The second I saw what that man had gone to all that trouble to hide before he disappeared, I forgot to breathe, because the false bottom held a worn dog collar, a leash, a chewed tennis ball, a stack of photographs of a man and a shaggy dog, and a fat envelope of cash.
I sat down on my carport step and turned the collar over. The tag read Scout.
The man who owned the freezer had not fled from the law, he had been grieving a friend, and what he hid was everything he had left of the dog who saw him through his loneliest years.
The notebook told the story. His name was Gus, and after his wife passed and his kids moved away, he had been ready to give up, until a shelter dog named Scout came into his life. That dog, he wrote, saved him, gave him a reason to get up every morning, a companion for the long empty years. When Scout finally died of old age, Gus kept everything of his, and could not bear to look at it, so he sealed it in the freezer.
And then, the boy said, he took off in a hurry. The notebook explained: without Scout, the house was unbearable, and Gus had gone to live near his daughter out of state so he would not be alone, telling family only to keep his things.
The last entry read: The cash is money I saved. I want it to go to the shelter that gave me Scout, so another lonely person can find their own Scout someday. That dog gave me ten more years of life. Let him give someone else a chance. And if you have room in your heart, get yourself a dog. Nobody should be as alone as I was before Scout.
I found the shelters name in the notebook. I drove straight there and gave them Guss money, and told them the story of Gus and Scout, and there was not a dry eye in the place.
They used it to fund adoptions for lonely seniors, matching old folks with dogs who need them, and named the program after Scout.
Gus, I learned, had passed at his daughters home, at peace, with Scouts old collar in his hand. His daughter wept to hear the whole story, and was comforted to know her father had found such a friend in his lonely years.
And I took Guss advice. Before I left that shelter, I adopted an old shaggy dog nobody else wanted. I named him Gus. He rides shotgun in my pickup now, everywhere I go.
I keep those wing nuts in a coffee can. My wife tells the story and nobody believes her, but they held down a lonely mans love for the dog who saved him. I bought a dented freezer for thirty-five dollars. I ended up funding a shelter and finding a best friend. Best deal a man ever made, and Gus agrees, every time I scratch his ears.