ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN

by

Phoenix

The Story

The Chapters

INTRO

THE STORY

Eighteen-year-old Joe Hardy stood on the edge of the rocky beach and stared out across the bay, his bright blue eyes watching as cold grey waves hurled themselves onto the cliffs along the shoreline, voracious in their attempt to eat rock.

A lingering fogbank hung just far enough out to give the illusion of forever-ness; a dismal canvas against the sound of the crashing waves.

Further down the shoreline the mournful wail of the lighthouse foghorn warned ships of the impending danger; jagged rocks, hull-ripping shoals. This was not a place for boats –

A movement caught out of the corner of Joe’s eye made him smile fondly as he turned to watch the old dog, an ancient black mass of fur, slowly picking his way across the rocks towards him –

This was a place for boys and dogs….

Joe crouched down and ran his fingers through the twisted coat of the large Newfoundland dog, closing his eyes and breathing in the musky odor of wet dog and ocean. He re-opened his eyes and smiled, “Hey, Hero,” he whispered, “how ya doing?”

It had become their routine on Saturday mornings to take a leisurely stroll along the beach, just the two of them, spending precious time together after a lifetime apart.

For nine years Joe had thought Hero dead. The dog’s demise exaggerated as part of a madman’s game....They had been pawns, both Joe and Hero, and by the time the truth came out, too much time had passed and Hero’s heart was half owned by another family; a family that Joe was bereft to uproot him from because there were children involved, and he was almost a man…

A young man whose depth of compassion surprised even him.

So instead they shared this special animal. Hero lived with the single mom and her three children full time, but Saturdays…Saturdays belonged to Joe.

Standing, the blond haired young sleuth moved away from the water’s edge, Hero lumbering slightly behind him. A large piece of driftwood tossed ashore by a previous storm became a bench as Joe sat down. Immediately a huge head was thrust into his lap and a pink tongue darted out, catching him roughly across the back of his hand. It was Hero-speak for ‘scratch me’. Who was Joe to deny an ‘old man’ his pleasure?

Sliding off the ‘bench’ he sat cross-legged on the damp sand and pressed his back against the log. Hero lay with him and sighed, contented, as Joe started the methodical running of his fingers across the dog’s broad head.

Another huge sigh from the animal made Joe smile and close his eyes. God, he loved Saturdays….

…

The dog knew its time had come; its days over….And if dogs could feel joy, it did so now. There was no other place it would rather be to say ‘goodbye’ than curled up in the lap of this young man. Hero’s boy.

With a final summoning of strength, the dog rose up enough to lick its master’s cheek, a parting kiss; affection shone brightly in warm brown eyes. One more heaving breath –

And then. Nothing.

The mighty chest stilled. Forever.

…

Joe didn’t remember being lulled to sleep by the closeness of the dog or the lullaby of the ocean but when he suddenly jerked awake a short time later he knew something was wrong. The beach was just too quiet. It was as if even the very waves themselves had been muted and he realized right away what was wrong.

Hero was gone.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, his fingers grasping Hero’s thick coat and giving it a shake. “No!” he repeated, louder this time. He shook the dog harder, his heart pounding in his chest. “Hero, c’mon boy. C’mon….Don’t do this to me! C’mon boy, wake up, Hero! Wake up!”

And then he just stopped, his fingers still clutched in the thick fur…

It was no use. He knew it.

There would be no calling his beloved dog back from death. Not this time.

“Oh, God,” Joe sobbed as he leaned over the dog and buried his face against the dwindling warmth of the large body. “Oh, God…”

…

The young man had no idea how long he sat just sat there holding Hero’s body, but it was long enough for the tears on his face to dry and the sobs in his heart to mute. He just felt numb from the inside out.

He heard Frank before he saw him. The sound of the rocks crunching beneath his older brother’s feet alerted him that he and Hero were no longer alone. Joe didn’t have to look back to know it would be Frank, and he absently wondered how long he must have been sitting here, if Frank had come looking for him.

He knew the exact moment when Frank realized what was going on because he heard the sharp intake of breath, and then the dark haired nineteen-year old crouched down in front of them, his deep brown eyes compassionate. And worried.

“Oh, Joe,” the older sleuth sighed.

“He’s dead,” Joe stated flatly. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to state the obvious. Frank wasn’t blind and the dog obviously wasn’t alive.

“Yeah,” the older Hardy breathed out and then ran a hand through his hair. The motion caught Joe’s eye and he turned to look at Frank, as if noticing him truly for the first time.

“I don’t want him to be dead, Frank.”  It sounded childish but Joe didn’t care. That was how he felt.

Frank didn’t answer. He just reached out and placed a warm hand on Joe’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Joe looked up at him, his blue eyes blazing in grief. “I want him back.”

Anguish flickered across Frank’s face, amplified by the innocent sincerity of his brother’s admission. He sighed softly and then moved to sit down next to Joe so that their shoulders were just touching. He looked out over the ocean for a few moments and then turned towards Joe. “You know that’s not how it works, kiddo.”

Next to him, Joe shrugged and tightened his grip on the dog. “I just can’t accept that this is it…that it’s over, you know? That Hero’s gone – I don’t want him to be gone, Frank.” His voice trembled, “He was a good dog…”

“Yes, he was,” Frank agreed quietly. He smiled as he looked down at Hero, his dark eyes suspiciously bright. “He was a very good dog, Joe.”

They sat together for a few more minutes before Joe finally asked something that had been niggling at him since he realized Hero was dead. “Frank,” he started, not sure he really wanted to ask his brother. Just in case Frank rebuffed him.

“Hmmm?” The older teen rubbed his hands briskly as the afternoon was turning cold.

“Do you think…you know…after he died, he – ah – you know, like—” Joe stalled and then just blurted out, “Do you think Hero’s in heaven?”

Without missing a heartbeat Frank responded, his voice calm and certain, “All dogs go to heaven, Joe….I don’t think Hero is in heaven – I know he is.”

Joe searched his brother’s face for any sign of duplicity, and finding none he finally smiled and then nodded. “Thank you, Frank.”

“For what?” Frank asked, finally moving to stand. He brushed the wet sand off the back of his jeans. “I didn’t do anything Joe. Now c’mon, it’s too cold for you to stay here any longer. We need to go.” He looked down at his brother, his gaze flickering to the large dog lying in Joe’s lap. “Do you need a hand?” he asked, but his brother just shook his head:

“No…I’ve got him.”

It was a struggle but Joe finally got up, Hero cradled tenderly in his arms. He looked at his brother and then nodded. He was finished here.

In silence they left the beach….

Fourteen years earlier:

Fenton Hardy worked fervently – he had to save his son.  He blocked out everything around him as he concentrated on what he had to do.  An ex-NYPD officer, Fenton was well trained in first aid  – CPR included – but had never had to use it before.  He had treated gunshot wounds, severed limbs and even heart attack, but this was the first time he had to actually perform artificial respiration on anyone…and it was his own youngest child.

…Breathe….breathe…breathe…his mind kept chanting as he continued the breaths, compressions and then checked for a pulse.  Just when he was starting to believe what Frankie had said, he felt a slight movement.  Immediately he turned the boy to his side and Joey coughed up a lungful of water.

‘Thank God,” he muttered, as dazed vibrant blue eyes opened wide and stared up at him.  The man immediately gathered his son into his arms, but Joey pushed away and looked at the sack that Mr. Morton was holding open.

Mr. Morton felt his eyes on him and turned to him sadly, shaking his head, “I’m sorry.”

“NO!”  Joey yelled making his father jump in surprise.  His son was weak but struggling to move towards the sack, “NO!  You have to save him!”

His eyes sought out his father’s. “You saved me.”  Fenton’s heart tore but before he could say anything Frankie had moved past him to Mr. Morton, and reaching into the burlap sack he carefully lifted out the still puppy.  His own dark eyes, a mirror of his father’s, told him the same thing…he had to try.

Fenton’s youngest son had almost died trying to save the puppy – he had to try.

Taking the small body in his big hands, the detective placed his mouth over the puppy’s and breathed a small gentle breath into his nose until he saw the little chest expand as it filled with air.  And then he gently pressed down on the tiny breastbone to expel it.  And then he breathed into it again.

It was hopeless, but the man had to do this for his son.  He saw the farmer shake his head.  Not that John felt CPR on an animal was a waste of time but because he felt the animal had been dead too long.  As a farmer, he had seen and heard tell of CPR working on animals but…

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft wheeze followed by a sneeze.  Fenton was so shocked he almost dropped the puppy – it had worked!

Immediately he placed the puppy into Joey’s hands, and taking off his jacket, he wrapped it around them both.  Then lifting his son up, he carried both the boy and the pup back to the farm…

* * *

And Joe called him Hero….

The End. 

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