It was Thanksgiving Day. A cold wet wind howled at a small camping trailer as if it might devour the old trailer at any moment, but the sole human occupant showed little concern. The ambient light of an early morning dawn made its way into the tiny kitchen where Grayson Dickson was concerning himself with the making of a half pot of coffee using a portable propane burner and an old-fashioned drip coffee pot. Grayson had retrieved both the burner and the coffee pot a few months ago at a summer yard sale at the cost of fifty cents each.
“Glad to cut a vet a break,” the plump lady at the yard sale had said as she discounted both items for Grayson.
Most anyone that took a close look at Grayson would guess he was a vet, a Vietnam vet to be specific, based upon his appeared age and from the tattoos on his arms that referenced the Vietnam War, not to mention several bullet scars covering his upper torso and legs.
“Where did you get that cute little dog,” the yard sale lady had asked him, nodding at the tan and white Pomeranian that Grayson held in one hand while sifting through the yard sale items with the other.
“Oh, this is Puff. She was my daughter’s dog,” Grayson replied and took a moment to scratch the top of Puff’s little head.
The yard sale lady let out a little giggle, “Just looks a little bizarre; a big brawny fellow like you with such a petite little dog.”
Grayson smiled, “Yes ma’am. Bizarre.” Grayson thought about that word bizarre and an old faded image of a human head hitting him in the chest, the detached head of his buddy, Duke McCray, being blown off its body by a Vietcong land mine. Now that looked bizarre lady, thought Grayson, especially since the head was still smoking a cigarette as it rolled off his chest. Grayson shook his head and blinked his eyes trying to clear an onslaught of other, even more disturbing images. The lady’s voice came at him again, a welcomed distraction.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what circumstances led to…”
Grayson interrupted, “My daughter is dead ma’am. Died a few months ago from…”, Grayson’s voice trailed off to another set of disturbing images – a beautiful young lady in a casket, well dressed men and women avoiding him, not speaking to him, whispering about him. “He’s crazy” he heard someone say.
The coffee brewing, Grayson hand fed Puff a few bits of left over fish sticks from last night’s supper. “Just you and me this year, Puff, but we’ll have a swell time with our chicken pot pies”. Puff licked the fingers that fed her. She had a good friend in Grayson and Grayson in her.