A Dog's Way Home (3 page)

T
am sniffed the spot where Abby had stood just hours before. He smelled the woman and the big man too, but he drank in the scent of his girl. It was not quite her usual smell of grass and apples and her body's own unique mixture, though. There was a smell of pain and fear he did not understand.

What Tam did understand was she had been there, so he must wait. Often he had waited, long spaces of time, when she left just as the sun topped the ridge and did not return until the sun's shadows grew long. But she always came back. The big bus would rattle up to the mailbox at the bottom of the hill. His girl would run down the bus steps calling, “Tam! Come on, Tam!”—the sweetest
sound the sheltie had heard all day. He would launch himself off the porch, as if he had wings, and race down the hill. When he and his girl were together, everything was as it should be.

Tam sighed, lay down next to the spot beside the road that held the strongest scent of her, and closed his eyes. The scent of girl and grass and water carried him home.

 

For two days, Tam stayed close to the spot with her scent. The occasional car passed by, and always Tam watched from beneath the undergrowth. But the cars never stopped.

On the third day, rain pushed Tam away from the roadside and into the deep forest. Even under the thick canopy of mountain laurel and impenetrable mesh of honeysuckle vine, the rain found him, soaking his dense coat.

Tam groaned and curled tighter into himself. He shivered as the rain and wind howled overhead. His stomach growled. Another day passed without food.

 

The rain finally stopped. Tam climbed back up the bank to the road. He sniffed the spot where he had smelled the girl. The smell of her and the woman and the big man were gone. As hard as his nose worked the ground, he could not find the scent of her. All he smelled were rotting leaves and the acrid scent of wet asphalt. He stood by the side of the road, bewildered and heartsick. Without the
scent of her to guide him, what was he to do? He trembled with utter aloneness.

The shadows of the late afternoon grew long. Something deep within him stirred.

Geese know without being told when it is time to head south for the winter. Foxes know when it is time to dig dens for the babies to come. And Tam knew it was time. Time to find his girl.

Tam scented the air, searching. He trotted north up the road. He stopped, then walked a little farther. He paused and sniffed. The north held nothing for him. He turned and trotted south. The farther he went, the stronger that direction pulled him, true as the needle on a compass. South was the way he must go. Soon, he would see his beloved girl, and everything would be as it should be.

He could not know the many miles and vast wilderness that lay between him and his home with the girl. A dog does not measure distance in miles or even days. A dog only knows that every footfall, every heartbeat, brings him closer to his heart's desire. Anyone seeing Tam trotting with his easy gait along the side of the road would see a dog going home.

I
sat on the window seat in my room, listening to the quiet. No jingling of tags on Tam's collar, no click of his toenails on the pinewood floors. nothing but putrid silence. I felt sick all the way through. The past two days we'd been home felt like twenty.

My eyes settled on my old guitar sitting in the corner. I'd hardly touched it in the three years since I'd had Tam, I'd been so busy with him.

Now that my arms and my heart were empty without Tam, I wanted to hold that guitar to me more than anything. I wanted to feel the comfort of its weight and the hum of the strings.

I'd just started to get up when I heard a peck on my
door, and Meemaw opened it. She stood tall and straight as a Carolina pine, her long braid wrapped like a fiery crown on top of her head.

“Abby honey, you got a visitor,” she said.

I plopped back down and in stepped my friend Olivia McButtars, the littlest, shyest, smartest girl in the whole sixth grade. Maybe even the world.

Olivia peered at me from behind her big glasses. Most of the kids at school said her pale green eyes were creepy. They do seem to look right into a person's soul. But to my way of thinking, that wasn't a bad thing.

Olivia crossed the room and sat beside me. She sighed. “I'm sorry about Tam.” No small talk for Olivia. She cut right to the chase.

“I just don't know what to do or what to think,” I said around a big knot of tears in my throat. “And that makes me so mad, I could spit.”

Olivia touched the back of my hand light as a butterfly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

And she wasn't just saying that to be nice, neither. She really did know.

Right after Christmastime last year, Olivia moved to Harmony Gap from way up in Baltimore, Maryland. She moved here to live with her granddaddy, Mr. Alphus Singer, after her mama and daddy disappeared out over the Pacific Ocean in one of those little-bitty airplanes. Olivia
told me once she reckoned her mama was now a mermaid, something her mother always wanted to be. And that gave Olivia a measure of comfort.

We sat there on the window seat for a long time, not saying a word, just listening to the wind in the trees, thunder rolling around in the far mountains.

Finally I asked, “Olivia, do you think there's any chance Tam's still alive?” Olivia would be honest with me, I knew.

She didn't say anything for a long moment. Her eyes drifted around my room, taking in the photographs and drawings of Tam, all my special, handmade story maps of the things me and Tam had done and the adventures I had planned for us.

Then she turned and looked directly into my eyes. “My mom often said love creates miracles.”

And that was all Olivia had to say about that. And it was all I needed to hear.

After she left, I hobbled across the room and picked up my old guitar. It'd been my grandpa Bill's pride and joy. I don't remember Grandpa Bill all that well. We moved in here with Meemaw after he was killed in the sawmill accident. But all my memories of him are wrapped around him and this guitar.

I carried it back over to my bed, ran my hand across the strings. I hugged the guitar against my stomach and felt the chords thrum against my heart. I closed my eyes,
dug way back in my memory, and sang the first song I came across:

The next day, me and Daddy bumped along the red clay road that took us to Harmony Gap. Daddy hummed under his breath.

“Daddy,” I said, “we've been home for days now. When're we going back up to Virginia to look for Tam?”

Daddy stopped humming and rubbed the back of his neck like he always does when he doesn't know the answer to something. “I'm not exactly sure, peanut. Soon.”

“Mama promised,” I reminded him.

“I know she did,” Daddy said with a frown. “But you've both had doctor appointments and whatnot. Plus she's had to go back to work, you know. She can't just take off work whenever she feels like it.”

I thought my head would explode like a volcano. “She promised!”

Daddy shot me a look. “I know what was said, Abby. I was there too, remember? And what she said was we'd
try
our best to get back up there.”

“Doesn't seem to me like there's a whole heck of a lot of trying going on,” I muttered.

“Besides,” Daddy said, ignoring me, “you've been calling that ranger station every day at least once. They know to watch out for him.”

Daddy swung the truck into the parking space in front of the post office. “Let's get these packages of yarn mailed off to your mama's customers.” He scooped up a big stack of boxes labeled
Whistler Farm Specialty Fibers
.

Old Mr. McGruber was the only one behind the high wooden desk, which accounted for the line of people waiting to do their business. Mr. McGruber saw it as his God-given duty to ask after every customer's health and their family's health and all their animals' health. And then he told them about his.

I sighed and shifted my weight on those crutches. Daddy smiled down at me and winked.

“Hey there, Abby.” A hand touched my shoulder.

Mr. Morgan's kind eyes took in my banged-up head, crutches, and cast.

“Hey, Mr. Morgan,” I said. Me and Tam took our first agility class from him.

“I sure was sorry to hear about your accident,” he said, shaking his head. “And about Tam. He was a real special little dog.”

I stood up as straight as I could and looked him directly in the eye. “We're heading back up there in the next day or two to get him.”

Mr. Morgan's bushy black eyebrows pulled together. “Someone found him?”

Daddy shook his head.

“Not exactly yet,” I said. “But he's up there waiting for me. I can feel it.”

Mr. Morgan and Daddy passed one of those looks between them.

“Well, I hope that's true, Abby honey,” Mr. Morgan said, patting my shoulder.

 

At supper that night, I said, “Mama, are we going back up to Virginia this weekend to find Tam?”

Everyone stopped chewing. Daddy and Meemaw looked at Mama.

Mama set down her fork and ran her napkin across her lips. “Well, I hadn't had time to think about it.”

“You promised, remember?” I said, not looking at Daddy.

Mama nodded. “Yes, I said we'd do our best to get back up there.” She looked at Daddy. “What do you think, Ian?”

Daddy frowned. “It's a long ways back up to Virginia. Even if we made a three-day weekend of it, it'd mostly be driving.”

“It's not that far,” I said. “We could be back up there in no time.”

Mama and Daddy looked at me like I'd grown two
heads. “Abby honey, it's well over four hundred miles from here to where y'all crashed on the Parkway,” Daddy said.

I about spit my peas across the table. “Four hundred miles? That can't be right! We made it home in no time, and…”

“You slept most of the way back,” Mama pointed out.

I looked at Meemaw. She nodded.

“We've been calling the ranger station every day, though,” Mama said.

“It's not the same,” I snapped.

“Abby,” Daddy warned.

“No, Abby's right. It's not the same,” Mama said.

I about fell out of my chair in pure astonishment.

“I did say we'd try our best to get back up there. I always keep my word.”

Daddy sighed. “All right. I reckon it won't hurt to take a quick trip back up there. We'll leave Friday and come back Sunday.”

“Can't we come back Monday?” I asked.

“No, Abby. We've let you stay out of school this week, but you can't afford to miss any more.”

I was sorely tempted to point out that until just a couple years ago, they homeschooled me. But Meemaw is forever reminding me you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. So instead I smiled sweet as coconut-cream pie and said, “Thank you, Mama. I just know we'll find him this time.”

 

That was on Wednesday.

On Thursday Daddy's van broke down in Asheville.

“I'm sorry, peanut,” Daddy said when he finally got a ride home that night. “I know you had your heart set on leaving tomorrow for Virginia, but we don't have a way to get up there.”

“We have to, Daddy! Can't we borrow a car or something?”

Daddy rubbed a greasy hand across his tired face. “I got to get our van fixed. Until your mama gets her new truck, we're stuck.”

“But Daddy—”

“Enough buts,” he said. “I'm just as frustrated as you are. The band is scheduled to head out for a bunch of gigs next week. I need that van working.” He sighed a long, deep-down sigh. “Lord knows where the money's going to come from to fix it.”

He pulled back the covers and patted the bed. “Maybe once your mama gets her new truck, y'all can make a trip back up. Until then, we'll keep calling and praying.”

I burrowed down into the warm smell of Tam in my blankets. Ginseng the cat purred on the pillow next to me.

Fighting back an ocean of tears, I said, “I'll never give up on finding Tam, Daddy. Never.”

A
s the days passed, hunger as strong as his need for the girl drove Tam. The light step that had carried him for days and miles grew heavier. Still, at precisely three thirty every afternoon, the hunger to see his girl propelled him south along the Parkway.

Tam nosed a paper bag blown to the side of the road. All he found were two dried-up french fries and a shriveled piece of lettuce. He licked a smear of ketchup from the inside of the bag and moved on.

He watched squirrels and chipmunks stuff acorns and berries in their bulging cheeks. But the acorns were bitter, the berries tough and sour. He picked at whatever green grass he could find, but it wasn't enough. Tam was starving.

 

On a cloudy late afternoon, a scent pulled Tam to a place where people had been. He nosed around the picnic tables dotting the meadow. He found a few crusts of bread and some potato chips, but as hard as he searched, he found nothing else. As dusk descended on the mountain, Tam scratched out a bed beneath a picnic table. Misery filled his stomach. A small brick bathroom squatted to the side of the parking lot. A flyer with Tam's face flapped in the evening breeze.

A crash woke him. Peering through the light rain, Tam saw the black mask of a raccoon as he crawled across an overturned garbage can. The raccoon pried and pulled at the metal top with his humanlike hands, methodically working the edges of the lid. Then, bracing his powerful back legs against the bottom of the trash can, he tugged at the top edge until the top popped off.

Tam's nose filled with the scent of food.

The raccoon dug through the garbage. He pulled out half-eaten sandwiches, apple cores, hot dog buns, fried chicken remains, and a carton of old potato salad. An empty soda can rolled down the parking lot.

Tam crept from under the picnic table and moved toward the garbage can and the wonderful smell of food. He knew about garbage. He had gotten in trouble more
than once for tipping over the tall can in the kitchen. The old woman had scolded him and shut him outside. After the girl had called him “bad dog” in her angry voice, he'd never gotten into the garbage again.

But now Tam was starving. And as much as the memory of displeasing his girl held him back, the hunger clawing at his stomach pushed him forward.

The raccoon sorted busily through the trash. He didn't hear Tam until he barked a friendly
woof.
Tam wagged his tail hopefully. He'd never met a raccoon before, but this one reminded him of the cats at home.

The raccoon hunched over his prize, growling and hissing. Sometimes the cats hissed too, but it was just part of the game they played. Tam wagged his tail again, took one step forward. The raccoon bristled. He pulled his lips back, flashing sharp, white teeth.

The sheltie barked, thrusting his head forward.

Quick as a flash, the raccoon raked his claws across Tam's face, barely missing his eye. Tam smelled blood. This had never happened with the cats.

Tam retreated to his shelter under the picnic table, his sorrowful eyes abrim with misery.

After a time, the creature waddled off. Tam watched the garbage. Once he was certain the raccoon was not coming back, he returned to the can. All that remained were a few chicken bones, a watermelon rind, and half a
hot dog bun. The memory of his girl's voice saying “Bad dog, Tam!” faded with every bite he took.

 

It rained hard for two days. Autumnal winds stripped the last of the bright yellow leaves from the trees.

Tam pushed farther into the corner of the brick bathroom, watching wind blow sheets of rain past the doorway. What little garbage there had been in the cans, Tam had eaten. He licked a cut on his pad, then sighed. He slept as the day slipped from gray to black.

Headlights swung into the parking lot, settling just above Tam. Laughter and the slam of a car door startled him from sleep. Music throbbed from the car.

Tam sat up, nose sorting through the scents of rain, wet earth, sweet smoke, and people. Unsteady footsteps stumbled toward Tam. He whined uncertainly. Something about the car, the laughter, and the human coming toward him didn't smell right. Still, people meant food. His instinct told him to run and hide before anyone saw him; his stomach told him to stay.

Too late, Tam decided to honor his instinct to run.

Just as he started to scoot around the doorway, long legs and big feet blocked his way. He scrambled to the corner.

“Holy crap!” a voice cried. “It's a fox in here!” Legs and feet stumbled backward, tripped over a tree root, body
sprawling. Hoots of laughter from the car, angry voice from the human on the wet ground.

Tam crouched, muscles tensed. Just as he was about to shoot through the doorway, a bottle exploded above his head. Foul-smelling liquid and glass rained down upon him.

The human pulled himself up off the ground. “Git, you no-good vermin!”

Tam cowered, looking frantically for a way out.

The man moved toward him, smelling of anger. For the first time in Tam's life, he bared his teeth and growled at a human.

The man stopped just short of the doorway. Tam growled louder, warning him away.

“Why, you no-good chicken killer,” the human growled back. He grabbed a rock and hurled it at the dog. The stone ricocheted like gunshot off the brick wall. Tam yelped in alarm.

The man turned his back to Tam and called through the rain, “Hey, Beattie, you got your shotgun? I got me a fox cornered over here I need to take care of.”

When the human looked back, the bathroom was empty.