I first met him at a field trial for pointing dogs. He was sitting somewhat away from the crowd viewing the action as the horseback-mounted gallery following the dogs’ work crossed the road we were seated around. At the Old Man’s side was a grizzled Black Labrador Retriever with whom he was sharing a ham and cheese sandwich. He took a bite and then gave his dog a portion. It was clearly a ritual they had shared many times. With each bite, the Lab’s eyes would roll up in delight and his tail would thump, thump, thump three times.

I asked if I could join him and he said, “Well, as long as you got your own ham sandwich. Mine’s about gone.”

His hands were those of a working man. The creases in his fingers were stained. The stain could have been tobacco, grease, or just old age catching up that can no longer wash away.

His dog caught the last bite of their shared sandwich, and then the old man fished around in his jacket and retrieved an unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette and lit it. Yeah, probably tobacco stains…

As the cigarette smoke swirled about his face in the calm air of that day, he told me: “Bud here, this old knucklehead of a dog, is the worst I’ve ever owned. If you were 30 years younger, you would know who I was and what a contender I used to be.”

I said, “Bud there looks pretty happy to me.” The Old Man replied, “Well, he should be. He never misses a meal and sleeps in the bed with me every night since my wife died.”

“Sounds to me like he’s a pretty good dog,” I responded. “The most talented dog I ever had didn’t have much to do with me other than feeding her and taking her hunting,” he said.

I used to joke, If she could drive the truck, she wouldn’t need me at all.

The Old Man then admitted, “I give my best dog away…” He took a deep drag on his cigarette. I think he was more a habit smoker than an addicted one. This was the first puff he took since lighting it. The ash on the end was an inch long, yet it didn’t fall off as he continued: “Was cutting a branch in my driveway and fell off the ladder and broke a bunch of stuff. I was 82 then. Couldn’t take care of her anymore — she was a lot of dog and deserved to do what she was bred for.”

He added: “I give her to a young man with half a face. He was a snuff dipper and got the cancer. Just bad genetics or bad luck all around. He wasn’t but 35 years old. Doctors cut half his face and jaw away to get it all. I figured he needed something to be proud of. His daddy was the county road superintendent and knew most any farmer that had quail on their place — kid was on disability but his legs were good. He must of hunted old ‘Bess’ over 100 days that first year he had her.”

I asked the Old Man about his Labrador. He said: “Bud here was give to me when I stopped going to church. Didn’t stop believing or praying, mind you, just didn’t feel like getting dressed up anymore or talking to anyone after Martha died. I was the quiet one; Martha did all the talking. I was always proud of her.”

He lit another Pall Mall.

“One of the deacons in the church was a field trial man that had a good litter of pups. Said if I wasn’t coming to church anymore he reckoned I needed somebody to talk to and he give me Bud here. That was 13 years ago now. I used to be a good dog trainer but about all I’ve done with Bud is talk to him. Don’t reckon Bud will be around much longer. Don’t reckon I will be either.”

We paused our conversation as the second handler crossed the road with his English Pointer. He held up three fingers indicating to the crowd that his dog already had three perfect finds.

The Old Man smiled and said: “I used to do that crossing this very spot. Always did it for Martha. She never got along much with horses but she wanted to watch us from the ground and know how we were fairing.”

“The hard part of getting old is having to just watch all of those things you used to be good at. I always had a way with dogs and horses and I’ve been horseback field-trialing from the Canadian Prairie to North Dakota to North Florida and about everything in between. Now my eyes are going and I won’t pass my driver’s license eye exam next year, so this is probably my last trip to Grand Junction.”

I asked, “Where do you live? Never caught your name, by the way.” He replied: “Tom — pleased to meet you. I live in Franklin County, Tennessee. Little town you never heard of.”

I said, “Try me, because I live in Franklin County myself. Little town called Alto…”

“Well I’ll be a suck egg mule!” Tom replied (an old expression of bewilderment indigenous to the Deep South). “We’re not five miles apart!”

I buried “Bud” for Tom the following summer beside a rose bush the dog liked to lay under and watch the squirrels run about the yard. He had been too old to chase them for a while. Tom sat on his porch about 20 yards away with tears streaming down his cheeks and a Pall Mall in the corner of his mouth.

I attended Tom’s funeral two weeks later. Guess he and Bud needed each other more than either was willing to admit.

Getting old is hard. Living a life devoid of memory-producing adventures is harder. I visited Tom almost daily during the last months of his life and listened to the stories of great men, dogs, horses, birds, rattlesnakes, wind-blown prairies, summer thunderstorms, winter blizzards that blew in and surprised everyone, and, of course, Martha, the love of his life.

He seemed pleased toward the end. The Old Man was my friend and lived a life worth living and recounting.

Don’t pass up today’s adventure that will be tomorrow’s memory!