At 540 South 93, there sits an old black mailbox. Beside it is an even older gray metal folding chair. It has been like this for many years.

Yesterday, with a 72-degree stillness and puffy white clouds in a crystal blue sky, I headed to FArmstrong, my retreat.

As I rounded the curve, I looked toward the mailbox as usual. Sitting in the chair was an older man. He seemed to be mourning over the remains of a dog.

I went to the next drive and turned around. I pulled into his driveway and got out.

He just looked at me and continued to cry. An aged beagle lies across his lap. Rigor has already set in.

I lowered my truck’s tailgate, pulled out an old towel, and offered it to him.

The man looked at me, took the shroud, and wrapped his best friend in the burial cloth.

Then, as he got control of himself, we introduced ourselves.

Louis is the man. Oscar the dog.

I stood and waited. At times, we need someone with a good listening ear.

And after a minute or so, Louis told me about Oscar.

Louis is battle-scared. He might be somewhere in his fifties, or he might be seventy. You could speculate that some meth played a role in his past and maybe even present life.

A visible tattoo on his left forearm reads, “Jesus and Oscar Saved Me.”

A noticeable scar crosses one cheek and his nose. He’s wearing an old, sweat-stained green John Deere hat.

Rough hands, a well-worn Masonic ring, short cut nails with signs of grease. A shock of graying hair peeks from under his cap on both sides. The beard stubble suggests no shave lately.

Louis says Oscar just showed up. On that very day, Louis had decided to take his life.

Louis had gone to the abyss time and again. Depression was not uncommon until Oscar showed up.

Like many of us, he survived each visit. But that day, when he looked over the edge, the abyss beckoned, even taunted, and seemed welcoming. Life had become joyless.

That is until Oscar, from out of nowhere, walked up, sat down, and looked at him with deep, sad eyes.

Oscar wasn’t a pup. Louis and the vet figured he was about six, maybe even seven years old. The dog had lived a hardscrabble life, one Louis could identify with.

Oscar’s ribs outlined his body. His paws were worn from the runs in the woods. He had scars around his black, always wet nose. And those deep black eyes penetrated anyone who looked into them as if they could see the soul.

“He was a healthy dog, you know,” Louis says, sighing and ignoring the realities. “Healthy dogs have wet noses. You know. And his bay at the moon – it was worthy.”

Louis struggles to maintain his composure. He no longer weeps. Tears slide down through the stubble, seeking escape. He wipes them away as best he can.

I squeeze his shoulder. He offers me his seat. And then a cigarette.

“No, thank you, sir. You rest,” I tell him. I lean against the tailgate.

He lights up his Camel unfiltered and takes a long draw. He coughs.

“I should stop these,” he looks at me, “but they calm my nerves. The Army did this to me.”

I nod. I understand. A pipe or cigar calms me.

Louis bathed, brushed, and took Oscar to the vet for all his shots that same day.

He tells me that Oscar was a constant companion after that day, the day they rescued each other.

For many years, they walked down the road on Sundays to Brother Gray’s Church at Lamasco. The pastor let them sit together in the back pew. Oscar was always respectful.

But the everyday routine was for Oscar and Louis to sit in the old chair and wait on the mail lady. They enjoyed watching traffic go by their home place. They enjoyed people waving and honking at them.

I know this to be true because I waved and honked many times.

“Oscar and Jesus saved my life. You know?”

I do know. Four decades ago, a dog with a wet nose and kind eyes saved my life.

And with that memory, I began to tear up.

Louis got up and handed me Oscar ever so gently. I wrapped the shroud even tighter around the beloved body.

“Will you help me bury him?” Louis says with every remaining ounce of control he can manage.

“Of course.”

I sat in that old chair, tears running down my cheeks. Louis came back a few minutes later with a shovel.

We scrapped and dug the hard-packed ground until a suitable grave emerged.

Gently and reverently, I handed Oscar back to Louis. With his knees popping, he lowered himself and laid his long-time friend to rest.

Oscar lays now for eternity wrapped in the old blue towel just above the mailbox where he used to sit daily with his best friend.

We shook hands. And as I turned to get in the truck, he asked, “Would you mind me hugging you?”