“There were definitely days my mother would not have agreed with you. Wrangling four boys was no mean feat.”
She laughs. “I bet you were the planner of the group, right?”
“I was. If you’re going to misbehave you should have a plan going into it. Do you have any siblings?”
“I have a brother who is older than me. He’s married and has two kids. We’re closer now than we were when we were growing up.”
“That’s awesome.” I grab Barrel’s leash off of the bench by the front door and hold it up to Barrel. “Sit, big guy.”
He does instantly and I clip on his leash.
“Why is he so well-behaved for you?” she asks. “It’s so rude.”
“He senses my rigid personality.”
Winnie doesn’t refute that.
“Look. He’s so photogenic just sitting there on his haunches. He could be wearing a bowtie for goodness sake.”
“He really does.” I rub Barrel’s head. “Are you going to tell me how he got his name?”
“It’s not really a story.” Winnie heads out the front door, brushing her dark hair back over her shoulders. “When Barrel was dropped off at the shelter he was so thin he was absolutely starving. It was terrible.”
I fell into step beside her, loosely holding Barrel’s leash. “Should he be hearing this? Will he be retraumatized?” I lean down and cover his ears.
Winnie stops walking. “If we just talk in a calm voice I’m pretty sure he has no idea what we’re discussing. Just don’t say e-a-t. So anyway, that night after he’d been bathed and fed, we found him in the corner of the shelter devouring one of our co-workers' homemade cookies, which were really, really bad. Inedible. I think she forgot the sugar. So we told him he was really scraping the bottom of the barrel and somehow then he became Barrel.”
“How is that not a story?” I release Barrel’s ears. “That is the very definition of a story, Winnie. Poor guy. He thought he was snagging a good treat and it was a botched cookie.”
“Speaking of botched baked goods…here we are,” Winnie says. She holds up the container as we reach the festival.
The official booth for the various contests and events going on all weekend is right in front of us.
She’s still trusting me to walk Barrel but I hang back a little with him as she drops off her bourbon balls.
“No repeat of yesterday, do you understand?” I murmur to him. “Corn dogs are for kids. Even the name has ‘dog’ in it. You don’t want to eat that. It’s practically cannibalism.”
Barrel whines. He’s clearly not buying it.
I try a different tactic. “You don’t want to embarrass Winnie.”
Though I’m not sure anything would embarrass Winnie.
As if determined to provide me with an answer, Barrel suddenly takes off.
His movement jerks my wrist. “Whoa!” I tug him back. “None of that, now.”
If a dog can show disdain, Barrel is doing it now.
But after Winnie has her bourbon balls plated on the display and judging table, Barrel seems content to stroll around the festival, receiving pets from a half dozen kids and showing off his sitting skills for various town citizens.
“He is acting like he sits on command all the time,” Winnie says, looking bemused. “He never does this. It’s crazy.”
I’m feeling pretty pleased with the whole thing. “He’s really responding to me. I feel special, I’m not going to lie.”
“You’ve missed having a dog.” It’s not a question.
I nod. “I love being a distiller. I love the business we’ve created. But that’s come with sacrifice.”
