Part 2: My Wife Left Me After 17 Years Because I “Only Loved My Bike And My Club” — Two Weeks Later A Chained Pit Bull In A Vacant Lot Taught Me She Had Been Right About Everything

I’m going to tell this in pieces because the pieces are the only honest way to tell it.

On that first Friday afternoon, I sat in the dirt of the vacant lot for one hour and ten minutes.

The dog growled for about the first eighteen minutes. Then he stopped growling. He sat down. He kept watching me. His ears stayed forward. His body stayed tense.

I did not look directly at him. I had owned a couple of dogs in my life — my dad had bred coonhounds when I was a kid — and I knew that direct eye contact reads as a challenge to a dog who is already on edge. I looked at the ground in front of him. I looked at the rusted truck behind him. I looked at my own hands.

I did not say anything.

I sat there until 3:10 p.m.

Then I stood up, slowly, and I walked back across the gravel road to my bike. I did not look back at him.

I rode home.

I sat at my kitchen table that night without a beer, for the first time in seven nights, and I thought about the dog.

I want to tell you what I was thinking, because it is the part of this story I do not always say out loud.

I was thinking that the dog had been alone for a long time. Probably overnight at minimum, probably longer. I was thinking that the chain was the wrong kind of chain — too heavy, too short. I was thinking that the bowl had been empty.

I was also thinking — and this is the part I am embarrassed about — that the dog had not asked me for anything. He had growled at me. He had told me he did not want me there. He had been honest with me about where we stood.

My wife had been honest with me for 10 years and I had not heard her.

The dog had been honest with me for 18 minutes and I had heard him.

That hit me hard. I sat at the kitchen table for about 40 minutes and tried not to think about what that meant.

I went to bed at 10 p.m. I did not drink.

I went back to the vacant lot the next day at 2 p.m.

That second day, I brought a sandwich.

It was a basic ham and cheese sandwich from the gas station on the way over. I bought a second one for the dog. I did not know what was safe to feed a Pit Bull. I did not know what he was used to. I just knew he was hungry.

I walked across the gravel road. I sat down in the dirt about 30 feet from him. I unwrapped the second sandwich. I broke it into four pieces.

I tossed the first piece about halfway between us — close enough that I could reach it without going past the chain radius and far enough that he could reach it if he came to the end of his chain.

He stood up. He looked at me. He looked at the sandwich.

He did not growl this time.

He took a step forward. Then another. He reached the end of his chain. He stretched his neck out. He sniffed the sandwich.

He ate it.

He looked at me again.

I tossed the second piece a foot closer to him. He ate that one too. I tossed the third piece. He ate that one. I tossed the fourth piece — almost at my feet now — and he hesitated. He looked at me. He looked at the piece. He looked back at me.

He did not come forward for the fourth piece.

He sat down. He watched me.

I left the fourth piece on the ground. I sat there for another forty minutes. He watched me the whole time. I watched him.

I stood up to leave at about 3:15 p.m.

When I stood, he stood. He did not growl. He just stood and watched me leave.

I rode home.

I went to the clubhouse that night for chapter meeting. I drank one beer instead of six. Trooper noticed. He sat down next to me at the bar.

He said, “Dean. You okay?”

I said, “Trooper. I sat with a dog for two hours yesterday and today.”

He said, “What dog?”

I told him about the chained Pit Bull in the vacant lot across the road. I told him I had been going over there. I told him I did not know why.

Trooper is 58. He has been in our chapter since 1998. He has a wife of 35 years named Jolene who runs a small bakery in Branson and who has been, for two decades, one of the kindest people I have ever met.

Trooper listened.

He said, “Dean. Have you talked to Annette?”

I said, “No. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

He said, “Have you tried?”

I said, “No.”

He said, “Dean. I’m gonna tell you something. I’ve been watching you for 19 years. You’re a good brother. You ride good. You show up when we need you. But Jolene has told me, more than once, over the years, that she has watched Annette sit alone at things she should not have been alone at. Jolene has been quietly checking on Annette for about ten years. I never told you. I should have.”

He said, “The dog. Sit with the dog. But also — call your wife. Not to fix it. Just to apologize. The apology you owe her does not depend on whether she takes you back. Do it anyway.”

He squeezed my shoulder. He walked off to the pool table.

I sat at the bar for another hour.

I did not call Annette that night.

I called her three weeks later, after a lot more had happened.

I went back to the vacant lot every single day for the next 34 days.

I want to tell you the timeline because the timeline is the story.

Day 1 (Friday, March 15, 2024): Sat 30 feet away. He growled for 18 minutes. I did not move. He stopped growling but kept watching.

Day 2 (Saturday): Brought a sandwich. He ate three of four pieces. Did not approach the fourth.

Day 3-5: He ate from the ground at the end of his chain. He stopped growling entirely. He started lying down while I sat.

Day 6 (Thursday): I noticed someone had filled his water bowl since my last visit. Not me. Someone else was checking on him too.

Day 7: I sat 25 feet away instead of 30. He watched me. He did not move backward.

Day 8: I sat 22 feet away. Same.

Day 10: He came to the end of his chain when I sat down. He watched me from there.

Day 12: I held out a piece of jerky in my flat hand. He looked at it for about three minutes. Then he came forward and took it. From my hand. Slowly. Carefully. He did not snap.

I sat in the dirt that day for an hour and a half after he took the jerky. He laid down at the end of his chain about six feet from me. He kept his head on his front paws. He watched me.

Day 14: I came in the morning instead of the afternoon. He stood up when he saw my truck pull onto the gravel road. He had been watching for me.

That was the day I cried in the dirt for the first time. I sat down 18 feet from him. I had a sandwich. I had jerky. He came to the end of the chain. He took both from my hand.

Then I sat down hard in the dirt and I cried for about twenty minutes. Quiet. Not loud. Just sitting there with tears running down into my beard.

The dog did not move. He watched me. He laid down at the end of his chain six feet from me. He stayed.

That was the day I understood what Annette had meant.

I had spent 19 years being unavailable to a person who had loved me. I had given her about 6 years of attention out of 17. I had filled my time with things that asked nothing emotional of me — bikes, brothers, weekend runs, hardware fixes, technical problems with handlebars and oil changes. All things that did not require me to sit with somebody. All things that did not require me to be quiet. All things that did not require me to be patient with another being’s pace.

I had told myself my whole life that I was a man who did not have time.

The dog had taught me, in 14 days, that I was not a man who did not have time.

I was a man who had not been making time.

That is a different sentence.

I sat in the dirt of the vacant lot for two hours that day. The dog stayed at the end of his chain. He did not whine. He did not move. He just stayed. He was the first living being I had let myself be quietly broken in front of in 19 years.

Day 21: I brought a slip lead. I did not use it. I had it in my back pocket.

Day 23: I leaned forward from my sitting position and held out my hand, palm up, on the ground. He came forward. He sniffed it. He licked my wrist once.

Day 25: I stood up slowly while he was still at the end of his chain and I walked the last six feet to him. I sat down again, two feet from him. He let me. He pressed his shoulder against my thigh. He laid his head down on the ground.

I sat there with him for an hour.

Day 28: I figured out who owned the lot.

Day 29: I knocked on the door of the property owner — a 71-year-old man named Mr. Caleb Foss who lived in the small house at the back of the property and who, it turned out, was the one who had been refilling the dog’s water bowl. He did not own the dog. The dog had been dumped on his property by someone he did not know about a month before. He had thought about calling the county but he had been “watching to see what would happen” because, he said, he had seen me coming over every day and he had wanted to see what I was going to do.

He told me, in his kitchen with the back screen door open, that if I wanted the dog I could have him. He told me he was 71 and on a fixed income and could not afford a vet bill. He told me the dog had bitten him on day one when he had tried to take the chain off, which is why the chain was still there.

I told Mr. Foss I would come back tomorrow with bolt cutters and a truck.

Day 30 (Sunday, April 14, 2024): I went back with bolt cutters. I went into the vacant lot. The dog stood up when he saw me. His tail thumped twice against the dirt.

I sat down beside him.

I said, very quietly, “Buddy. I’m gonna cut this off you. Okay?”

He looked at me.

I put the bolt cutters on the chain at the pole end. I cut it on the third squeeze. The chain dropped. He still had about ten feet of chain dragging from his collar.

I sat back down beside him.

He sniffed the chain on the ground. He looked at me. He licked my hand.

I sat there for about ten minutes with him. Then I stood up. I patted my thigh. I said, “Come on, buddy. Let’s go home.”

He stood up. He walked next to my left leg, with the chain dragging from his collar, all the way across the gravel road to my truck.

I opened the passenger door. He hesitated.

I bent down. I picked him up. He let me. 60 pounds of dog. I put him on the passenger seat of my truck.

He sat up. He looked out the windshield.

I drove him home.

I named him on the drive home.

I named him Loyalty.

I named him Loyalty because, on the drive, I started thinking about what he had done in those 30 days — he had let a stranger sit with him. He had decided, slowly, carefully, after a month of being given nothing but time, that he could let himself trust me. He had stayed. He had not run when I cut the chain. He had walked next to my leg to my truck.

And he had taught me, in 30 days, what loyalty actually is.

Loyalty is not what you say. Loyalty is not what you ride with. Loyalty is who you sit with. Quietly. Without fixing anything. Without asking for anything. Day after day. Just sitting.

I had not been loyal to my wife for 17 years.

I had been loyal to my bike and my brothers because they were easy to be loyal to — they asked me for nothing emotional. Being loyal to them required me to show up and have a beer.

Being loyal to a woman would have required me to sit. Quietly. With her. For 17 years. While she had grown and changed and asked for things I could not see.

I had not done it.

I named the dog Loyalty so that I would never forget that.

Loyalty has been my dog for one year and seven months now.

He gained weight. He filled out to about 75 pounds. His coat got shiny. His ears unscarred over time. His teeth got cleaned at the vet. He is now about six years old.

He sleeps on the foot of my bed every single night.

I want to tell you about Annette.

I called her on day 33 of my visits to the vacant lot, three days after I brought Loyalty home.

I called her at 7 p.m. on a Wednesday. She picked up. She sounded surprised.

I said, “Annette. I’m not calling to ask you to come back. I’m calling to apologize. I was wrong. Trooper helped me see it. A dog helped me see it. You were right for ten years. I’m sorry it took me 17 to hear you. I’m sorry I didn’t show up. I’m sorry I let you sit alone at things you should not have been alone at. I’m sorry I called my brothers my brothers and I never called you my partner. You were always my wife. You were never my partner. I’m sorry. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t expect anything. I just needed you to know.”

She was quiet for a long time.

She said, “Dean. Thank you. I needed that. I really needed that.”

She did not come back. I had not asked her to. I had meant the call. I have not called her again since, except once around Christmas to wish her well.

She came to my house in September of last year — about six months after she left — to drop off some boxes of mine that she had been storing in her new apartment. She rang the doorbell. I opened the door. Loyalty was at my left leg.

She looked down at him.

She looked back up at me.

Her eyes filled up.

She said, “Dean. Whose dog is this?”

I said, “Mine. I sat with him for thirty days in a lot before he let me bring him home. His name is Loyalty.”

She looked at me for a long time.

She said, “Dean. You have changed.”

I said, “I have. You were right about everything. Loyalty taught me. I’m sorry I needed a dog to learn what you tried to teach me for ten years.”

She started crying.

I let her come in. I made her coffee. Loyalty sat at her feet. She petted his head. We talked for about an hour at my kitchen table — the same kitchen table where she had told me, eighteen months earlier, that she was leaving.

We did not get back together.

I want to be clear about that. We talked about it. We thought about it. We both decided — separately, when we ended the conversation that day in September — that we had been broken too long to mend. She had built a life. I had built a different life. We had both finished some kind of growing-up that we should have done while we were still together but had done apart.

She is dating a man now. He sounds kind. Trooper’s wife Jolene tells me he is good to her.

I have been dating a woman for about four months. Her name is Iris. She is 42, a veterinarian’s assistant at a small clinic in Branson. She met Loyalty before she met me — she had been working at the clinic where I take Loyalty for his check-ups, and we had gotten to know each other over a year of small conversations about him.

I am better with Iris than I was with Annette. I am not going to claim to be perfect. But I am better.

I go to the clubhouse two nights a week now, not five. I ride on weekends but I do not ride both weekend days. I take Iris out to dinner on Friday nights. I sit with her. I listen.

Loyalty comes with us almost everywhere. He rides in the back of my truck. He sleeps at the foot of our bed when Iris stays over.

He is the small daily witness of what I have learned, and he has stayed.

I want to write one more thing before I finish.

I went back to the vacant lot in March of this year, on the one-year anniversary of the day I had first sat down in the dirt.

The lot is still empty. Mr. Foss is still alive. He waved at me from his back porch.

I walked into the lot. I went to the utility pole. The chain is gone — I had taken it with me on day 30. The grass has grown back in the small worn circle where the dog used to pace.

I sat down in the dirt about 30 feet from the pole. Same spot. Same posture. Crossed legs. Hands in my lap.

I sat there for an hour.

I thought about the dog. I thought about Annette. I thought about Trooper’s wife Jolene, who had been quietly checking on my wife for ten years without anyone telling me. I thought about my own father, who had bred coonhounds when I was a kid and who had been a man much like the man I had become, and who had died alone in a hospital in 2018 with no family at his bedside because none of us had felt like he had earned us.

I thought about all the time I had wasted being unavailable.

I cried for a little while in the dirt.

Then I stood up. I walked across the gravel road. I got in my truck. I drove home to Loyalty, who was waiting on the front porch where Iris had let him out before she left for work.

He saw me come up the drive. He stood up. His tail wagged.

I parked the truck. I got out. I went up the steps. I sat down on the porch next to him.

He laid his head on my knee.

We sat there for a long time. Together. Quietly. Doing nothing.

That is the whole thing. That is what I had been refusing to do for 45 years.

Sit with somebody. Quietly. Doing nothing.

A 75-pound brindle Pit Bull I named Loyalty taught me how. He taught me in 30 days, in the dirt of a vacant lot in southwestern Missouri, by giving me nothing but his presence and asking for nothing but mine in return.

That is love.

I missed it with my wife.

I am not going to miss it again.

If this story moved you, follow the page — there are more like Dean and Loyalty and Annette I haven’t told yet.