NOVEMBER 12, 2023
HELLO, GOODBYE – ANOKA, MN – AUGUST 15, 1967 UNTIL ABOUT 2:30 P.M.
The heat and humidity continued. By the headlines I knew it was getting hotter in Vietnam, too—in the Mekong Delta, 15,000 U.S. and South Vietnamese troops pummeled Viet Cong massing for an attack on the outskirts of Saigon. In the Gulf of Tonkin, an accidental catastrophe had struck the U.S.S. Forrestal, killing 134 and injuring over 160. Graphic photos filled the front page of the Star Tribune. On August 13, American planes bombed targets in North Vietnam just 10 miles from the Chinese border. The war just had to be over, I reassured myself, before my graduation from high school in 1972—eons from that August.
That morning, Jenny was on the phone with her two best friends. Beth Rainbow, who lived at the end of a cul de sac five blocks away, was related to the Moores on Ruth’s side. Rainbows were churchy people, even more than Mother wanted us to be, and people thought Jane’s older brother Paul, who took piano lessons from Mother, was some kind of prodigy. Jenny’s other best friend, Jane Johnson, lived up on Park Avenue, four blocks away, in a smaller, older version of our colonial-style house, except I went inside once with Mother and noticed that the furnishings were much nicer than ours. Jane’s dad was the city engineer, and apparently his math skills had rubbed off on his kids. Rumor had it that they were all whizzes at it in school.
Like all the other normal families in Anoka, Rainbows and Johnsons owned televisions. Thus, a person can reasonably assume that Jenny watched Lassie episodes at the Rainbows or the Johnsons or both.
“I’m getting my dog at two o’clock, Beth,” Jenny said excitedly into the phone, as I walked past the phone desk just outside the den. Her voice was so big with joy, she needed both hands to hold the receiver. “Ride your bike down to my house before that! ’Kay, ‘bye!” As I plopped down on the sofa in the den, I heard Jenny call Jane.
At a little after one o’clock, the three friends gathered around their bikes on the driveway, while I fielded grounders off the back wall of the garage. I was a little conflicted. I wanted them out of the way at the same time I wanted to show off at close quarters, my athletic prowess. They seemed to oblige me by hopping onto their bikes and riding up and down the street in front of our house, occasionally coursing up and down the apron of the driveway. Whenever I stole a furtive glance, however, I noticed that none of the three girls was watching me.
* * *
Dave Berg struggled to persuade Björn to get into Dave’s ’57 Chevy, which was parked in front of the house. Unsuccessful, he knelt in front of Björn and holding him, looked into his panting face. “I understand, Björn,” he said. “Believe me I understand. But your new owners are expecting you, and as hard as it is, we’ve got to get goin’.” Dave then used a Milk Bone to entice Björn into the back of the car.”
“If you think what I just did was dishonest, Björn . . .” Dave said, as he climbed in behind the wheel, “well, I guess you’re right . . . But how else was I gonna get you to do what neither one of us wants to do? . . . Worst day of my life, Björn. That’s for sure.”
Dave Berg drove his Chevy up the West River Road to Champlin, then started across the bridge into Anoka. Björn panted in the heat, his head fanned by the breeze through the open windows. Dave looked in the rearview mirror as he began to address the dog from which he was about to be separated forever. “Björn, we’ve made a mess of things, we have. Vietnam. When will it end? When will it end? . . . I’d take you with me, buddy, if I could, but I’m signed up for four years, and there’s just no one to care for you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Dave pulled the scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. “Rice Street, buddy. We’re supposed to be looking for a Rice Street . . . first one on our left.” Dave slowed, signaled, waited for a string of cars coming south, then made the turn.
* * *
After riding their bikes a few times up and down the street in front of the house, Jenny called a stop. “Let’s jump rope in the driveway,” she said. Disappointed that my all-star exhibition had gone largely unnoticed, I called it quits on the grounders. I’d gain more satisfaction leaning against the frame of the garage doorway, watching Jenny and her friends jump-rope and satisfying myself that they weren’t half as athletic as I was.
“Let’s do monkeys,” Jenny said. “I’ll go first.” From a hook on the inside wall of the garage, she retrieved the jump rope and handed it to her friends. As the rope twirled and Jenny jumped, the three girls began calling out the familiar rhyme, “Five little monkeys jumping on a bed . . .” At the end of “four little monkeys,” I noticed a car approach. The girls were oblivious, even as the car nearly stopped. I thought it might be the man arriving with Björn, but the sun was too bright for me to see the driver. I heard the girls chant, “Two little monkeys, jumping on a bed, one fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said . . .”
* * *
Two long blocks in, Dave slowed down to get a read of a house number. Upon catching the number of our old house next door—503, he braked gently. He shifted his sight from the three girls jumping rope in the driveway to the boy leaning against the doorframe of the garage to the “505” over the front doorway. This was the house, but he seemed relieved that the mom was nowhere in sight.
“Björn, Jesus, God, save me,” Dave said, his voice shaking. He couldn’t hold back the tears. Björn stopped his panting, let out a light whine, and gave Dave’s neck a big lick. “Please forgive me, buddy,” he said, barely getting his words out. “Look at the kids playin’. These seem like really nice folks . . . your new owners, Björn. I wouldn’t hand you off to just anyone . . . you know that, don’t you?”
Dave gently shifted his foot from the brake to the accelerator, and the car continued without drawing attention. “I’d only sell you to people I can trust . . . only people who are gonna give you a good life . . . oh, Jesus!” Dave turned his head to look at Björn. The dog again stopped panting, tilted his head as he looked back at Dave and whined softly.
After passing three more houses to the end of the street, Dave rounded the corner and drew to a stop alongside the curb. He turned off the ignition, shifted in his seat and faced Björn. With no one around to see or hear him, Dave let go of his tears. “You know, don’t you, boy . . . You’re the best dog in the world. I knew that from the day I got you.” Björn barked, then resumed his panting. “I want you to be the best dog for the Nilssons. They’ll take really good care of you. I promise you, Björn. They’re Swedish too, you know. Their name is even spelled the old fashioned way. They’re not gonna change your name. You’re not gonna be a ‘Duke’ or a ‘Buster’ or some dumb name like that. You’ll always be Björn, because that’s who you are.”
After wiping his face with his T-shirt, Dave started up the car again and continued slowly around the block. This time he pulled up to the curb in front of our house, stopped and turned off the car.
* * *
Björn tugged Dave, his outstretched hand holding the leash, toward the driveway. Jenny stopped jumping and dashed toward the garage and the back door, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! My dog is here!”
Perhaps Mother had already seen Dave pull up or just happened to be standing near the back door, but in either case, before Jenny caught up with her excited words, Mother was out the door.
Mother and Dave greeted each other from opposite ends of the driveway. A hard panting Björn wagged his tail furiously, then let out two sharp barks as everyone except I converged on the man and his dog. Dave grasped the leash tightly in both hands, with one close to the choke collar. Björn’s back was waist high on Jenny. I wondered how she was going to handle such a bundle of fur and energy.
“If you want to hold him for a sec,” said Dave, offering Mother the leash but still holding it with both hands, “I’ll get a box of stuff out of the trunk.” With slight hesitation, Mother accepted the leash, then tightened her grip with every ounce of her strength. Björn turned and barked at Dave and yanked hard toward him as Dave walked to his car. Mother lurched. She had no choice but to follow Björn, as the barking dog tugged her closer to the car. Dave opened the trunk and lifted out a box of dog supplies.
“So here’s his stuff,” he said. “His food dish, water dish, brush, some treats and some dog food to get through the next couple of days.”
“Tha-a-a-nks,” Mother said, as if Björn’s sudden tug on the leash had yanked the word out of her mouth. Dave set the box of supplies down on the lawn beside the driveway and took the leash back from Mother, who then stepped back and wiped her sweaty hands on the sides of her dress.
Shortening his grip on the leash, Dave asked Jenny if she wanted to pet Björn. Gingerly, she stepped up to try to pat him on top of the head. Björn wagged his tail vigorously and barked. Though I was still standing up by the garage, I covered my ears. I thought it was good that Dave was delivering the dog before either Dad or Fred Moore got home from work.
Dave asked Jenny if she wanted to hold the leash, and when she declined, Dave offered to hold onto it with her, and upon this condition, she agreed. Together, they walked Björn around the driveway, and gradually, Jenny gained enough confidence to allow Dave to let go.
The arrangements were then completed. From my vantage point, I saw Mother hand Dave a check and Dave give Mother a large envelope, which I would later learn contained Björn’s AKC papers. After some conversation, not all of which I caught, the time came for Dave to say good-bye.
While Mother, Jenny and her two friends looked on, Dave knelt beside Björn and wrapped his arms around the mane of the panting dog. Shaking, the man held on for what I thought would be forever. When he finally stood up, I noticed him wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. I realized I was seeing a man cry—something I’d never seen before. Not even Dad or Grandpa at our grandmother’s funeral.
Jenny and Mother together clutched Björn’s leash, taut as could be, as Dave walked to his car and climbed in. The dog’s frantic barking told all who could hear that a terrible mistake had been made. The car made a big U-turn and headed out. I felt as sad for the dog as I did for his now former owner.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
