To Dance with the White Dog

By Terry Kay

In this “hauntingly beautiful story about love, family, and relationships,” a mysterious dog helps an elderly man in his final days (Archbishop Desmond Tutu).
 
After Sam Peek’s beloved wife Cora dies, his children are worried about him. After fifty-seven years of marriage, they are unsure how their elderly father will survive on his own. They talk about him as if he can’t hear them, questioning how he’ll run a farm, drive his truck, or live by himself.
 
When Sam tells his children about a white dog who visits him, yet seems invisible to everyone else, they are sure that grief and old age have taken a toll on their father. But, real or not, the creature soothes Sam’s grief and ultimately reconciles him with his own mortality.
 
In this bittersweet story of love, grief, and coming to terms with death, “master storyteller” Terry Kay takes readers on Sam’s journey with his white dog, bringing solace and comfort to the inevitable transition that all must make (The Atlanta Journal-Constitution).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9780795310874

Terry Kay

Terry Kay's novels include Taking Lottie Home, The Runaway, Shadow Song, and the now-classic To Dance with the White Dog, twice nominated for the American Booksellers Book of the Year Award, and winner of the Southeastern Library Association Book of the Year Award. Terry Kay has been married for 44 years and has four children and seven grandchildren. He lives in Athens, Georgia.

Book preview

Preface

I have always considered the writing of To Dance with the White Dog to be something of an accident—if the first definition of the word as it pops up on my Encarta World English Dictionary is correct.

This is the way it is put:

accident n.

the way things happen without any planning, apparent cause, or deliberate intent.

On the first day of the first word of the first draft, I did not have a plan, or a cause, or a deliberate intent.

Well, a cause, perhaps. A small one—if you again take Encarta’s first definition, which is:

cause n.

something that, or somebody who, makes something happen or exist or is responsible for a certain result.

That cause was a letter from a friend named Joe Beck who had read a story I had written about a white dog, an assignment from my most enduring friend, Lee Walburn, then editor of the Atlanta Weekly, a magazine supplement of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Joe’s letter said it was a nice story, a good read, but I had made a mistake: it was a novel, not a magazine piece.

When I read his letter, I knew intuitively he was right, and I went to my typewriter (yes, typewriter) and typed a sentence, the first sentence: He understood what they were thinking and saying: Old man that he is, what’s to become of him?

I do not know why that sentence rested on my fingertips, but it did, and in that moment I had some understanding of what an epiphany must be, for in that moment I knew the book wholly, knew its story, knew its characters, knew its rhythm. I knew the sound of it, and, for me, when a story has its own sound it becomes music in search of lyrics.

I wrote the book in two months and sent it to my agent, who is not a man given to hyperbole (unless, of course, the contract is major). His name is Harvey Klinger. He is something of a hybrid, a man with an agent’s soul and an editor’s brain, and such a condition can be baffling to a writer. I’ve had my bouts with him—losing most of them, but winning on occasion.

When Harvey responded to the story, he said he was impressed, said it was lovely, tenderly written. He then said he thought it would be a hard sell in New York, because it would be a risky project. I took his explanation to mean the story did not fit literary expectations of that time, and I understood his warning. Even then I realized that writers residing in the South were expected to offer dysfunction in the tales they created, and To Dance with the White Dog is as void of dysfunction as a children’s nursery rhyme sanitized by the Puritans.

Harvey did tell me he would circulate the manuscript, but I should not hold out hope for it among New York publishers.

He was right. No one accepted it. The letters of rejection had praise for the story and for the writing, yet no one wanted to take a chance. (The only solace I’ve had about that experience is having representatives of some of the houses admit to me privately, We made a mistake.)

It was then that a copy was sent to Margaret Quinlin of Peachtree Publishers in Atlanta. After her reading, she called and offered to send a contract to my home by taxi.

I informed Harvey.

A few days later I signed the contract.

Truthfully, I was never anxious over the publication of the book. I had decided it would be enough to go to the copying place and have several sets produced—enough for my siblings and for my children. Even when the book was released, I did not expect much of it.

And then a few things fell into place, as fortune is called in my home region of Georgia.

The first lady in line at my first signing session bought ten copies, loudly and proudly declaring that her entire Christmas budget went into the purchase, and that she knew enough about the book to know that nothing in it would insult anyone. People began to step out of line to pick up more copies, and on that night, it became a gift book.

Paul Harvey gave it an enthusiastic blurb on his national radio show. It won a prestigious award from the Southeastern Library Association. Reviews were favorable, some excessively so. I have a framed personal letter of praise from Archbishop Desmond Tutu.

And then came the movie. Hallmark Hall of Fame. Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn, their last film together. In 1993, it was the year’s most-watched television movie. Cronyn won an Emmy for his role as Sam Peek—the award coming on the day that Jessica Tandy died.

All of these moments are memorable for me. Yet, none of them compare to the personal letters I’ve received over the years from readers who confess that the story of Sam and Cora Peek, and the visitation of the strange white dog, revealed something meaningful to them—something about themselves.

When that happens, the story leaves the writer and becomes the property of the reader, and that is when the writing matters.

For 25 years, it has happened. Thankfully, millions of readers have now found themselves in the words.

I like such accidents.

Terry Kay

www.terrykay.com

1

He understood what they were thinking and saying: Old man that he is, what’s to become of him? Let’s talk it out, they were saying cautiously.

Let’s talk it out and come up with some solution while we’re here, all of us, and it’s on our minds. See if we can approach him about it, reason with him even if the timing’s bad.

Makes sense. Can’t put it off forever, no matter how painful it’ll be to say aloud.

I don’t know. Not now. Can’t we wait? Just a few days, maybe.

But he’ll not make it being alone, not likely, not half-crippled as he is.

Not used to being alone, they were saying. Not at all.

That’s true. That’s true. Always been somebody else around, even with all of us taking our leave, one by one.

She was here. When we were all gone, at least she was here.

Yes, that’s true. Won’t be the same now, not at all, not without her. Something’ll have to take up the slack.

What are we going to do? We can’t say anything, not now.

Soon. We’ve got to, soon.

He’ll be stubborn about it, whatever we think.

He’s got pride, all right. It’s his mark. Thinks he’s still bull-strong, and it’s sad.

Still that way in his mind—bull-strong.

They were saying these things about him and did not know that he understood them, that he knew what they were saying. They were whispering among themselves that an old man’s mind plays tricks, that it feeds on the swill of illusion, like carnival shell games that are faster than the eye. They were saying it would be a great pity to see him that way.

It was now past midnight. They had arrived—his sons and daughters—in the afternoon and during the hours of the dark May evening, and they had embraced him and wept before him and then they had huddled around the large kitchen table to drink strong coffee and talk quietly among themselves in sad, worried voices.

They would not know it, but he understood what they were thinking and saying: Old man that he is, what’s to become of him?

He sat alone in his padded rocker in the middle room, near his rolltop desk, his good leg propped on the bottom brace of his aluminum walker, his head against the pillowed headrest of the chair, his eyes closed. He was not asleep, but he pretended sleep. It was better that way. He wanted his sons and daughters to get it said. Maybe by saying it, they’d get over it and wouldn’t hover over him as though he was an invalid.

He knew about hovering. He had been called home from Madison, from school, to care for his grandfather when he was seventeen and he’d hovered, watching his grandfather wither into death. He had not wanted to stay with his grandfather, but it was expected and he’d done it. He’d hovered, watching, watching. He did not want his children to be watching, watching.

They mean well enough, he thought. And they need to talk of something. They need to feel needed. They would not bicker, though. It was not the time or the place or the mood for bickering. Not now. Perhaps later, when they had stopped their pitying. And perhaps they should. They had tempers for it, each of them—temper and his pride (and hers). It would not be enough for any of them to give up an argument without their say. God knows, he thought, I’ve listened to them for more than fifty years, and they’ve never backed off without having their say. But they mean well, sitting there in the kitchen, drinking their strong coffee at the crowded table, talking of what would become of him.

The window beside his roll-top desk was open and he could smell the greening of spring and hear the squalling of swamp bugs, and clearer than the swamp bugs and the low, serious voices of his children from the kitchen, he could hear the sharp, spirited whistle of a whippoorwill below the barns. He opened his lips slightly, moistened them, drew in a breath and soundlessly answered the whippoorwill. She had liked him answering birdcalls—the whippoorwill, the bobwhite. In spring and in summer, at dusk, they had often sat on the screened-in sideporch and listened to the birds, and he had answered them, cry for cry, and it had pleased her to hear him playful after a day of field work. Sometimes the bobwhites would walk into the grass of the lawn when he whistled for them and she would whisper, Look! She would not permit anyone to kill the bobwhites that lived in the grainfields of their land. The bobwhites were too trusting, too easy to call up for the gunsights of a hunter.

Because of her, he had learned to look for the birds—the darting flight of wild canaries (yellow sun on yellow wings), the chesty preening of redbirds and bluebirds, the blackbird with the red-tipped wings like startling epaulets. Often he had strewn grain over the ground outside the kitchen window so she could see the birds feeding as she worked.

The grass of the lawn had been cut earlier that day by one of the sons-in-law off work, and the smell of the cut grass, through the window beside the roll-top desk, was sweet as mint.

He reached for a letter on the desk. It was an invitation to a reunion for the classes of 1910–1915 at Madison Agricultural and Mechanical—Madison A&M. Sixty years, he thought. Sixty years. The invitation had arrived that day. She had said, I want to go to this. It’s been a long time since we went back. And he had taken the letter and put it away on his desk. He had said to her, We’ll see about it. He read the letter again in the dim light of the table lamp. It was signed by Martha Dunaway Kerr. He put the letter back on his desk and nestled his neck against the pillowed headrest and closed his eyes again.

He could hear the footsteps of someone—perhaps two people—entering the middle room from the kitchen, but he did not open his eyes. The footsteps stopped at the door. There was a pause of silence, and he knew he was being watched. Then he heard the soft, backward steps of retreat. He knew what was being said inside the kitchen: He’s sleeping. And he knew someone (one of the daughters, likely) answered: Let him. He needs it.

Curious, he thought—knowing there was someone, perhaps two people, at the door leading into the room, knowing exactly where they were standing as they watched him, knowing they had walked back to the kitchen table. Or was it curious? No, he decided. No. It was his house. He knew it board by board, could hear the voices of its timbers and walk its walls in blind dark, reading its raised-lettered Braille with his fingertips.

He had walked the walls many times at night, going to her bed to see if she was sleeping, but he would not go to her bed this night. No, not this night.

He opened his eyes, felt them dampen. He moved his head on the headrest of the chair. He could feel the ache in his bad leg, in the thigh, in the hip that had been twice replaced with an artificial joint. One of his daughters (he could not remember which) had given him aspirin for the ache, but it had not helped. Tomorrow he would ask for something stronger from the druggist, something to numb the bruise deep in his hip, something pleasant to calm him, to keep him from reeling before the dizzying swarm of sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters and drawn-faced neighbors who would fill the house with their mumblings and their platters of food offerings. The druggist was wise enough to know what was needed. The druggist would know better than anyone.

The whippoorwill called again, but was farther away, deeper in the swamp.

He pulled his watch from his shirt pocket. The watch was tied by a cut-off shoestring that he had threaded through a buttonhole high on his shirt—a practice that annoyed his daughters because it made him appear unkempt. It was twelve-forty. It does not take long to die, he thought.

He stared at the face of the watch, at the dull lime green of the see-in-the-dark numbers and the long and the short hands, and he subtracted away the hours in his mind. Five? Almost six? He counted the hours again. Yes, almost six, he decided. It had happened quickly. He slipped the watch back into his shirt pocket and closed his eyes again. From the kitchen, he could hear the mewing of crying.

I, too, want to die as quickly, he thought.

***

She did not answer when he called (though he could no longer hear all voices well, he had trained his senses for her, knew her quietest words) and he pulled himself from the oversized armchair, up to the top brace of the aluminum walker, and dragged-walked from the living room to find her.

What’re you doing? he said in a loud voice. Thought you were coming back. Thought you wanted to see the show on the TV.

She did not answer, and he went from the middle room to the kitchen and then to the back bedroom. He saw her on the floor, near the bed, on her left side, and he knew immediately what had happened. He shoved his walker aside and tried to run to her, but could not and he hobbled, good leg, bad leg, leaning against the walls for support until he reached her. He touched her neck. He could feel a quivering pulse, a twitch of blood flow, but he could not feel her breathing, and he sank beside her on his good leg and turned her to him and slipped his arm beneath the cradle of her neck and pushed open her mouth with his fingers and closed his own mouth over hers and began to search for life with his tongue, but there was only the cooling taste of saliva. He kissed her gently.

Don’t, he said aloud. Don’t do this. Don’t do this.

He knew he could not lift her and it angered him. Old damned body, he thought. Old damned body. He eased her head down and pulled his arm from beneath her neck and rolled awkwardly and caught the knob of the closet door near him and drew himself up from the floor. The telephone was in the hallway and he stumbled, good leg, bad leg, to it and dialed a number. Four hundred yards away, across the sidelawn and a road, a daughter answered.

It’s your mama, he said.

Mama? his daughter asked, frightened. Mama?

He could not answer. He put the receiver back onto its rest and moved painfully back into the bedroom and sat on the side of the bed and looked down at her.

Don’t do this, he said again. Don’t.

He did not hear them entering the house and the room. He saw his son-in-law, worker-strong, lifting her and placing her on the bed beside him, and he knew the daughters—there were two living close and the one he called had called the other—were talking frantically, saying words to him that he did not understand or did not care to hear. And then there were men with a stretcher, and he could feel the muscled arm of another son-in-law helping him to his walker, and he was in the hospital where the antiseptic

Reviews for To Dance with the White Dog

[tloeffler_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A touching story. It sounded silly when I started, but ended up being a great read. It just made me feel good all over (except for when I cried).

[emcnellis16 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I first read this book when I was in college. At the time, this beautiful, tear-jerking story became one of my favorites. Almost 18 years later, I feel the same way. This story of grief, loss, love, and healing holds even deeper meaning for me now. This is a book I will keep in my collection -- to read over and over.

[ashley_schmidt_65 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

A beautiful novel in all its simplicity. A timeless love story that will break your heart and comfort you at the same time. Often overlooked and underrated... this book is a gem.

[tess_schoolmarm · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A charming story of a couple, Sam and Cora who were married for 57 years when the Cora suddenly died. Shortly after her death, a white dog appeared. White Dog did not reveal itself to others immediately or frequently, causing some to doubt Sam's sanity. However, White Dog comforted Sam and helped him to make the transition to life without Cora. When White Dog disappeared, Sam shortly followed her.

[mrslee_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Well, this book is one of the best written books I've read. I was heartbroken and heartwarmed from beginning to end. The story is about a man dealing with the grief of losing his wife, his struggles of aging and the way he and his children cope. It doesn't sound that great, but I couldn't put it down. It hit close to home as I thought about my own grandfather, his grief over losing his wife and dealing with his age (99).

[nina_n-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Yep, this is a true story (although names have changed, numbers of children, and other facts). With such alternations, the writer only meant to celebrate its spirit. And that he has done . . . and a fantastic job, I must add. ‘Tis a story that is heartbreaking as well as heartfelt. Anytime one has lost a loved one our emotions weep with pain. This author has done a tremendous job in setting characterization and scenes. His skill of writing shines through his words on the pages.If one has been through the journey, it’s easy to take this story and press it against their heart . . . simply because losses can be so Dearing and meaningful. It was so wonderful to read the inside pages of Sam’s diary that he kept on a daily basis. That too made it even more meaningful.I’ve walked the journey so it was rather easy to embrace its message. And there is nothing more so heartbreaking! So whether you’ve been there or know someone who has walked the journey, this is a book you’d want to read and share with others. Author, Kay thanks so much for letting us (readers) inside your personal journey.If you’ve looked at the reviews, it doesn’t amaze me the number of people that have read this book. Truly, it’s one to cherish!

[terris-7 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Very sweet! I also really liked the movie -- a real tear-jerker!

[luli81_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The story of an elderly woman who revises her past with the only company of her faithful dog... I cried so much !

[charlottenlund-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a beautiful book! Was briefly tempted to reduce my rating to 4 1/2 stars because of the last paragraph (why oh why, did that survive past the editors?), but that would have been immensely unfair...and it doesn't distract anything at all, to be honest. Just annoying that the only not-pitch-perfect paragraph had to be the last one!

[jnwelch_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Sam Peek is 80 and lives in rural Georgia. He has just lost his wife Cora after being married 57 years, and can't gather himself. Then a strikingly white dog appears near his house and befriends him, although it avoids everyone else. Many of Sam's 7 children live nearby, and they worry about him, concerned that the to-them invisible dog is a sign of some kind of dementia. Particularly when Sam starts talking about the dog putting its paws up on his walker and dancing with him. Sam's onto his children's concern, and enjoys putting them on about it. There's a great scene where two of his daughters sneak up to the house at night in commando gear with blackened faces, trying to either see the dog or prove its non-existence.Others start seeing the dog, and it accompanies him on a perilous journey (Sam doesn't drive well) to a class reunion. He loses his way, but his ability to attract kindness helps to some degree. "Maybe the lesson the Lord had intended for him to learn was in the white dog.... Maybe the dog was like the whale in the Jonah story, or like the lions with Daniel, or the doves of Noah's ark. Maybe the dog was the message and Sam Peek only the messenger." The book celebrates our being alive. It's funny and sad, and authentic about family relationships, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Four stars.

[maggie1944 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A charming story, told directly, and simply, of an old man adjusting to the loss of his wife, and his friends, one by one; and, the slow saying good bye to his farm, and his family. Not a depressing book at all. Charming. And life affirming. I do recommend it to those who enjoy good story telling. And the loving of the dog was very sweet. Spoiler: the old man dies, not the dog.

[whisper1_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a delightful book. Sam Peek suddenly lost his wife of 57 years, leaving him with fretful, worrisome children who mean the best, but at times get in the way of how Sam wants to live his remaining years.While driving his rickety, dilapidated truck down the country roads near his house, he notices a bright white dog frolicking in the field. Slowly, he gains the trust of the older dog and the two become soul mates. Sam's children believe he is getting daffy because while he talks of the marvel of the white dog, only Sam can see him. Gradually they can notice the dog, but not with the wonderment of Sam.This is a lovely tale of loss and of gain, of sorrow and joy, of adjusting to becoming older and of the time spent reminiscing wonderful memories.Found on the library book sale table for .25, this is the best buy of the year.Five Stars!

[auntieg0412 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Such a beautiful, sweetly sad book. I'm so glad I read it.

[therestlessmouse · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A great book but it might bring a tear to your eye. The movie is playing free on Youttube, I haven't had the fortitude to watch it yet.

[robertalea-223265 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Terry Kay is quite a storyteller. He can write a love story like no other. His disclaimer at the end: "And there was a White Dog.... I do not mean to offend the truth. I only wish to celebrate its spirit." And celebrate he does. Very, very good read.

[tess_w · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A charming story of a couple, Sam and Cora who were married for 57 years when the Cora suddenly died. Shortly after her death, a white dog appeared. White Dog did not reveal itself to others immediately or frequently, causing some to doubt Sam's sanity. However, White Dog comforted Sam and helped him to make the transition to life without Cora. When White Dog disappeared, Sam shortly followed her.

[auntmarge64 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A gentle short novel which follows the final years of an elderly widower in rural Georgia. Told almost entirely from the old man's point of view, he and his family grapple with his wish to remain independent, with the children constantly checking on (and annoying) him and worrying among themselves over each detail of his activities. Meanwhile, Sam adopts a stray dog which others think may be imaginary, putters around his arbor with his walker, and makes plans to sneak away for a 60-year class reunion. With humor and compassion, the author has fictionalized details from his own parents' lives, and anyone who has (or is) an elderly family member will recognize the truths so fondly laid out. Highly recommended.