing was peaceful. His presence had been a wonderful gift and he left a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound hole in our lives when he died.

We were dogless for a year. Even though we agreed that a house is just an empty box without a dog -- or two or three -- we just couldn't bring ourselves to invite someone into our home. Somehow it felt disloyal to Beau's memory, and it would unfair to any new-comer to expect him or her to fill Beau's pawprints.

In July, my husband was away overnight at a workshop. It was the first time I'd slept all alone in several decades. I'd left ajar the French doors that open out onto the deck of our second-story bedroom, hoping for a breeze to relieve the oppressive heat and ease a restless night. I must have just dozed off when I felt the cold edge of the knife at the side of my neck and heard the hoarse voice whisper, "If you fight, I'll kill you."

I fought anyway.

It's a blur in my memory now. I have just an impression of the young man's face, his lifeless blue eyes, the glint of the knife reflecting the soft light from the bedroom hallway, hearing the crunch of my jaw slamming shut as he smashed his fist into my face.

In spite of my best efforts, the world spun wildly out of control, and I couldn't make it stop, couldn't claw my way back to consciousness. My husband had been a boxer. Now I knew what it felt like to get knocked out. Darkness closed in on me like the iris in a silent movie. As it did I could hear my assailant growling and slavering like an animal...

I awoke to silence.

I had no idea how much time had passed or what had happened to me in the interim. I wobbled to my feet, my jaws throbbing, found the phone and dialed "911." When the police arrived, I told one officer what had happened while another went off to have a look around our house. A moment later, from the back yard, he yelled up to his colleague to call for an ambulance.

The intruder was lying on the ground where he'd fallen from our deck, suffering a broken leg, a broken back and a concussion. I understand he's now permanently paralyzed from the waist down. Apparently, this young man had broken into homes and raped at least seven women. He was perfectly willing to confess in order to receive a lighter sentence.

What was most interesting though, was what he'd said about selecting his victims. He insisted that he'd never have come to our house if he'd known we had "that big fuckin' dog." He described Beau in detail and recounted that "that monster" had leaped at him, lips curled back in that rare-but-unforgettable Beau Geste snarl, and had sent him back-peddling with sufficient energy to catapult himself over the deck railing.

You and I both know that this is impossible, of course.

But why would the man make up such a story? And how could he describe Beau so perfectly, down to his uncropped ears, and the white hair on his muzzle?

I discussed this at length with my husband, whose Lakota Indian heritage often gives him quite a different view of things.

"What do you think happened?" I asked him.

"What do you think happened?"

" I think it was Beau," I admitted hesitantly.

He replied with a nod and one of his maddeningly indecipherable smiles, and kissed me on the top of my head.

A short time after that, we brought home a knew puppy, a German Shepherd whom my husband immediately named "Jack." Jack's his own dog, not a replacement for Beau. Because I think Beau's never really going to be gone, not from our home, not from our hearts, not from this mysterious and beautiful world.

sj