Elmo, Dad's Sidekick

Whatever happened to that pie-eating, parade-loving bear of a black lab named Elmo? Better known as Don Bovaird “The Tree Man’s” popular sidekick, Elmo did the rounds with him every day for four years from the back of Don’s 1939 Ford pick-up. “That dog never gets sick or tired of the road,” Don used to say, noting how Elmo played his role as ‘ambassador’ to the hilt, welcoming kids and adults alike to “Elmo’s Place.” They made a good team.

Not everyone who saw Elmo liked him riding in the back of the truck. Always the storyteller, Don used to talk about a woman who once criticized him, “That dog doesn’t even have any water!” Don quipped, “Neither do I and you don’t see me complaining.” Truth be told, that dog was treated better than most kids.

Not all tree climbers appreciated Elmo’s gusto either. Once working on a lake bank, a customer set out a large plate of freshly baked cookies. Don arrived on site. He started talking to the customer. Elmo was given a rare respite from the truck. "Let him run around," the customer invited. Elmo was having a good run when he spied the cookies. That dog gulped every single one of them down. "Ah maan," one worker moaned when he found out. "That's it! Tie 'em up. Let's throw Elmo over the lake bank!" another tree climber threatened in jest. Don shook his head, as he does when he is startled, "Get in the truck, Elmo!" He let down the tailgate and Elmo obediently jumped up. I picture him saying that with a touch of humor in his voice. It was the talk of our dinner table that night.

Dad took Elmo everywhere with him. Dad even made up a dog bed and Elmo slept in the truck at night. The next morning after his morning bathroom run, he'd get back up and they'd be ready to start the rounds again.

After my father passed away, my family thought Elmo should have a different kind of life. A corrections officer that my sister knew fell in love with him, and offered to take him in. She had a farm and other dogs for him to run with. It was a sad day for me when she came to pick him up a a few days after the funeral. It was another drastic change for me. Losing Elmo felt like losing a little more of my father. I wasn't ready to deal with that.

I think my father would be happy to know he's well-cared for, and often gets rides in a large van around town. I call his new owner from time to time to hear about Elmo's adventures with his new pack, and once I even got to see him.

Sometimes I imagine dad driving up to the farm in Cambridge Springs. He'd lower the tail gate of his truck and say in his matter-of-fact way, "Get in, Elmo." Elmo would be wild with excitement to see dad after so long. He'd leave the pack and jump on up into the truck. Their day would continue as if they'd never been apart. I love this scenario. But it does make me teary-eyed.

My father, always practical, would have seen the situation as my family did. Dad always looked forward. He might reminisce but never let sentiment cloud his enjoyment of living each day and appreciating what he could do with it. He moved on.

I'm trying to adopt that attitude.

The Start of a Working Man's Day

Don slipped on his faded blue jean jacket but made no effort to button it. Then he fished his cap off the hook and slapped it on his head, adjusting it against the thick shock of white hair underneath. He made his way up from the cellar to the garage where Elmo stood waiting in the back of the truck. With clumsy, arthritic fingers, he pulled the pin and lowered the tailgate so the dog could jump down. Thrusting himself at Don, Elmo, whose body weight exceeded that of his master, got pushed back. Years of hard work had given Don muscles that even old age and a bum knee could not weaken. He cursed his knee—doctors swore the operation would help—but that just made it worse. Now it always ached like the dickens.

Don slid the can of dog food under the can opener, then turned the can upside down, shaking it until the meat plopped into the dog dish. After gobbling it down, Elmo sprang back into the truck and Don slid the bolt into place, securing the tailgate. Don limped over to the cab of his ’39 Ford pick-up and opened the door. Holding his bad leg straight, he inched his way sideways into the small cab.

The truck started up with its peculiar snorts and huffs. The garage door, itself old, rattled into motion. He grinned. These old things sure lasted. As they got moving, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw how Elmo leaned into the wind, his black ears flapping behind. Don shook his head, amused. With a smile perched on his face, he thought, My pals’ll get a kick out of that. Life is good.

Together, they headed into town. At the stoplight, he honked, Aaoogahh. Nothing like an old horn! His tanned, leathery face broke into an easy grin, as he waved. Everyone knew Don and his little Ford pick-up.

At McDonald’s, Don parked the truck, looking forward to a chat with his car pals. Highlight of my day. He gave the door a good slam to ensure it closed. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed a scowling woman march his way.

“That dog shouldn’t be in the back of the truck. He doesn’t even have any water!”

Don lifted a brow, “Neither do I and you don’t see me complaining.”

“That’s not funny” she bit out the words. “I’m gonna call the cops!”

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe such ridiculousness.

Inside, he ordered his usual—coffee, two creams, two hot apple pies—then slid into the booth where his cronies awaited. Between gulps of coffee, Don reported the exchange that had just taken place outside, drawing laughter and guffaws from the others. “Guess it’s time to go and make a buck,” he sighed.

Outside, he opened the box and tossed Elmo his daily pie ration. Elmo’s tail whipped back and forth in pure joy. “Dumb dog,” he mumbled, affectionately. “Let’s get a move-on.”

This is my father, Don Bovaird. He had a passion for old vehicles, Ford and GMC motors, his dog, McDonalds and the town where we lived. I'll post more about him as we go along.