A couple years ago I talked to my first one. He camped separately from me and the other RVers, near Yuma in the winter. His RV was just an old van, the color of dried blood.
I started noticing him on walks. He, I, and my little poodle were the only ones who walked, of course. Most RVers are rather normal in many ways, and considering their demographic, that means they are sedentary. They do a lot of comfy cocooning in their rigs with their satellite TV and crossword puzzles.
But the reclusive veteran had no satellite TV. Nor did I. Instead he poked at a campfire much of the day and night. Since I always liked campfires I invited myself to his. The reception wasn't too friendly. Worse yet, he sounded slightly unbalanced or even dangerous. Or maybe it was just BS. But I was ready to give up on the experiment.
Gradually I learned to avoid certain topics. I like to study campers who have downsized more radically than me. Maybe we started to hit it off, with that. Or maybe it was my little poodle, who helped himself to the old veteran's lap. He was half-Indian, had done a lot of serious camping in his day, and had lived many years in Alaska in a backwoods cabin. It became a nightly habit to walk down there every night.
I noticed how fond and gentle he was with my little poodle. Then he told me that his German Shepherd had died a couple years back. He was more emotional about that than about his ex-wives. So why not get another dog? He wouldn't really answer the question, but I think the answer was 'no' because of his age, health, finances, etc. I went away that night really appreciating how alone and sad he was.
That night my little poodle jumped out of bed and trotted to the trailer door, as dogs will occasionally do when something is out of whack with their system. But instead of the usual dog issues, he trotted purposefully down the hill towards the old veterans campfire. I got dressed as fast as I could and went in pursuit.
When I got to the old veteran's campfire I was astonished to see my little dog on his lap, with a vastly contented look, as he got his ears gently scratched. His little face stared peacefully into the dwindling late-night fire.
The veteran had a smug, naughty look on his face, as if he had "stolen" my dog from me. In fact, I did feel jealous.
The old veteran had no apparent wounds and probably didn't qualify for mental disability payments either. But I sensed that his life had been affected for the worse by his experience in the military. He was an uncounted casualty. At least the Unknown Soldier gets a tomb.
