A story of loss and kindness during the Great War.

His name was Arnold; hers was Shirley. He was a St. Bernard; she was a tiny American short hair and all black. Little children called her the Halloween kitty. They had met five years earlier in July of 1938 when their families happened to rent adjacent cottages that looked out on Block Island. Every summer since then they had been inseparable for the same four weeks.

People who did not appreciate animals seemed not to notice them. Those who liked dogs and cats and other creatures used “adorable” and “sweet” and “cute” to describe them. I was five years old when I first met them back in the thorny bushes that surrounded a brackish pond some several hundred yards north of the beach that people ambled down to every day.

Arnold sensed me before Shirley, or at least I thought that was so. I now think it might have been the other way around, but at five I was just beginning to learn the mysteries of cats. Arnold dwarfed me, but I wasn’t frightened as he loped up to me panting and drooling and pushing his massive head into my chest for a sniff. As his saliva seeped into my ratty T-shirt, I felt Shirley curling herself around my legs. Her purring was drowning out Arnold’s huff-puffing.

Some combination of a nudge from Arnold and my not wanting to step on Shirley made me plop down onto the sand. Shirley climbed into my lap and began kneading while Arnold’s massive tongue slurped my face. My mother must have heard me giggling and summoned me to lunch. When I told her about them, she nodded and grinned and said, “Well, David, you’ll have to get them to tell you about themselves.”

“But, mommy, cats and dogs can’t talk.”

“Is that so? Eat your sandwich before the bread goes stale.”

*****************

After that day, what had been a duo became a trio, barring certain activities such as high speed tree climbing, chasing balls out beyond the heavy surf, and sitting at the dining room table. Activities that one or two of us either could not do, or were scolded for trying to do.

Rainy days were the worst. Shirley refused to venture outside and insisted on sleeping on a couch or bed. Arnold and I had to decide between staying in with her or reluctantly going out to get soaked and filthy without her. If we did the latter, we would periodically return to her cottage to check on her, only to receive a disdainful sniff before she resumed her nap.

But most July days in southern Rhode Island are sunny and clear. On those days we would congregate after our respective breakfasts in my back yard. Shirley would sit on our picnic table with a regal primness that conveyed she was ready to entertain suggestions for how the day should unfold. I would throw out an idea; Arnold would twist his head as I talked and bark when I finished. That, of course, meant my idea was fantastic and that we should get going right away.

Shirley was just as predictable. She would listen intently until I finished, stretch in only the way cats can stretch, and then gracefully descend from the table. Arnold and I would follow her as she paraded like a runway model to the beach where we would spend most of the morning searching for dead fish. Shirley would nibble on the fish, Arnold would rub his back on them, and I would hold my nose and blather on about something that seemed to hold no interest for either of them.

It was now 1943 and the country was locked into a conflict that had hugely disrupted the lives of the adults in my world. Male family members leaving all the time. People huddled around tall radio sets listening to news that would only deepen their fear of unspeakable loss. Rationing. Blackouts. Signs everywhere urging us to tighten our lips and avoid unnecessary trips.

It’s not that I was unaware of all these things. I was very much aware of them. But at age five I had no memory of life before these changes had arrived. They seemed normal, not remarkable. For Arnold and Shirley? I don’t know, but I remember one morning when they were not out at the picnic table. I searched frantically until I found them just down our rutted street sitting in front of the cottage of renters I did not know. As I walked toward them, a shiny black sedan with a flag on the radio antenna pulled up. A man in a uniform plodded up to the front door and knocked. Seconds later a horrible wailing came out of the woman who had answered the door as she fell into the arms of the man.

After the man had left and the woman went inside, I plunked down in between the two of them. With my right hand I started scratching Shirley’s back and rubbing Arnold under his chin. Perhaps a half hour had passed when the woman came out and stared at the three of us from the open door. She was crying, but she was grinning, too. And she was shaking her head. She beckoned us to follow her into the backyard where there was a faded hammock suspended between two wooden posts whose white paint had chipped from years of exposure to salt air and sun.

The woman looked at the hammock before giving it a dismissive waive and letting herself collapse onto the scruffy lawn beneath it. Once she had stretched out on her back, Shirley climbed onto her chest with her face less than an inch from the woman’s chin. Then the purring started as Arnold scrunched himself next to her and pushed his nose in between her arm and her ribs. I climbed into the hammock and got it swaying back and forth. I started humming a lullaby my grandmother had taught me.

Soon I heard my mother calling me with a mix of concern and annoyance. Then she appeared around the corner. When she saw the four of us, she brought both hands up to her mouth. The sea breeze was just strong enough to stifle her sobs.