Finding Newt
I never met Newt, so I can't tell you what kind of dog he was.
I'd like to think that Newt was the kind of dog who mostly stayed home in the shade, keeping clear of the hot Arizona sun, just about lifting his head every now and then when the humming birds stopped by to visit the garden greenery. The kind of dog who waited until he heard the familiar squeak of the front gate, or a car pull into the driveway before exerting himself to see what all the fuss was about. His coat would have been the colour of the desert sand, a kind of burnt yellow, and short too, so as not to attract the attention of a jumping cactus as he passed swishing his big old tail.
But Newt could have been the other kind of dog. The kind of dog who was always into stuff, and always looking like he had a purpose in life. If Newt was this kind of dog, then the desert, which latched onto the end of a garden like a burr to a trouser leg, would have been his playground. The ground squirrels, prairie dogs and lizards would have been his playthings and the dried up washes would have been the highways he patrolled.
Like I said, I never met Newt, so I can't tell which kind of dog he was. But whatever kind of dog Newt was he sure was a distance from home when I found him.
The balloon had set us down a long way from anywhere. I couldn't hear the early morning shooters at the gun-range anymore, and the Pima Freeway, with its backed-up lines of traffic, were way yonder over the sunrise-pink of a ridge to the west. The only thing out here was the dried up ranches with their empty cattle pens and the towering green spires of the saguaros.
It was at the foot of the largest saguaro around, standing about fifty feet tall and peppered with woodpecker holes , that I found Newt. Or found what was left of him, more like. Some scattered bleached bones and a yellow plastic collar was all that was left of somebody's dog.
Coyotes crossed my mind. I'd read somewhere that dogs are driven crazy by their howling, scraping at back doors until they can take it no more and just up and follow the pack however they can. But out there in the desert there's no wagging canine welcome waiting, just dark snarling muzzles and viciously bared teeth.
I stooped down close, feeling the heat breathing from the sand, and retrieved the collar. It felt soft from the sun. A silver dog-tag in the shape of a bone had been engraved by someone's hand. 'Newt' was all it said, '702-375-7004'.
I wondered should I call.