Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales (37 page)

e’d lost eight men. The bandits had lost twenty-four.

Between War Daddy and myself, we had killed ten of them. I was not happy with that number. A lost life was just that, lost. Would those twenty-four dead men have eventually gone on to do some good in the world? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

I had escaped unscathed. War Daddy, not so much. Luckily, one of the group was a medic—in particular, a veterinarian of sorts. When one traveled with thirty pack animals, one needed a professional skilled in caring for them. I watched with a heavy heart as the man stitched up War Daddy. Again, he had had lost so much blood. The others had seen him take down the bandit, had seen him choke the life out of a man who’d sought to harm us. They had seen me level the bandits, too, one shot at a time. We were treated as heroes, and War Daddy’s health was not taken lightly.

We buried the dead, even the bandits, according to Muslim traditions. The traders were good people. We stockpiled their weapons and provisions and soon, we were carrying on, with War Daddy being lifted carefully and placed over my lap, as I sat high upon my camel.

Many more days passed.

War Daddy slept them away, only awakening to lick his wounds and to drink sparingly. He was not much interested in food either. By the fourth day, I was worried, but by the fifth, my worry was all for naught. I awoke to a very wet, eager tongue on my face, and a whole lot of dog breath, too. I looked up into what I was sure was the doggie version of a smile. I smiled, too, and pulled the big guy into me, and held him tight. I was not ashamed that relieved, grateful tears came from me. They were, of course, promptly lapped up by the big fella.

t was out of their way, but the traders escorted me to the desert village on the edge of forever. It was, in fact, a glorious oasis of palm trees and a clear pool of water that, I suspected, was very, very deep. We filled every container we had and only then, drank deeply from the pool itself.

In Riyadh, I’d spent many days tracing the drug traffickers. I’d narrowed it down to a likely village in the northwest territories, where they have been known to steal dogs off streets and out of the yards, to use them as drug mules.

It was here, in this forgotten town, where the caravan pulled up short. It was here, as I sat with the now mostly healed War Daddy, that I came to realize this might be the last I might see of him. T’aul stood with me, his arm in a sling. He had taken a bullet in his bicep, but seemed okay now, thanks to the care of the caravan’s vet.

I nodded to T’aul to proceed, and as the caravan now descended into the village, War Daddy and I made our way through the streets with no names. It was a hot day, but the nearby water and the promise of replenishment seemed to make it less so. Indeed, I noticed a spring in War Daddy’s step. How wise was it for me to return the dog to his home, to the very place from where he’d been abducted? I didn’t know the answer to that, but seeing War Daddy take the lead, his tongue hanging out and a spring to his step, well, that meant the world to me. It was all I could do to follow him because he obviously knew where he was going.

It didn’t take long for us to attract a small crowd. At first, it was children, boys only, many of them dressed in knock-off American t-shirts and shorts. Many were barefoot. All were smiling and giggling. Many of the boys came up to War Daddy and hugged him tightly and with easy familiarity—not something you saw very much of in this country since many Saudis would not even touch dogs. But War Daddy was special to them. He absorbed their love, his tail wagging, his ears forward. Always forward. When they were done, the big white dog continued onward, and I followed him. Hell, we all did.

Soon, the adults of the village joined in, all talking excitedly, all looking at me with curiosity and certain admiration. The men’s faces were bronzed, the women’s eyes wide and bright, the rest hidden behind the traditional head-cloth. All of them followed us, including some in my caravan. A streaming crowd pushed through the simple streets, all following War Daddy.

Someone took my hand—a young boy. I smiled and held the small, sticky hand as War Daddy led the way. Shortly, I sensed the crowd holding back, and I saw why: the big, beautiful white dog was heading straight for a small wattle-and-daub home on the far edge of town. I slowed my pace, even as War Daddy picked up his. Soon, he was bounding, his long tongue hanging out. I might have seen a trail of saliva escape. His stride was long and sure, his healed hindquarters rippling with muscle and strength. He had his destination in sight and let loose a sharp bark at the front door when he arrived, and then sat there, waiting.

It was then that a little girl suddenly appeared in the now-open doorway—War Daddy came up to her and would have bowled her over if he hadn’t been so careful and aware. Instead, he stopped short as the girl threw her arms around him—and soon, the rest of her family filtered out, staring first at us in shock and awe, and then down at their dog as tears of recognition and gratitude sprang from their eyes and ran down their faces. The man shouted something excitedly. As I translated his words in my head, someone else quickly brought an item I recognized, an item that gutted me when I realized that this was truly the end of War Daddy’s journey with me. As a dog harness with a U-shaped handle was shoved into the hands of the little girl with the mesmerizing, crystal-blue eyes—eyes, which did not see—she gave a cry of delight and called out in a local dialect, “My eyes! My eyes!” And I realized that was War Daddy’s real name… who he was to her.

My eyes…

I turned away from the scene and pushed my way through the crowd, my heart heavy but happy, when I felt a small tug on my khakis. I was expecting to see, perhaps, the owners of War Daddy, but I saw the dog himself, looking up at me with that doggie smile of his, tail wagging. I squatted down and gave the big lug the biggest hug I could.

A goodbye hug.