The Rotweiler

At dusk, Coyote spotted Locust near the freshly made mound of red earth. Coyote's voice cracked like melting ice over crushed leaves. "Grandpa Nalnishe buried his son today." Naalnishí in Navajo mean "One who works" or, loosely translated, Grandpa Worker.

Locust chirped, “Who was his son?”

Nicona. It is wrong to talk about the dead because their spirits are moving on to the next world, and we don't want to trap them here by accidentally calling them back. Nicona. But Coyote started to tell his story with the rising night and the coming rainstorm.

Nicona. We all remember the story. Grandpa went to the distant purple canyons where different gods dwell in Anasazi ruins, some say the gods Poverty and Sleep (or even the infectious Lice People). Grandpa went looking for his two lost lambs. One was the night's spirit and the other was the cloud's edges. He never found them. They are probably still sleeping under yucca trees or just too poor to come home, or lice as big as cows ate them. But that's a different story...

Instead, after the moon fell into the canyons, Grandpa came home with a big dark dog. As mysterious as the rolling fog, Nicona came from the mist following Grandpa's riding horse home. We asked Grandpa, "How did you come up with your mystery dog's name?" because it isn't Navajo like Yazzie or Begay. He told us of a wise man in China, Hastiin Lo Chen, whom he speaks to each night in his dreams. One night, the wise China man gave Grandpa a gift, a rotweiler, and Lo Chen said, "Your dog's name is Nicona." From then on, we thought Grandpa accidentally nibbled on locoweed. Many questions always remained about Nicona.

How does a big orange-and-black-furred dog end up on the Navajo reservation, four worlds removed from Beijing?

Nicona and Grandpa became one, like father and son, except when it came to food. They never ate in the same space. As Grandpa roasted mutton in the hogan, Nicona ate outside. It is wrong to eat in front of dogs or cats (even though they are considered family). Together, they loved to gather sheep and cows. Nicona wasn't like Grandpa's own grandchildren, who hated to herd sheep. They needed to be near each other, like the harvest moon follows the planting moon. Stars smoothing the pitch of night, chasing each other forever ...

One day, Nicona almost swallowed a horned toad (he swallowed everything else, like rabbits and crows) near our hogan. Grandpa yelled at Nicona, "You never eat family. Leave him alone!" The horned toads are sacred beings, our grandfathers too. Nicona backed away, which gave character to the orange fur above his eyes. On that day it look like big tears. Nicona never attempted to eat another family member again.

Coyote stopped his story to gently pat the wet earth of Nicona's mound. Locust played a sweet sad melody that night for all to hear and know.

In bed, I listened to a howling coyote and some crickets chirping through the night while remembering Nicona's passing. It was my first weekend home after three months in boarding school, where the food was bad and they showed Bruce Lee movies over and over. Before the sun set, we ate our first dinner without Nicona guarding the doorway. I still remember Grandpa's hands, stained red from digging dark clay, as he ate a piece of salted frybread. It was the only thing Grandpa ate; his cold mutton ribs were still on a foil-wrapped plate, waiting. In the darkness, I heard the labored breaths of Grandpa trying to sleep himself out of sadness.

Coyote said, "Hágoónee'," to Nicona and Locust. He headed toward the purple canyons to tell the news to Sleep and Poverty and maybe even the Lice People, if they promised not to eat him. Coughing and almost in tears (Coyote hated sad stories), Coyote muttered, "Sheesh, I'll never watch another Karate movie again, it's too painful."

On the ground, the moonlight outlined the tiny tracks of the horned toad leading away from the drying mound. The sound of rolling thunder broke Locust's song. Soon the air would be electric with rain falling over Grandpa's lands.