Marshall Ramsey

Prologue:

A blonde, toothy television reporter stood in front of middle-class two-story home.  Next to him was a four-year-old golden retriever named Mike.  Behind them was a family with two parents, a boy in braces and a girl with glasses as thick as the Hubble telescope. A four had tears in their eyes. The camera turned on and the reporter began:

“I’m live here off of Santa Cruz Drive in Santa Rosa with the Bruster family and one amazing pooch named Mike. Three months ago, the Brusters moved from Portland, Oregon. And somehow, Mike got loose during their move and disappeared. As you can imagine, they were devastated.  However tragedy turned into a tearful homecoming yesterday as Mike showed up on their front porch.  The ID chip implanted in him — and his famous grin — confirmed it was indeed their beloved pooch. He’s a little thinner and a little dirtier, but Mike is home. No one quite knows the journey he’s had, but we can tell you this much, it’s obvious that he would do whatever it takes to get back to his people.  And we’ve learned one simple truth today:  All dogs come home.  Back to you in the studio…

Mississippi. The couple’s car pulled up to the vet’s office late on a Saturday night. Summer’s last hot breath was blowing, but they weren’t sweating because of the heat.  They knocked on the back door for the vet to let them in.

“How’s he doing, doc?” the man said as the vet greeted them.  The vet looked him in the eye with a grim look and just quietly shook her head.

“He’s in a lot of pain. I’ve always told you I’d be honest with you.  I’m being honest with you right now.  I know he’s a fighter — but it is time.”

The wife began to sob openly while the husband fought to remain calm in front of her. Tears ran quietly down his face. There are dogs and there are special dogs. But this little dog was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of dog.  He had been ill for a long time, but had fought so valiantly every step of the battle. But now he was tired.

The vet opened the cage and the little brown dog walked out slowly.  He was always one to greet you with the most amazing greeting.  But tonight he could barely do his trademark move — a twirl.  He spun around once slowly and fell to the ground, whimpering. The wife rushed over to hold him.  The little brown dog looked up at her with nothing but love in his heart.

They spent an hour saying their goodbyes, holding him and rubbing his ears.  Then the vet gave the little brown dog some anesthesia.  He, sensing this was the end, looked at the two people he loved as the medicine slowly put him to sleep. Their faces began to blur as his eyelids began to droop. A second shot ended it painlessly. The little brown dog began to dream the eternal dream.

There was darkness and then he woke. It was like he was waking from a deep nap in a sunbeam.  Up ahead was a giant doggie door.  He trotted, pain free for the first time in months, toward the door and pushed it open.  What he saw stunned him.

There was a wide-open field of green, wheat-like grass. It swayed rhythmically in the gentle cool breeze.  In the distance where purple mountains. The sky was a bright blue — but the stars seems closer and much larger. Planets and comets were visible, even though it seemed to be the middle of the day.  A crystal-clear lake was over to his left.  On its shore was a dock — a giant Chesapeake retriever leapt off the dock to retrieve stick. In fact there were thousands of dogs running and playing everywhere.  A  Beagle chased a rabbit.  A mutt played fetch.  A giant Great Dane chewed on a bone.  A Boston Bull Terrier came through the doggie door right behind him and ran into the field. And to his right, a Border Terrier chased a squirrel up a giant oak tree. Everything seemed so bright and so clean.   The little brown dog just stood and soaked it in with awe.  This had to be paradise.

“It’s a holding area, actually.”  A German Shepard named Rexi walked up to him. “Welcome.  I’m Rexi and I’m part of the welcoming committee.”

The little brown dog looked at Rexi and said, “I want to see my people. I miss my people.”

“We all do, my friend.  And you will see them. But this is where you’ll wait until they join you.”

“I want to see them now.”  The little brown dog wasn’t feeling the joy of all the other dogs.

“Not possible,” Rexi said in a lower voice. “But if you’ll have a little patience, you’ll learn to like it here.”

The little brown dog didn’t answer immediately. He turned around and looked at the doggie door.

“Don’t even think about that.  It’s never been done,” Rexi explained.  “Hey, I miss my people, too. But I know in time we’ll be together. Now c’mon, they have a great all-you-can eat treat bar.”

The little brown dog looked around at what was technically Heaven. But not being with his people felt more like Hell. He had to get home.

“OK, Rexi. Which way?”

Rexi turned and pointed, “Over there!”

And when he turned back around, the little brown dog was gone.

“WAIT!!!”

It was too late, the little brown dog was running back at the doggie door.  “COME BACK HERE!  EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY!” Rexi barked at the top of his lungs.

Sirens began to wait and the doggie door began to slam shut. But right before it could, the little brown dog leapt with all his might.  And as he cleared the threshold, his world went dark again.

Epilouge:

Eight weeks later, a car pulled up into the suburban Atlanta home’s driveway. The couple got out and met a man at the door.  “I’m glad you came all the way over here.”

“No problem,” the husband said,” We appreciate you driving down to meet us.”

“Glad to.  And I can visit my sister this way.”

The day after the little brown dog had died, the couple had gotten a phone call from the lady who had given him to them. “A litter of pups has been born in Michigan,” she said. “My friend owns the mother and father. The timing is just too eerie.”

The couple had thought about waiting, but the house was too dreadfully quiet without the little brown dog’s presence.  Sometimes you have to lance a wound to treat it, even wounds of the heart.

The man came back out with the puppy. “She looks like her mother, but all I can tell you is this: She has a unique personality.  It’s a great litter — one of the best I have ever seen. But she is special.”

He put the little dog in the grass and she ran over to the couple.  She stopped, looked her new humans in the eye and did her trademark move:

She spun around.

And it was at that moment that the couple knew — All dogs do indeed come home.

It was the biggest scandal to hit the town of Cotton Gin, Mississippi since Edna Mae Smith started taking her clothes off in the middle of First Nazareth Baptist Church. Jennifer Rollins suddenly started speaking her mind. While Edna Mae was under the influence of fermented Welch’s Grape Juice, the folks in Cotton Gin had no clue why Jennifer suddenly lost her Southern tact and charm. “Bless your heart” suddenly turned into “@#$% you.”

“Martha Rae, you can’t cook and your dye job is bad.”

“Bill Franks, everyone knows you’re sleeping with Martha Rae except your wife and her husband.”

“Jimmy Jones, your breath could knock a buzzard off a gut truck.”

“Mayor Franklin, I didn’t vote for you because you lie like a rug.”

“Bill Knight, I hope you’re wearing asbestos underwear ’cause you’ll need them where you’re going. Laying off folks at the mill was just wrong.”

Jennifer Rollins had become a one-woman, truth-telling, lack-of-tact wrecking machine.  Like the Honey Badger, she just didn’t care.  And Cotton Gin felt her tongue’s wrath.

Such honestly can have huge social repercussions in a small Southern town. The PTA kicked her out.  The First Methodist church prayed for her living soul. The little old ladies at the local garden club vacated her “Yard of the Month.”  Nothing so serious had plagued Cotton Gin.

Jennifer Rollins cackled at them all.  Because she had been given a gift.  She knew what was really important in her life.  One simple phone call had allowed her see clearly and speak frankly.

Jennifer Rollins had cancer. And for the first time in her life, “getting along,” no longer mattered. Instead, she focused on what really did:

She loved her husband with all her heart.

She spent every moment with her child.

She created memories with those who she truly loved.

She savored every bite of food and breathed as deeply as she possibly could.

The moment her doctor had placed a cap on her life, her tolerance for phony BS hit an all-time low. And if the town of Cotton Gin didn’t understand, well, they could kiss her big ol’ Southern butt.

Old women whispered as she walked by.  Old men secretly admired her candor.  And while the town prayed for her, God didn’t just heal her tongue.  He healed her tumors as well.

Jennifer Rollins had finally figured what life was truly about.  As as a prize, she was allowed to continue on with her life.

Martha Rae took a cooking class and quit sleeping with Bill Franks (but still had a bad dye job.

Bill Franks and his wife went to counseling.

Mayor Franklin tried telling the truth (and survived.)

Bill Knight found a heart to go with his shrewd business acumen.

And Cotton Gin, Mississippi was never the same again.  (Although Edna Mae Smith did get naked again in the First Nazareth Baptist Church.)

“Mornin’ Mr. Cooper!”

The little boy rode his bike by the older man.  Mr. Cooper, walking toward the beach, was a fixture in this small, seaside neighborhood.  Slightly slumped and balding, he wore thick glasses and a slight smile.  “Morning, Daniel.”  Mr. Cooper knew all the neighborhood kids by name.

The town of Pass Christian, Mississippi had slowly bounced back after Hurricane Katrina devastated it in the summer of 2005.  Large live oaks that once shaded the palatial mansions were no longer there. Nor were the original homes. Highway 90 was all that remained between the rebuilding town and the passive/aggressive Mississippi Sound.  Mr. Cooper stayed, though.  He loved the Mississippi Gulf Coast. He rebuilt his small home with the money from the insurance company.  He was one of the few on his street who had flood insurance.  Mr. Cooper was always one to do the rational thing.

He walked down to Highway 90, carefully crossed the four-laned road and began to take his daily walk along the water’s edge. He found all kinds of things along the water –but mainly he found peace. It was funny how the very body of water that had cost his town dearly gave him so much.

Two women stood at the edge of the town’s playground as their children played. They looked across the highway at the slightly hunched old man walking slowly toward the setting sun.

“He seems nice enough. But what do we really know about Mr. Cooper?  He seems friendly to all the kids.  I dunno — it makes me nervous.”  Stella Stinebring said to Frieda Gibson.

Frieda put away her iPhone and said, “He’s harmless. I think he’s retired from the Post Office or something like that. He keeps mostly to himself — except for his nightly walks.  He’s almost like a town mascot.”

“Is he married?” Stella asked.

“Why, are you interested?”

Stella shot her friend and dirty look.  “Just curious, that’s all. Never hurt to ask a few questions. Particularly about a man we know nothing about.”

Across the highway, Mr. Cooper walked slowly along the surf.  A keen observer might have noticed he was looking for something.  But that observer would not have guessed what it was.  Mr. Cooper was too guarded.

What the sea taketh, it giveth.  Mr. Cooper always carried a bag for the trinkets that washed ashore.  One day he found a ring. The next he found a campaign button.  Mr. Cooper was collecting bits and pieces of lives washed to sea.  No one would have guessed it, but he was looking for that one piece to transport him to another time and place.

A seagull flew overhead, crying out to lost souls of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

Mr. Cooper watched the gull and then looked at his battered wristwatch. It was time to go home.  He headed back east, toward Gulfport and the casinos.  He knew that Mr. Whiskers, Mr. Cooper’s 16-year-old cat would be hungry.  The white sand was pinkish now from the setting sun as purple clouds hovered over the Gulf.  The water was tranquil and so was Mr. Cooper’s mind.

Mr. Whiskers greeted him as only an ancient Siamese cat truly can. “MEORWER,” the bony cat meowed in a deep moan.

“No, Mr. Whiskers, I didn’t find it today.  But I know it is out there.  I’ll feed you in minute. I promise.”

No one in Pass Christian had ever been inside Mr. Cooper’s house. If they had, some of the mystery of the man might be revealed.   Clues were littered throughout his small cottage. But Mr. Cooper was determined only allow one person — or cat as the case may be — would ever know the truth.

Mr. Cooper was an artist. And his name wasn’t Mr. Cooper.

Across the cluttered living room was a blank canvas.  A blank canvas that had sat in Mr. Cooper’s house since 1995.  That was the moment his muse had left him.  And from that moment on, Mr. Cooper, or previously known as Pablo Geavense — renowned oil painter, had desperately searched for its return.  An old, yellowed newspaper on the floor had a headline that told the next chapter of Pablo’s life.  “Renowned painter vanishes.”  That’s what they thought, Pablo shrugged. That’s what they thought. Mr. Whiskers knew the truth.

Pablo “Cooper” was like Superman in a roomful of Kryptonite — he had lost his creativity and now was powerless.  Mr. Cooper opened a can of tuna and fed the old cat.  “Maybe we’ll find it tomorrow my friend. Maybe tomorrow.”

Sunday afternoon meant time for another walk. Mr. Cooper walked past the kids playing in the park and the disapproving Stella Stinebring.  He caught her scowl and winked at her. She scoffed and quickly looked the other way.  Mr. Cooper laughed as he headed down the hill toward the sea.   He carried his bag and his stick.  Today was the day he’d find his muse. He just knew it.

Lightning danced on the horizon, stabbing and jabbing at sea below.  The tranquil brown water now had whitecaps on it. Wind whipped the sand and what little hair he had left on his head.  Mr. Cooper walked slowly, looking carefully at the beach ahead of him.  A storm was blowing in from New Orleans.

Mr. Cooper walked to the surf’s edge and felt the warm water wash over his feet.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a locket.  He carefully opened it and looked at the picture inside.  It might have been sand in his eye or even salt spray, but he felt a tear well up in his eyes.  There, inside the locket, was the picture of the love of his life.  The love of his life who he had caught with another man.

From that day in Paris, Mr. Pablo Geavense “Cooper”  had not touched a brush. He had become the servant who buried his talent. Hurt, anger and fear choked his creativity killing it like the first frost of the year. Bitterness ate him alive.  He kept the blank canvas as a reminder what he used to be able to do. And every day, he searched the beach, hoping to find the art inside of him again.

And then an epiphany struck him like the lightning on the Gulf:

His art was nothing more than a reflection of himself.

He gripped the locket and looked at it once again.  He then closed his eyes, took a breath and threw it out into the Mississippi Sound.  He let go of his bitterness, took a deep breath and felt the salty air fill his lungs. Like a boat freed from its anchor, Mr. Cooper began to add brushstrokes to his life’s canvas once again.

Epilogue:

Mississippi Museum of Art features Coast artist’s first show

Jackson, Miss — Over three hundred people crowded the Mississippi Museum of Art Tuesday night as up-and-coming painter Pablo Cooper opened his first show of his work. Critics worldwide have raved about Cooper’s paintings, writing that they remind them of a ‘More talented Pablo Geavense.” Cooper, from Pass Christian, was accompanied by his new wife, Stella.