The Waystation: Book One

By Cyn Mobley

Do you talk to your dog? Ever wonder what they’d have to say about life, dog pounds, and rabbits? Then stop by the Waystation and listen in as rescue dogs Danica the Digger, Lasso, and Crocodile Bob share their thoughts on everything from the Howliday to snacks with the two-legged beings who care for them as they pass through.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cyn Mobley
• Release date: May 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781596771154

Cyn Mobley

USA Today bestselling author, former naval officer and lawyer. Eight Greyhounds, three Airedales, and a coupla mutts.

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The Waystation: Book One

by Cyn Mobley

Copyright 2014 Cyn Mobley

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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The Waystation: Book One

Published by:

Greyhound Books

2000 Stock Creek Road

Knoxville, TN 37920

www.greyhoundbooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any mechanical, including or by any information system, without written permission from the author.

Copyright 2014 by Cyn Mobley

ISBN trade paperback: 978-1-59677-116-1

ISBN ebook 978-1-59677-115-4

First printing, May, 2014

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Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Introduction

Crocodile Bob

Geddy Lee

Banjo

Smokey Joe

Lasso

The Green Truck and the Brat Pack

Giles

You see what you know

I need to move off base

Danica

So what next?

Other Books by Cyn Mobley

Author’s Note

The hardest part about writing is telling the truth. More accurately, finding the truth. Even if you’re writing fiction, making up the entire story, it’s got to be a truthful story, one that reaches beyond the surface into the gut. Even fiction has to be true.

These stories are true.

Mostly.

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Introduction

I stood on the top step at the Jacobs Building in Chilhowee Park. It was a time of cusps – between seasons, summer fading into crisp. Between callings, with work piling up and I’d just cut and run to come to the dog show. I had on my favorite jacket, an old green nylon flight jacket that’d I’d worn at sea primarily. It was just enough protection to let the breeze cool around me while I had a sense of invulnerability, a core warmth.

It was one of those moments when time seems to stop, when just for a moment everything is just right, from temperature to what you’re doing to the angle of the sun in relationship to your sunglasses.

When reality blurs, when you have a sense of being part of a greater world, a greater plan, a greater universe than just the clockwork progression of seconds and cause and effect and rationality, you’re in a thin place. It’s the immanence of either God or imminence of insanity, the merging of everything you are and know and experience into a slice of something that encompasses the entire universe.

There are thin places all over the world, all over time, when everything stands still and for just a moment, everything is very very right.

The Waystation is a thin place. I don’t know why or how it worked out that way, not really, though I have my suspicions. Most folks would say it’s just a pleasant place to some of us because we like dogs, but that’s not really it. Pleasant places don’t have that much dog poop and barking.

If it were just me or a few others, I could understand it. But it’s not. Everyone who spends much time out there comes away with a slightly bemused expression, a feeling of having touched something greater than himself.

Waystations are more than just physical locations. They’re a state of being, a temporary cessation of process and progress. It’s not a stalling out or a running out of energy. Waystations, both this one and the others that we run into in life, are characterized by a sense of peace, of well-being – and of being beyond needing peace or well-being. All true Waystations are thin places.

The experts tell us that dogs don’t experience time the same way that we do, and that makes perfect sense. After all, we’re the ones who made it up and who keep track of it, who judge people, places and things by their relationship within this arbitrary system we call time.

Dogs aren’t like that. Sure, they’ll remember kindness and cruelty, but most of their time is spend in the now, the very instant between heartbeats. Their world is much more immanent, more clearly present. Their senses are so vast that we have little understanding of their worlds – just as they have little understanding of, Don’t worry, I’ll be back in three hours, means.

These are the stories of the Waystation and how standing in the thin places changes our lives – and theirs.

Crocodile Bob

Carol banged on my gate then let herself in. Her hair was mussed and her skin gleamed. Air conditioning still out? I asked, recognizing the symptoms. Had the same problems myself with my Astro van.

You know it, she said, shoving her bangs out of her face.

What you up to? I was always glad to see Carol but wasn’t expecting her, and she wasn’t the sort to stop by just to stop by. She’s too busy.

Got a dog for you. She saw the confusion on my face and said, You didn’t know I was bringing you one?

Thought Beirne was, I said.

She called me. That was pretty much enough explanation. In our corner of the rescue world, when people had transport problems, they called Carol.

What happened?

Carol filled me in on a stupid spat between a couple of transporters in Athens, finishing with, So I told Beirne I’d meet her out at Watts Road, an exit on the far west side of down. So I’ve got Bob. And groceries. I’ve got groceries melting.

I followed her out to her SUV. She opened the back door. A big, scruffy Basset was stretched out on her back seat, curled up a bit, his legs tucked up under him and his tail dangling unconcernedly. His snout was resting on the car seat, his eyes half shut. At first glance, he was just another of those crocodile Bassets.

And then he started unfolding. It was like trying to trace a Mobius strip for the first time. There was more of him and more and more.

Carol tossed a slip lead over his head, making sure to get it behind long, heavy ears. He lumbered to his feet and hopped out of the car, nimble but careful.

He landed with a solid thud. Massive paws settled into the drying mud, splayed out larger than my palm. He shook himself and I felt a light breeze across my face.

Hey, big guy, I said.

’s up? he answered on the tail end of a big yawn. Hol’ on, hun, lemme stretch. He eased into a downward dog. Shoulda done this a few hours back. He shook his head, his lips making the classic floppetty sound. Damn, you wimmen some drivin’ fools, ain’tcha? You never hear ‘bout taking it easy?

I made a sympathetic noise, one of those odd sounds taught only in the Deep South. Bless your heart.

He stopped and squinted up at me. His eyes were filmed and crusted, but a sharp mind peered back at me. You run this place?

I do. Welcome. Want some water and a bite to eat?

He nodded. Like to sniff things out, too, if you don’ mind.

Please make yourself at home. You’ll be staying with us for a while until we get you healthy and find you a better place. You get your own bedroom in a shared room, lots of food and fresh water, a yard to stretch your legs and a wading pool. Nothing fancy but all decent.

Beats where I was. Crocodile Bob headed for the water pail but got distracted by something I couldn’t see but that needed immediate examining.

Water? I gave a gentle tug on the leash.

Be right witcha, he said, ignoring the leash.

I waited. Finally satisfied, he looked up at me and snorted. Damn, girl, it’s heavy out here. He meant the heavy, humid