The man isn’t as young as he used to behis chest-length beard has gone white — but he still gets out of his small, second-floor apartment to walk the Lakewood neighborhood he calls home.
He noticed the dog a few days before Christmas. The dog’s owners had been evicted from the place across the street and abandoned the animal, which scurried around, shivering from the cold and with little interest in being approached. The man knew foxes roamed the area around West 13th Avenue and Balsam Street because he came across half-eaten cats on his walks.
This bothered him. The dog with the curly white coat was hardly bigger than a cat.
“Winter was coming, and I knew the dog would either freeze or be eaten,” said the man, whose name is Patrick Paxton. “I told my landlord that if he could catch the dog I’d take him in. It was ice-cold one night, and the dog up and dashed inside when the landlord opened the door.
“That’s how I got him.”
Paxton was telling me this story on Sunday morning. The dog was curled up against him on Paxton’s sofa, which doubles as his bed because the 17-year-old grandnephew he took in occupies the apartment’s lone bedroom.
Paxton rubbed the dog’s forepaw. The room was quiet save for the low hum of a refrigerator.
“I called him Mutt because he was such a mess when I got him,” Paxton said. “He looked four times bigger than he was because he was full of burrs. I took him to the vet, and it turns out he’s not a mutt at all. He’s a purebred.”
Mutt, who is about the size of a bowling ball, is a bichon frise. I was an awful French student but know the name definitely does not translate into “attack dog.”
At 69, Paxton is glad to have a new face around the place. He spent the past few years living as a monk in California but returned to his native Denver to help his mom, who is pushing 90.
“I liked the monastery,” he said. “I was the gardener. Some day, I’ll go back, but right now I can’t because of my mother. She gets around pretty good but has her problems.”
Mutt rolled over on his back and nestled against Paxton, who was dressed simply in jeans and a faded green flannel shirt.
“He cried for three days when I got him,” Paxton said. “He sat in my lap and cried when I petted him and louder when I didn’t. I guess he was just telling me how hard it was. Now he only cries when I leave the house, so I take him everywhere.”
The year is young and Paxton, like everyone in his neighborhood, isn’t exactly rolling in money. Still, he figures that 2009 is shaping up to be a good year for him and the dog.
“I really enjoy the devil out of him,” he said. “He’s delightful, smart as a whip. Learned his name within a day. Barks at everyone who comes in here but doesn’t bite. He’s very well-mannered.
“I guess I need to change his name to Sir Mutt.”
So much in this world turns on small acts of kindness and faith.
Paxton left a life he loved to come home and care for his mother. He soon found himself caring for a grandnephew. Then a dog who likely would not be around today if not for Paxton.
“People ought to take in strays,” he said. “They sometimes turn out to be terrific.”
William Porter writes Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Reach him at wporter@denverpost.com or 303-954-1977.
