In autumn 1975, our family was planning our annual vacation. This year, for the first time, we would visit the Black Hills of South Dakota. I don't know who looked forward most to the trip, my parents, George and Blanche, or my brother, Dave, and I. Of course, Fudge was going. He was our cocker spaniel and as much a member of the family as any. After all, Fudge had been part of the family since he was six weeks old. Although he was up there in years (I was 12 and he was 10), you would never know it by the way he looked or acted. Fudge's fur was long and curly and the color of my mom's homemade butterscotch fudge. He always slept curled up at my feet just as he had when he was a puppy.
I think each of us thought of Fudge as his own. My dad because he had brought Fudge home in the first place, my mom because Fudge followed her throughout the house all day as she went about her chores. My brother believed Fudge was his own because he always looked after feeding him, and I knew Fudge belonged to me because it was my feet he kept warm each night.As we traveled the long trip north, Fudge was at my feet whenever he wasn't curled up in the back seat between my brother and me. I think Fudge's soft presence between us kept many a sibling argument from breaking into fisticuffs on the stretch from Salt Lake City through Wyoming and finally into South Dakota.
Each time Dad stopped for us to get something to eat, whether we made a roadside picnic lunch or stopped at a small-town cafe, my brother would see that Fudge had his kibble and some treat saved from lunch. I made sure that Fudge got a chance to stretch and run and have a refreshing bowl of water.
When we finally made it to Mount Rushmore, Fudge didn't mind the unusual constraint of a leash. He was a very smart dog, and I think when he saw all dogs were on leashes he knew it was required. Fudge seemed to enjoy the wonderful smells of people and other dogs and the autumn air. I even think that he sensed a specialness about Mount Rushmore. Perhaps he picked up on the awe with which we and other families, people from all over the world, looked up at the great carved stone faces. They were quieter than most crowds of people are, and Fudge seemed more dignified than he might have been other rare times when we put him on a leash.
Usually, our family's budget meant we had to camp in national forests and state recreational areas when we traveled, but this year Dad surprised us by renting a motel room in Rapid City, South Dakota. Dad felt if he was better rested for driving, our trip would be safer. Mom said he was just getting too old for the rigors of setting up camp each night after a long drive. My brother and I were elated to stay in a real motel. It even had a color television, and we got to watch the late show, curled up with Fudge on a big double bed. At home, we would never have been allowed to stay up so late.
The next morning I went to the motel lobby to bring back the "continental breakfast" offered to guests. Fudge, of course, followed me. When we were about ready to get back on the road, Dad said he would get the car gassed up while Mom checked out. He gave a call for Fudge to come with him, and we all realized at the same moment that Fudge was gone. He must not have come back in when I brought doughnuts and juice back to the room.
First, we all ran around the motel calling his name. We asked at the office. We asked people who were leaving their rooms; we went into the cafe next door and asked. There was no sign of Fudge, and it was my fault.
The man at the motel said his brother was a local DJ and he would get a "lost dog" announcement on the air that morning. Dad said he would stay another day if it meant we'd have a better chance of getting Fudge back. We were hopeful because Fudge had an ID tag with his Utah address and phone on it, and we heard the lost dog announcement on the radio three times that day, but not one call came in to tell us Fudge had been found.
I remember lying next to the motel phone, awake and weeping all through the night. I didn't see how my parents and brother could even sleep. The next morning I cried and wailed, but my dad was unmoved. He had to be back to work. He was as sorry as could be about Fudge, but we had to go home. I couldn't have felt worse if he had abandoned me in South Dakota. But I also knew it wasn't Dad I was mad at. It was myself. It was my fault. Fudge was probably scared and hungry and confused. All because I had wanted to get those free doughnuts.
Thanksgiving came and went back in Utah and I went to school each day, but I was always looking out the window, distracted, waiting for my dog. I overheard Mom worrying to Dad about me. She suggested Dad get me a new puppy for Christmas, but I wouldn't hear of it. I wanted Fudge, not just any old puppy. Why'd we have to leave him in South Dakota, anyway?
I didn't feel excited about Christmas that year. The only gift I remember buying was a doggie stocking full of chewy rubber dog bones. I put Fudge's name on it and showed my brother. Dave was 14 and thought I was just being stupid; I had to accept that Fudge was gone. He stopped short of saying he was dead. "He probably has a nice family in Rapid City," he said.
Christmas Eve came and I hung Fudge's stocking right between mine and Dave's. As I did, I heard a scratching noise and a whimper at the door. At first, I thought my brother was making fun of me for the stocking. But he looked as startled as I felt. He opened the front door and Fudge came running in and knocked me over in an enthusiastic leap. He had a big red bow on his neck and a note hung from the ribbon. "Merry Xmas," it said. "I found Fudge near Mount Rushmore, South Dakota, last October. He's ridden with me from coast-to-coast, and he's a fine dog, but I knew he should come home for Christmas. Sorry it took so long; this is my first stopover in Utah. Freightways Trucking, Max."
That was the Christmas I learned that miracles do happen.
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ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
About the author
Sandi Craven was born and raised in Payson. She is a single parent with a one grown son and a teenage daughter.
Craven is a resident of the Millcreek Health Center and has been confined to a wheelchair for 11 years after an auto-pedestrain accident that caused partial paralysis.
She wrtoe the story, "Fudge for Christmas," about three years ago for a writing class at the Utah Independent Living Center.
Listening to country music is a favorite pastime, as is attending numerous classes at the center.