He'd lean hunched over his work, old but still strong hands pushing the needles in and out of the leather of the bridle. Over and over. His hands stained with dye and laced with scars. He'd talk to himself, as he worked, most of the time I think he forgot I was ever there watching. I'd watch him for hours, fascinated watching whatever he was making take shape.
Peggy would be curled up in the corner, sleeping until the moment he moved. Then she'd look up to make sure he wasn't going anywhere before settling back down. She wasn't a pretty dog, he called her a blue leopard cur. I think she was a catahoula mix of some sort. She showed her years of hunting by his side. Brownie, funny little dog she was, would wander in and jump up my my lap sometimes. I never quite figured out how a chihuahua and a beagle would manage to breed.
The shop had a smell you would always recognize. Leather, dye, contact cement, and an oily metallic smell from the sewing machines and other strange devices he used. For the rest of my life that smell will be the most comforting smell in the world. My grandfather's shop.
