Ozzy's Lottery

by Frank Talaber

All curled up in a ball, shivering and covered in wet sand. Mom called him Ozzy, after some old rock star who did insane things on stage like bite the heads off bats.

“Shoulda called him Lotto,” Grandma said. “For a poor dog to find some rich folks to live with instead of wandering the beach, I’d say he won the lottery.”

My grandparents said they had no use for a dog. As Mom begged, Ozzy huddled before the fireplace and smiled like he’d just found his home.

“He had the biggest please-take-me-home eyes.” She’d tell me. Mother was ten when Ozzy found her, near her parents’ beach house on Wabamun Lake.

Oddly he became Grandpa’s best friend after his business collapsed. They’d go for long walks on the beach together, Grandpa talking sad and quiet, Ozzy listening. I was glad he was there for him.

Ozzy did things that never made any sense to anyone except me. He had a look on his face like he knew an inside joke that he couldn’t ever tell, since we couldn’t speak dog language.

Ozzy liked making friends, even Bruno, the collie next door, who was king of the beach. He let every dog and most people know it. Bruno constantly chased Ozzy away. But Ozzy persisted, in the end the two became best dog friends. They’d go off doing whatever dog buddies did; have discussions on the best kind of wood for stick chasing, should you hold it in the centre or on one end? How many times should you bring it back before the master gets tired and bored? Or just hang out and smell each others butt, typical doggy topics.

Ozzy was well dusted with gray the first time I met him. I remember putting one arm around his neck and staring him straight in the eye, which isn’t too hard to do at four. I’d found my bestest friend.

Every year I spent my summers on the beach, building sandcastles, Ozzy chasing sticks or splashing in the water, and hotdogs by the town pier.

The nights always ended the same. I’d grab an ice cream cone and we’d sit on the shore, my arm wrapped around Ozzy’s furry neck, watching the sunset.

Ozzy was a good listener, which for a boy with nonstop diarrhea of the mouth was the best kind of friend to have. I was sure Ozzy only listened so he could get his fair share of licks from the ice cream cone. Only his licks were equal to about four of mine, and I always let him eat the cone.

We’d crawl into bed and Grandma or Grandpa would read to Ozzy and me. We’d fall asleep nose-to-nose, even though Ozzy had the worst breath I’d ever smelled. One night Grandma read us a book about angels and how they came into our lives unexpectedly, in many different shapes. I told her I’d never seen an angel but would let her know when I did.

The next year my parents got divorced. All I know it meant was that they were living in different houses, with different people. No matter how hard I tried, when I’d visit one or the other, part of me always seemed to be missing. I wanted them to get back together, but they never did. My grandma said some kids have to grow up faster than others so maybe I was meant to be one of the fastest. Which was okay in certain things like tying your shoes or doing your homework, but not in having parents that aren’t living together.

The world suddenly didn’t make any kind of sense. I didn’t have many friends except for Ozzy. By this time he was an old man in dog-years, going pretty much blind. Still, he’d enough energy to sit with me, eat my ice cream cones, and listen to my ramblings. He listened to a lot that summer.

I was about to go live with my dad. I felt like one of those suitcases sitting in Grandma’s closet. One day I asked Grandma why her suitcases were packed. Ozzy gave me one of his looks.

“You know,” I told her, “If I ever ran away from home it would be here that I’d run to.” She hugged me and cried.

I got up early one morning, dressed myself in my bathrobe and tucked all my toys into its belt. I put on my fireman’s hat, Mom always said I had to wear a helmet whenever I rode my bike. Ozzy watched as I rode down the street.

I passed by Mr. Ryerson’s place, about ten beach houses along. Sitting outside, he called me over.

“Good morning, Danny. I didn’t know you were back here this year. My, you’ve grown. Come on in and let me have a look at ya.”

The fact that he started talking to me was in itself pretty unusual since he didn’t talk to no-one.

He kept asking me to go in and have some Rocky Road ice cream. How did he know it was my favorite? I hesitated, mom always said never to go into a stranger’s house. He wasn’t really a stranger, since he’d lived most of his life on the beach. Grandpa said he was pretty much a loner. Then his voice got mean and he grabbed me.

That man’s touch sent shivers down to my socks, it was like having a zillion spiders crawling all over my skin.

Ozzy appeared from nowhere, barking. He clamped his jaws around the old man’s leg. Nearly tore his ankle off. Mr. Ryerson let me go, screaming blue murder, blood pouring all over his hands. Ozzy stood there between the two of us, snarling like the meanest junkyard dog. Mr. Ryerson threatened to come after me if I ever said anything to anyone.

“Try it,” I hollered back as I got on my bike, “and Ozzy’ll rip your other leg off.”

After that I’d always run by his house as quickly as I could. Whenever I saw him at the town store, Ozzy would get hackles growing on his back and would growl a low growl.

That night I told Ozzy, “I don’t know how you knew I needed help, old buddy, but thanks.” Ozzy, he gave me a lick in return.

A couple years later Grandma found out that Mr. Ryerson liked children, but not in a good way.

Next-door neighbor, Bob, would take us for Sunday barbeques on his boat; which actually was just a flat barge with seats, a giant cooler and a large barbeque. We’d float out to the center of the lake, enjoy hotdogs, steaks and lots of beer. Well, I never had any beer, it kinda tasted like sour bath water after someone had peed in it. Not that I’d ever drank any. But if I did I’d imagine that’s what it would taste like. I’d stick to cream soda, because it would fizz up my nose.

One day Ozzy started barking up a storm. Grandpa told him to be quiet, by now he was nearly blind. I knew he wanted to get on the beach, nearly a mile away. Ozzy, who had never done this before, leapt into the lake and swam a beeline for the shore. When we found him he was sitting there, one paw over the other, staring out at the water with that smile on his face, only sadder than usual.

That evening Bruno’s master came over. “Bruno died last week and while we were having a little ceremony this afternoon Ozzy came splashing out of the lake. He just sat there watching as we threw Bruno’s ashes over the water.”

Every night after, I’d find Ozzy sitting on the beach staring at the spot where they’d spread Bruno’s ashes. That night, like on the many nights when I needed him, I sat down beside him. “It hurts, doesn’t it buddy. Kinda like when my Dad is here and Mom isn’t or the other way around. You know it isn’t going to change, but you keep looking and hoping just the same. Sucks still. Grandpa says nothing stays the same, except change. How could that be possible? But you know what, Oz old pal, I’m beginning to understand.” I hoped my pep talk helped, but Ozzy didn’t even give me a lick, he just sat there, staring.

After that Ozzy’s blindness got worse and he began to have trouble walking.

Two weeks later, Ozzy died.

Dark clouds gathered at the far end of the lake, growing louder and louder as we cremated Ozzy in the same spot as his best friend Bruno. Just before the storm hit, the water stilled and the world seemed to quit breathing. I know I did.

I watched his ashes hit the water. The minnows were skimming around under the surface and I thought they must be eating bits of Ozzy. During the cremation service Grandpa had said something about Ozzy being part of the circle of life. I didn’t care. All I knew was that I’d lost my bestest friend and he’d become fish food.

It wasn’t fair! I wanted to run through the water and scare all the fish away. But if Ozzy had been there, he’d have sat wearing that funny smile of his, knowing nothing could change what happened.

Grandma brought me an ice cream cone as lightning split open the sky. No matter how hard I wished, he wasn’t there. I took a few licks of the ice cream, letting my tears fall into it. Splatters of rain struck the ground and I had to go inside. I left the cone in our spot.

In bed, listening to the crackle of thunder, I reached for Ozzy but of course my hand only groped empty space. I wouldn’t even have minded his bad breath.

In the middle of the night I heard barking and stared out the window. Between the flashes of lightning I swore I saw two dogs playing on the beach. In the morning I told Grandma I’d seen my first angel.

The next morning the storm had washed away all traces of Ozzy. I spotted the remains of the soggy ice cream cone; glad the fish never got all of him. I squinted, a chunk like a bite was missing from it.

I pondered about Grandpa’s circle of life comments staring at that cone with my own Ozzy smile. I knew if he was watching, from up there, he’d recognize that smile and know I knew his secret too.

The next day I was walking the beach and heard weak yelping. I stared into the bushes at this small puppy. “Well then, you’re coming home with me, Lotto.”