Sam approves this blog...

A sketch a day...

A Fish Tale...

Sam takes great care of his fish, making sure they are fed on time, checking to see if their water is clean. Every evening, he brings me the fish food. It is a ritual between him and I. We walk out to the pond, and he gives me the container. He has trouble opening the lid, so I do it. As I feed them, he watches his fish. His care of these simple creatures often amazes me. He never forgets they need to be fed, and he is always prompt. Thanks to him, the goldfish have survived and flourished.

The Moose

Sam is very proud of his moose. He keeps it front and center on his little shelf by his bed. It is his pride and joy, sitting between his old baseball and his favorite book. In the evenings while we watch TV, he brings it out and sets it next to him.

He treats his moose very gingerly, almost as if it is delicate china. I still don't believe he really knew what a moose was when I asked him what he wanted from Idaho, but this little moose seems to make him very happy.

The Yorkie

Sam decided to dedicate his life to taking down The Yorkie. After his release from prison, he went back to school and recieved his diploma. It wasn't easy. He was an outsider and he knew it. They wouldn't let him forget. He heard them talking about him and his past. He kept to himself, he had a goal and would stop at nothing to reach it.

After graduation, he spent his days watching the yard, trying to find a pattern, a clue.

He quickly identified The Yorkie's number one man, Lefty. Lefty had earned his knickname one dark night during a fight. His left ear had been cut off. The one who did it was never seen again. Lefty carried out all The Yorkie's dirty work. Sam decided he needed to take Lefty out of the picture. He needed help. He needed someone who had seen that life, and knew how it all worked from the inside.

He needed Mr. Tibbitts.

The Eternal Mooch

Sam is always ready to sample food on other people's plates. He is very patient, waiting until said person looks like they might be done before asking to try a sample. Most of the times he succeeds. He has his favorites - steak, chicken, potato (any kind), yogurt, cookies... He also has his dislikes, carrots and broccoli mainly. Steak, however, is his holy grail. He considers it his worth-while goal in life to obtain a morsel of this wholly delectable edible. Even the smallest sliver leaves him happy for several hours afterwards.

Occasionally, I need to be the grown up and refuse to give him any food. He wanted so terribly the piece of steak I had on my plate. He pleaded and begged for it. I couldn't give it to him, and he was upset. He doesn't understand such things, being driven by the simple reasoning that it is food, and all food is good. The piece of steak went into the trash.

He stared at me in utter disbelief. How could I throw it away when he was sitting right there. He sighed, then sighed again. Too much of a gentleman to dig through the trash for it he turned and went into the living room. "You couldn't have eaten it, Sammy-oh," I called after him. "It wasn't good for you."

I followed him into the living room. He had thrown himself onto the ground in front of the TV and was now staring mournfully at the silent screen. 'Sulking,' I thought going back to the kitchen. He would have to come out of it on his own.

Strays...

We noticed the pack of dogs this morning as we were feeding horses. They immediately caught Sam's attention, and he watched them go by. They were obviously related; all had the same blocky head and long lank bodies. They were dirty and thin, and walked without much interest in their surroundings. Sam sat still, only shouting a warning when two coyotes came out of the desert and followed the last dog. The dog looked at Sam, then caught movement and spun to bark at the coyotes. They circled away, disappearing back into the desert.

"Who are they?" Sam asked, coming to stand next to me.

"They are strays," I answered, looking for the coyotes. They wouldn't give up that easily. They would try again.

"Strays?" Sam tasted the word, tried to comprehend its meaning. He had never seen that life before. This was new and strange to him. "Do they have anyone?"

"Like you?" I ruffled his hair, "No."

He was silent then, trying to grasp what he was seeing, trying to understand. He watched the dogs disappear over the rise in the road. He stayed there, long after they were gone, watching where they had last been. I went back to feeding the horses, but kept on eye on him. He was deep in thought.

He rejoined me as I was feeding Maggie. I put her bucket down, and gave him a hug, "What's the matter, Sam?"

"They didn't have collars on." He said simply.

"No, they didn't," I replied.

I realized this summed it up for him. These dogs were so different from him because they had no one, and he equated belonging to someone with wearing a collar. I fingered the blue bone that hung from his collar, with his name and my phone number etched on it. He put his paw on my hand, and looked at me. I knew what he was saying, what he wanted to say. I took his paw, "I love you too, little man."

Are there moose in Idaho?

I've been worried about Sam, lately. I don't think he quite comprehends what "going to Idaho" and "I'll be gone two weeks" means. I've talked to him about it several times, even considered getting out the map to show him. This morning, as I was feeding horses, he jogged past me. "Sam," I said, "would you like me to bring you something back from Idaho?"

He pauses and looks at me, "A moose," he says.

This makes me stop to look at him in return. "Sam, do you even know what a moose is?"

He looks around, spots a rabbit and stares at it for a minute. He has a wonderful concept of the human language, but I have stumped him. He looks back at me then, over his left shoulder, and grins. "Two moose?" he asks.

All I can do is sigh and smile at him. "I will see what I can do," I respond.

His wide grin gets wider. Satisfied, he resumes his journey, eager to make sure no bunnies have strayed into the yard.

The confinement continues...

Sam recalls a time when he ran free, before they contained him to life on the leash. He recalls a time when he was free to run and play... but, that was before...

...before he committed his crime...

...a crime he was framed for...

...a crime committed by The Yorkie...

He pauses here, and talks instead of his day in court. He doesn't want to talk about the crime, or his connection to The Yorkie. He focuses instead on the tie he wore that day, and the conversation turns away from the jail and his imprisonment. He laughs at the tie, supplied by his lawyer. "...it was red, with little cars," he says fondly. What dog doesn't like cars?