Henton Bardon was a lonely man of many sorrows.
Born twenty years before the dawn of the new century,
he'd seen amazing changes in his seventy seven years;
he'd also suffered many heartaches along the way.
He was born and raised on a 140 acre farm outside of Broken Bow,
Oklahoma. It was a farm that he'd never left, having been born at
home in a back room - the same room he now slept in. He was
brought into the world in that room and he figured
he'd leave this world in it as well.
Henton's sorrows included: watching friends die on the
battlefields of Europe during the Great War, and losing
both his parents to the Spanish flu in the fall of 1918.
He'd outlived all four of his children: one dying of
whopping cough as an infant; two that contracted
Scarlet Fever and died within a week of each other,
and his youngest had gone down with his Navy
warship as it sank in the South Pacific.
His wife of 45 years, who'd been forced to stand by helplessly
as three of her children died of disease, found the death of her
youngest impossible to emotionally digest. Inconsolable,
she took to her bed in the summer of '44 and within three
weeks she'd wasted away in her grief and anguish.
Henton would later claim,
She died of a battered and badly broken heart.
Now completely alone, the only assuagement he
found for his loneliness was a dog named Hobo.
It was six months after the death of his beloved wife, that, by
strange, random chance, he happened to stumble across an
injured puppy who lay crying in a ditch along side the road.
Henton, assuming he'd been hit by a car, carried the pitiful
animal to the vet in Broken Bow.
The doctor examined him and said he didn't think
the dog's injuries suggested that he'd been hit by a car.
He felt that it was more likely that some local farmer
had tossed the unwanted creature out of his car.
"Happens all the time around here," he explained.
Horrified at the thought of such cruelty, Henton asked
the doctor if he thought he could survive his injuries.
The veterinarian told him not to get his hopes up,
but recommended he leave the animal with
him and he'd see what he could do.
After two weeks with the vet - defying all odds -
the scrappy little dog survived; suffering only
one hind leg left shorter than the other.
Henton would bring the little lame
boy home and call him Hobo.
That first night, Henton made up a pallet on the floor in the
front room. As he turned out the light for the night, Hobo was
curled up, fast asleep. But sometime after midnight, he was awakened by a strange sound. Turning on the lamp next to the bed, he discovered his new dog staring up at him, whimpering.
Understanding that he might be nervous his first night in a
strange place, Henton dragged the dog's pallet into his room
and placed it at the foot of his bed. Hobo immediately
crawled on it and the problem was solved.
The following night, in the midst of a raging thunderstorm, he
was once again awakened by Hobo whimpering next to his bed. Realizing that the animal was probably
frightened of the thunder, he debated doing something he would've never dreamed of doing before. He looked into the sad eyes of the pitiful creature and allowed his emotions to override his sensibilities.
Patting the side of the bed he invited him up,
"Come on, boy."
The following day the pallet was removed - never to return.
It didn't take long before the two became inseparable.
Undeterred by his deformity, Hobo spent his days
galloping lopsidedly along side his benefactor and riding
"shotgun" in the truck whenever they drove into town.
As the months passed, a bond was forged
unlike any the man had ever known. Two orphans,
of sorts, thrown together by chance, fate, or just dumb luck.
One rescued from a ditch of abandonment;
the other, from the lonely depths of despair.
When summer came, with its oppressive heat and humidity,
Henton always knew where he could find his pup;
lying in the shade of a huge elm tree that stood
on a gentle slope behind the house.
The next twelve years would pass without a single
day spent apart, and then it came - that inevitable day.
It was a Thursday morning. Usually when Henton arose
at 5 a.m. Hobo jumped out of bed with him,
but not this morning. He didn't think too much
of it, figuring the dog was just extra tired, so he went
on about his morning routine. But, after a couple of hours,
he began to worry. As he walked down the hall, he called his name,
but Hobo didn't come running as he normally did.
Entering the bedroom, he found Hobo lying on the bed -
softly sighing with every breath.
Henton walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. As he
rubbed the dog's head he asked, "What's wrong, buddy?"
Hobo looked up athis friend with sad eyes that
suggested that he knew his time was short.
Henton immediately picked him up,
put him in the truck, and off they went to town.
The vet said he'd need to draw blood in order to accurately
diagnosis the problem; the results of the blood work
would take a couple of days. He'd call when they came in.
With that, Henton scooped up his ailing boy
and brought him back home.
As evening fell, Henton changed out of his work clothes
and climbed into bed next to Hobo. Just after midnight
he awoke to the sound of his dog softly crying in pain. He reached over and gently stroked his his fur until the crying stopped, then both fell back asleep.
When the old man awoke at five a.m., he tried to rouse his boy, but got no response. Sometime during the night his sweet Hobo had been taken from him.
Overwhelmed by grief, he pulled the lifeless body
of his beloved friend close and wept.
Later that morning Henton decided that the perfect spot to
bury his friend would be underneath the the large elm tree behind the house. It had been under its outstretched branches that Hobo had sheltered from the summer heat, and it was from that vantage point that he'd surveyed the vast expanse of land that made up his world.
As he drank his coffee, the old man pondered his new,
lonely reality; then suddenly it dawned on him.
Wait a minute!
Excited - he walked across the kitchen and grabbed
the phone book. Once he found what he was looking for,
he picked up the phone and dialed the number.
"Hello, George? This is Henton Bardon - say, are working today? You are? Well, that's great. Would it be o.k. if I came down straight away? Thank you, sir; I'll see you in a bit."
Grabbing a blanket, he walked into the bedroom, wrapped
Hobo up in it - carried him out to the truck, and off they
went; bumping down the rutty dirt road that lead to town.
As he came to the far end of Main Street he made
a left turn. About three blocks down he saw the big
red sign and pulled into the gravel parking lot.
"Here we are, boy."
Walking around to the passenger side, he lifted Hobo's lifeless body out of the truck and headed for the door.
As he walked in, George Browne called out,
"Morning, Henton. What you got there?"
"Well George, I've got a very special job for you."
And he was soon to be alone no more ...
Great story...didn’t see that ending opening.
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