DAN BELL

I am 82, a retired lawyer educated at the University of Wisconsin, husband of the delightful Ms Chris, and father of two smart and happy daughters, Colleen and Lara. I've been fortunate. I've flown my own plane, sailed my own boat, and successfully tried cases to a jury. I've enjoyed my life, physically and intellectually .I'm now learning that advancing age withers has my body and my mind. I can no longer do any of these activities.

I keep the old man away by hiking, writing, and developing ideas like oldegoats.com.

I have no regrets. 

                                                                                                  BLUE HERON 

I sat at the stern lost in the moment as the blue heron approached my slip.

 It folded itself into an origami

 And slid into my shirt pocket like a slick magician slipping a card up her sleeve. 

We stared beak -to-beak like old friends astonished to be alive. 

The heron winked twice. 

And flew into the sunrise.

Dan Bell

***

Clam Dog

I went on clamming, not paying the couple any mind. Beneath four inches of water, my feet burrowed through the black mud like pieces of miniature construction equipment. My toes clawed past shell fragments, small stones and who knows what else, until they blindly bumped into a clam. They covered it quickly, as if it might escape with a tricky maneuver, and waited for Buddy. 

As soon as I stopped, he launched himself at the ripples from a yard away and landed my feet with a soaking splash. I felt my way around the dog's legs bending over far enough that his tongue joyously had its way with my face. He plunged his snout next to my hand as I dug out the clam. I slid it between his jaws, and he exploded out of the water, his face dripping with icky muck. He raced flat out around an imaginary short track, giving each clan the ride of its sedentary life before dropping it in my gunny sack

Our way amused the locals who wore rotting tennis shoes and used rakes and buckets, harvesting the flats as methodically as I had my garden up north. I'll take credit for the dog part of our method, but not the foot part. Another transplant taught me that my first season here, three years ago, 

Clamming in bare feet is about as far from managing a high-end exotic gift store as fried fish is from tiramisu. I came down here to get away from time management and organization, from gold cards and designer checks, and most of all, from my customers who tortured me with their whiny and capricious demands. 

Buddy came with the trailer I rented six months ago. He had the sharp face of a collie, the long legs of a hound, the barrel body of a terrier, and the and a white coat splotched with rust. Best of Show, he definitely wasn't. But I'll say this, when he was people watching from the pickup bed, hardly anyone went by without smiling at him. For me, for me, it was like waking up with the Clown Prince of happiness each morning and that wasn't all bad.

He took right too clamming.

 I first spotted the couple when I heard Buddy stop partway through one of his victory  loops. They were walking toward the shore from the black SUV. With the live oaks and the blue sky in the background, it looked like a TV car ad, and I wanted the remote. It's not that I didn't like them. I didn't know them. How could I not like them? It's like it's that they looked like the kind of people who came into my store and drove me crazy with their mindless wanting, you know what I'm saying?

Buddy and I kept at it until we had enough clams in the sack that that I couldn't hold it one handed without my arm aching. I grabbed buddy good by the collar as I started in. I imagined, with admitted pleasure, what my dog would do to her soft yellow slacks and his white shorts, but I knew these people couldn't be trusted to consider muddy paw prints part of a day at the beach day and simply toss the clothes into the washer. 

They met me at the parking lot . I walked doubled over, hanging on to Buddy. Every time he jerked, the clams slammed into my full kidneys. I was hungry, thirsty, and the no-see-ums played in the pools of sweat in my ears. 

“How does he do that?” The man said.

Those words make no sense to me. 

He tried again, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “How can your dog find the clams?”

Bingo. I saw his thought process as clear is a three-ball combination shot at the Silver Bullet. 

“Does he see the clams under the water?

“Don't know if he sees them, smells them, or hears them. All I know is that he gets them. More here than I can eat. You want to buy some?”

The woman made a face. 

“Roast’em, ma’am.  Better than oysters some say, 

“What kind of dog is it? He said, a little too eager.” 

Selling is like fishing. When they hit, you want to get your tip of your pole up right now, I balanced on one leg and shook some pebbles off my other sandal. I let him watch my back for a few steps, and then answered over my shoulder, ”clam dog.” 

“Clam dog? Never heard of it.” 

“Not many around, True name is East Carolina Spotted Clam Dog. Call them clam dog or clammers. This one's Buddy.

 Buddy woofed and tossed his head, sending a streak of saliva at the man at the man's deck shoes.

 “Nice meeting you folks,” I said,” gotta go”

 “Wai,” the man said. “Is he for sale?”

 I was speechless with desperation. I dropped the clams, chained buddy to the pickup bed,  positioned myself on the other side of the truck, and unzipped my fly. 

 “Excuse me, ma'am.”

She turned away from what I didn’t know, since she couldn't see below my face. He stayed right there and actually kept quiet until I was done. This gave me time to think of those pups from Willie's bitch that buddy could have fathered.

Relieved, I asked, “Wait, what did you ask me again,

“Your dog? Is he for sale? 

“Buddy? Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t. Best clam dog in the county two years running. Gonna make it three, aren't we? Buddy.”  I pulled his short floppy ear through my hands. Must have felt like a massage to him because it always made his eyes shine, and his tongue hang out. 

 “I don't suppose you know of one for sale.”

“ Hey, that's a hard one. Not a lot of them around, and mostly the pups get passed on to family,” I said, shaking my head.” no, I can't think of a one. I'm afraid.”

“ Great dog you've got there.” 

“Thank you. Y’all take care here.

I busied myself around the truck, watching out of the corner of the eye as they went back to their vehicle. He jabbed his gadget at the car to beam up the locks. The noise seemed more out of place than fireworks at church. I knew where he was coming from. I remember being so tightly wound when I first got down here that I might have felt compelled to lock it up in such a beautiful, peaceful place with no one around except an aging man and his dog. I almost let him  go, out of pity .Almost. I waited until she was in the car before I jogged up to them.

“Mister, sir. Hey, wait. I just remembered Willie's bitch has pups. Two are spoken for, but I don't know about the rest,” 

“Clam dogs?” He said real natural, which told me had swallowed the hook. 

“Yes, sir, bred her to Buddy. They all want him.‘em. You know what I mean? Can't imagine how I forgot.”

“ How much/” 

Don't know. Like I said, don't know if they're all promised. Give me a number and I'll check and get back with you.”

 He gave me an embossed card that identified  Keith the investment banker, and I knew then that I had no reason to show mercy.

 “I'm Bob,” and held out my hand .”Do they have clams in Pittsburgh, or do you have a place down here?

“No, not yet.”

I didn't know if he meant no clams, no place, or both.  I did know it didn't matter to him, Neither he nor she was about to play footsie in the black mug. He wanted the dog for the same reason that men hunt polar bears from airplanes. I told him I'd let him know in a couple of days and that we could work out the details I knew that I better cover one more angle.

“Let me tell you about papers. We do things a little different down here. No AKC. A clam dog comes with a paper that names its mama, daddy, granddaddy and so on. Willie's bitch is named Daisy. So, all you get is a paper that says your dog, whatever you call it, is out of Daisy by Buddy, That Buddy's daddy was Rufus. Goes way back. Understand?” 

Keith nodded. “When will you talk to Willie?” 

“Couple days.” 

“Can't you call now?”

“ No, got to take care of these clams, and he's probably fishing. Couple of days. I'll call you.” 

“Think one might be still available?” 

“Maybe, been a few weeks since I talked to him.”. Buddy barked twice. “Got to go. Have a good one.” 

I left Buddy at the truck happily gnawing on rib bones and went into the Bullet for a beer. Willie happened to be there along with Claire and Ed and a couple of other men I didn't know. Willie said he had two left and what I want with another dog. It wasn't long after I started telling my clam dog scheme that I that I saw them drift back to the ball game on television. 

“More work than it's worth. Seems like’” Willie said

“Save me one,” I said

I wanted a couple days and a couple days extra to keep a sharp edge on Keith, The message on his machine had all kinds of auxiliary numbers for him, but I wasn't getting on that merry go round, and I left a message to call me right away if he wanted a claim dog, 

Within an hour, his secretary’s call brought me in from the yard. She told me Mr. Midwick was out of town on business, but he had left instructions to tell me that he was very interested, and to get the price

 “Nine fifty.” 

“Nine hundred fifty?”

“ Yes, ma'am. Cash.” 

Her tone said that she wouldn't pay that for any dog. It was right in the middle of the price range for exotic dogs that my sister in Chicago gave me. I liked where I was at. Either he buys and I've got money toward a new outboard, or he doesn't, and I'm out nothing. I hadn't been back in the yard for five minutes when the phone rang again. I half expected it to be Keith, but it was Willie with some game-changing news. If I wanted the pup, I had to come get it right now, because it was otherwise it was going to his wife's nephew. 

The pup was too small to get in the truck bed with Buddy. I spread newspapers on the floor of the passenger side. He was all brown and white, fuzz and paws and drool and too rolly-polly to pull himself up onto the seat. I drove with my left foot on the gas, my right stretched out as a barricade. He contentedly straddled my shoe and chewed my sock. But Buddy was going crazy, yelping and raking the top of the cab with his nails. What could I do except bring him inside? You know what I'm saying. Good thing I lived close, because all the way home, I had one end of Buddy or the other in my face, and the pup wetting my leg in excitement.

When I opened the door, Buddy shot across me like I was nothing, and the pup followed under my leg, falling out of the truck. He barely got to his feet, and Buddy raced by giving him a pub a playful nuzzle, sending him tail over toenails. No one was getting hurt, so I went inside to change my pants and get some lunch. When I came back, Buddy was lying in the shade of the shed with the pup sprawled on top of him

From the day we got home until the day Keith called, I don't think they were apart. I could honestly tell Keith that his dog was healthy, full of energy and showed all the attributes of a fine clam dog. I expected him to say he'd be down right now to pick it up. When I think about it, I realize that this expectation meant I had changed, because his reaction was exactly what I had left behind.

 First, he wanted me to fax him the dog's lineage. I had to make it up, get a neighbor kid to put it up, on her computer which cost me a boat ride, and pay two bucks in town to have it sent. Then all he wanted to pay was seven fifty. We split the difference. Next, he wanted pictures of the parents FedExed. I balked because of the cost, and he said the photos should close the deal. But they didn't. Finally, he wanted to return the dog if it didn't work out, wanted me to pay transportation costs, and wanted me to reduce the price again. I told him I was going clamming and would get back to him that evening.

  I had pretty well, decided to look at it like dog out, money in, and not to think about Keith’s scheming. I told myself: everybody made out. The dog got a home, Keith could brag about having the only clam dog in Pittsburgh. I got a few  bucks and a good story about how I put it to some smart guy from up north, 

His last call came the day that I had promised clams to the Sea Shack Restaurant. I tossed the pup in the bed with Buddy on the drive to the clam bed Buddy went over the side of the truck as soon as I stopped, and  the pup followed before I could catch him. He winced as his legs collapsed and he hit the ground hard with his belly he grunted and went into the water after Buddy, 

I used to rake to save time, dragging it through the mud with quick strokes. I wasn't thinking about much except Keith’s call, you know what I'm saying. Twice I yelled at Buddy when he stuck his nose into the water next to my hand. The third time I swatted his flank. It was the first time I ever hit him. He yelped and curled his body, tucking his tail between his legs.,

 “Go on. Get out of here,” I said, flicking the rake at him. 

 I watched Buddy haul himself to shore like he had eaten something awful. He nosed a circle next to the pickup and collapsed, ignoring the pup who clambered, nipping and yipping over his wet body. He wouldn't look at me when I sat down on the gunny sack of clams, I scratched his ears. He didn't move.

I went to the water. When I first moved down here, darn near every day I watched the high water submerge the rows of slate-grey rocks that for a short time, then recede leaving lichen brilliant-green and slippery. Nothing disturbs the tides rhythm: not faces, not phone calls, not the chance to make a deal, not revenge, not anger, not jealousy. I thought of Keith and his never-ending list of wants. Maybe that's why he lives in Pittsburgh, and I live here .Without the tide, there’d be no clams, and without the clams, there’d be no clam dogs. 

I dug a couple out of the sack and held one in front of each dog's nose.

“Come on, Buddy, we've got some teaching to do.  

Published in Louisiana Literature, Vol. 15, No. 2. Fall 1998