Nobody's Dog (12 page)

Patrick's truck is old and beat-up, with a really long gearshift and bouncy seats that don't have headrests. A few postcards are fastened to the roof: Tweedsmuir Park and Chilko Lake. I remember the photo of puppy-Chilko playing in the river. Country music plays loud on the radio and Patrick doesn't turn it down. He pulls onto Keith Road then asks me to direct him.

“It's at Keith and Lynnmouth,” I say. “We took Seventh until Cygnet Street and then turned onto Keith. Chilko knew the route.”

Patrick rubs the bridge of his nose. “You had some secret life. Both of you.”

I lean my head against the window as the twangy music plays. Maybe this was a bad idea.

We're almost there when he turns off the radio and turns to me. “I never finished telling you about when I got Chilko.” He pauses to see if I'm listening.

“You don't have to,” I say. “It's way too hard now.”

“For you or me?”

I cringe as I look over at him. “I don't want to make you feel worse.”

“Hard to do that at this point.”

I hide my face with my hands. “Oh god. I'm
sorry
.”

“No, that's not what I mean. I'm just saying I might as well talk about it. Who knows — maybe it'll feel better.” Suddenly he pulls the truck over. “We're here.”

I can't believe how well I know this intersection now. I've been here three times in the past twenty-four hours.

Patrick gets out of the truck with Chilko's leash in his hand. I force myself to follow.

“I told you Chilko's mom had this great den in the empty lot, right?” We take the path down into the woods. The same path I've seen in pitch black, dawn and daytime. “She was letting me hang out with them, even play with the pups.” He calls Chilko's name in a loud, low voice. No answer. He turns to look into a cleared area, calling again.

“If you knew she was a stray, why didn't you take her home?” I ask.

“Didn't seem to be a point. She was happy, healthy. The pups were doing fine. I saw them every day. I figured when they were old enough I'd call a vet, get them vaccinated, and they'd adopt them out. And I liked having them to myself.”

“But something happened,” I say, because I can feel it like a bend in the trail — this story won't end well.

“Yup. The developer of the lot showed up before I got there one morning. He must have called animal control because they were all gone. The box was there, but no mom, no pups. I was pretty angry. With the guy and with myself.”

“Why with yourself?” I ask, but I think I know.

“I should have thought about the pups' safety, not just what I was getting from them. They should have gone to a place where they could have been looked after.”

“But she was doing fine on her own, you said.”

“Yeah, she was. But I forgot that other people don't
always see things that way. And she was squatting on someone's land. Just a matter of time.”

“So did you find them?”

“Well, yeah, I did.” Patrick looks at me sideways.

“Don't say they killed them.”

His eyebrows join together. “Only Mom. She got really angry that they wanted to move the pups. I guess she bit someone pretty badly. They euthanized her.”

“No!” I shout. “How could they? Didn't they think about the puppies?”

“I'm not sure they cared.”

“So you found the puppies and got Chilko?”

“I didn't know anything about his mom being killed at that point. I was still at the lot, wondering what had happened. Then I saw a black and white thing under a bush.”

“Chilko,” I say, relief flooding through me. “They forgot him.”

“Or missed him,” Patrick says. “I reached for him, but he squirmed away. As I went around to try from the other side, he scrambled into the big old box, calling for his mom and sisters. It was the saddest thing I ever saw.” He pauses and puts his head back, letting out Chilko's name in a long, low howl.

I can't move. My throat is dry and achy and I want to turn away, but I can't.

And then it hits me. The cardboard box. The empty lot. Why didn't I think of it before? “I think I know where he is.” I'm already running.

“Turn left here.” My guts squirm as we take the corner onto the street with the hippie houses. The box he was so interested in last night. It has to be. Please, please let him
be here.

“There?” Patrick pulls over.

I'm already out of the truck before he's turned off the engine. I don't even look for cars — just sprint across the street yelling his name, heart hammering in my chest.

The box is still there. A corner of it sticks out behind the bush. I yell his name over and over, stepping through the rags and garbage as Patrick comes up behind me.

And inside the box is our dog. Chilko, curled with his head on his back paws. He lets out a whine, only thumps his tail a little, but he's there. He's alive.

He's soft and warm and smelly and alive.

And then I'm seeing it from above, watching myself touch his paw, Patrick lean in to talk to him, check his body over. The Jakob beside them is crying, but from here my face doesn't feel wet. There's a warm weight on my shoulders like a pair of hands. They press me back to the ground.
It's okay, Jakob. It's okay
. And when Patrick turns to me, saying something with an almost-smile, it is. Not perfect or normal or easy. But okay.

Realizing the dream of being a writer has taken a lifetime, and there are a lifetime's worth of people to thank. First, my elementary and high school teachers who encouraged writing — and reading. Without reading obsessively as a child, all this never would have happened. Next, the university instructors who guided my studies. I was able to transform my passion into a craft because of those gifted and generous writers.

This story started as a rough draft passed around a small but diligent writing group. It then became a second rough draft, passed around again. Thank you, Kathy Para, Rachelle Delaney, John Mavin, Carolyn Jarvis for your insights and suggestions early on. Kellee Ngan for her astute and excellent comments on a later draft. Also, an amazing network of writer friends who offer support, critical insight and laughter.

Others who have helped in strange and wonderful ways: Christina Mavinic (for help with nurse-speak) Kirsti Ziola (for the you-know-what), Hannah Tunnicliffe (for being fabulous), Théo Fraser Armstrong (for photography and therapeutic coffees).

Vielen Dank
to my parents for their love, support and, recently, babysitting services, and my sister for letting me tell her rambling stories on family hikes all those years ago.

Big thanks to my agent, Louise Lamont, and editor, Anne Shone, for their confidence in the story and expert help in publishing.

And last, my husband, Daryl: thank you for being my best friend, champion and assistant plot-knot-untangler. And to our daughter, Elodie, for being adorable and wonderfully oblivious.

Ria Voros has known for a long time that she wanted to write a story about a dog. Her own rescue dog, Pender, was partly the inspiration for Chilko. He was a shepherd-husky cross — although everyone thought he was part wolf — and was a constant companion during the writing of
Nobody's Dog
. Ria says, “As the story unfolded, I realized Jakob had a lot to learn from Chilko, not only about dogs, but also about life. I went through the same process with Pender when I adopted him from a shelter. In the end, both Jakob and I are better people because of the relationships we've had with our dogs.”

Ria is a graduate of the University of British Columbia's Creative Writing MFA program. She has published fiction and poetry in literary journals and has won several poetry and creative writing prizes. She has also taught courses in fiction, poetry, literature and writing for children.
Nobody's Dog
is her first novel. Ria lives in Nanaimo, British Columbia, with her family.