Work in progress

   Out of the mist he strode, purposeful and steady. His face beleaguered and strained as the straps of his pack cut into his shoulders. A black and white dog trotted at his side, a friendly look about him as he moved, his ears bouncing and tongue lolling.The town was visible now. Orange sodium street lights breaking through the murk and fog. Sounds of waking up on the streets, a dog barking, early delivery trucks on the road. He wondered if there was work available here, were strangers welcome, all the things he'd thought about for these interminable four years on the road.

   Tying the young pup to a parking meter and setting out a small bowl of water, he entered the just opening coffee shop. The comfort of taking off the pack evident on his face immediately. As she poured the coffee, the waitress looked at him with amusement and curiosity. "Eggs," he said, "and bacon. Lots of bacon," was his order. Crossing his mind, not for the first time, could he find a place here, happiness, solace, a home.

    "Carol," she introduced herself as she brought his food. Refilling his coffee, she felt drawn to him. "CP," he grunted as he began to eat. The sleeve of his dark green shirt riding up revealing a Trinity tattoo on his forearm. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked. He paused for a moment, putting his fork down, "Is there any work in town?" "What can you do?" "Anything I need to," he said with some conviction. She knew he meant it and was even more curious now about this stranger and his dog.

      Bringing him some bacon wrapped up in a paper towel and a piece of paper, she tells him its for the dog and to see the man on the paper after 9. "You're expected," she says. Laying out money for his bill and tip, thanking her, he takes the bacon out to let the pup eat. As he pulls on his pack, she notices a Celtic cross tattoo on his other forearm. What she didn't notice was the slight bulge at his right hip, a well worn Springfield 1911 hiding there in a brown leather holster. Stepping back into the gloomy fog, he unties the dog and heads up the street disappearing.

      Walking, boots nearly noiseless in the early gloom, he searches for the address on the paper. Towns this small are easy, he thinks. Touching the gun at his hip almost imperceptibly, he is reminded of the day 5 years ago when he first used the gift from a friend in anger. It's bluing now worn bright and the rosewood grips becoming smooth, it will always carry the memories of that fall day.

      The dog catches a scent on the air causing him to growl, his hackles standing up. Being his companion for so long, the man knows to be wary. The dog is smart, friendly and playful but overall, protective and cautious. On more than one occasion he's alerted the man to danger, today may be no different. He slips his hand under his shirt and grips the .45 only to see the outline of a police officer through the mist. "Hello officer," he says to the cop as they close the distance between them. "Is it always this foggy around here?" Small town LEOs are always best treated friendly and cautiously. That's one of those hard earned bits of information he'll not soon forget.