The Dog (10 page)

clearing, he aimed his whistling and talk in that direction.

Late that evening he left the cabin, putting food on the steps.

He had also left a door open, the one leading into the hall

where the woodpile was. He put a blanket on the floor next

to the soggy jacket, and then rowed away with long, creaking

strokes. Yellow birch leaves floated in the water along the

shore. Now and then he rested on the oars, listening and

looking up towards the top of the rise behind the grey cabin,

where the stove was going cold now that he'd left.

Dusk was falling. The man felt the pull of the black water

as he rowed along the point. The last stretch across the lake

he just glided in the silent darkness. Not until he heard

stones scraping against the bottom of the boat was he

brought back from the fantasy that he was dipping the oars

into an indestructible thick, black mass. When he'd left the

boat and put on his backpack, he stood for a long time staring

across at the point. He thought he sensed a presence

moving along the edge of the woods. When he had stood

there for ages, staring into the shifting, flickering darkness,

he thought he saw a black mask, imagined that for an instant

the two of them were staring at each other.

The vixen had gone in and peed on the jacket. It was bright

daylight when the dog cautiously approached the cabin steps.

The open door and the dim interior made him tense and on

his guard. A powerful smell of the fox and her piss came

from the doorway.

Stiff and awkward from fear and the pain in his ribcage, he

climbed the stairs. No food. And that taunting smell of fox.

Bowl licked clean and everywhere, in every nook and

cranny, she'd poked her pointed snout. She'd even pissed on

the jacket, like a male.

His blood was hot and pounding, his skin prickled under

his coat. He, too, peed on the wet fabric, then climbed back

down the steps, walking a wide arc in front of the cabin,

marking his territory with distinct splashes. He had neither

eaten nor had anything to drink for a long time. His urine

was yellow and pungent. He was very thirsty, needed to go

down to the lake, but his watchfulness and a readily aroused,

stinging sense of anger kept him there. After a while he lay

down at the foot of the steps, soaking up some morning sun.

His eyes never left the little birches on the far side of the pasture

where she tended to emerge when she left the den.

When the sunlight had moved beyond the top step in

front of the cabin, he was still lying there. Towards midday

he went down to the lake and drank his fill, then went back

up again, lying on the steps instead, to have a better view.

When he lay still and breathed calmly he was in less pain. He

lay out of the wind coming off the lake; his coat was dry.

The insects that flickered past were late ones that had not yet

found their death or a crack in which to spend the winter.

Fragile wings flashed by.

He had to rely on his vision that day. The wind was

against him, blowing in the direction of the vixen's den. She

had a litter of growing cubs. They could turn up anywhere

he looked. He kept an eye out for movements, for shapes

that changed.

He was on guard but calm. Deep inside his watchfulness

there was anger without the least bit of fear. It lay there,

poised. It could raise the fur on the ridge of his neck and

make his front half large and threatening without his even

getting up. A dull, rolling growl also lay there, ready. He used

it once or twice when he saw shadows moving in the blurry

area between grass and yellowing ash shoots.

Late in the afternoon he heard the boat. So he clambered

down the steps in spite of the pain, and stood over by the

cookhouse to watch the man disembark. He stood in the

open. When the man caught sight of him he stopped, stood

perfectly still and whistled, softly and gently. After a while he

walked up the grassy slope. The dog moved out of sight.

He hung around the slope in the cleared area all the time

the man was there. When he was alone again he went back

to the cabin, gobbled up the contents of the bowl and lay

back down to watch and wait. Occasionally he had to go off

and relieve himself; the food had made his stomach uneasy.

The first few days most of it had gone right through him,

but he was better now. He never went farther than to the

raspberry patch alongside the cabin. After doing his business

he would lie back down on the steps.

The grass was always wet at this time of year, and it was

hard for him to extricate his paws. There wasn't enough sun

to dry up the pasture. Aspen leaves flashed in the rays of sun,

floating down like stiff wings, flight without life. In the grass

they became mottled, and the brown spots soon grew

larger.

Brown had taken over. Under the blanket of grass, everything

was decaying; the spreading patches emitted a heavy

scent. The late summer darkness hung in the tops of the

rowans; frost had stripped away the dense leaves and berries.

Now the leaves were falling from the treetops into the grass,

decomposing silently. Berries hung bright from leafless

branches.

Along the shore of the inlet, sallow stalks stood straight

and tall. Now that the leaves had fallen he could see the

water and catch a glimpse of the birds down there. When the

strokes from the man's oars scared up a wood grouse on the

point, the grey dog followed its flight from his lookout on

the steps. No leaves blocked his view. The cock rose, neck

long, wingstrokes quick and invisible, a heavy weight flying

in a straight line into the dark spruce forest.

Wind squalls blew beneath a dense cloud cover. The

mountains were never visible any longer. Wisps of cloud

scuttled above the lake and the tarn.

Twilight was brief. Night fell like a black curtain, too fine

for the eye to perceive, merging with the darkness of the

rocks and the darkness dwelling in the spruces. The gusts of

wind ripped at the tops of the grass, rough and dull, like

blunted knives. The heads of the starwort were dry now,

stalks tufted, thin and brittle as skeletons. The cow parsley

plants still had black seeds on their brittle ribs, but the shrew

mice could no longer climb them in the wind.

For the dog, the days disappeared slowly, like leaves sinking

in water. He forgot them all and stored them deep inside. He

no longer hunted. He waited and watched.

The man brought his food. He didn't come every single

day and no longer from the open part of the lake where the

wind tossed the water up against the stones. He would land

the boat in the marshy inlet. The wind carried off the sounds

and scents; often the man would appear unexpectedly from

the undergrowth at the edge of the pasture. The dog would

rise from his spot and move away stiffly. As soon as the man

had left, he would go back down and eat and continue his

watch. He never saw so much as a shadow of the vixen. But

he never forgot her.

Between himself and the man something happened every

time they met: the voice and the food. That was the good

part. It was a warm stomach and a pleasant sensation sifting

like strong sunlight through his fur. It touched nerves and

awakened memories with no images.

The scent of fox remained in the mouldy jacket. When he

came inside, his nose clear from the strong wind, he smelled

it. That was the bad part. It made him edgy. Between him

and the man there was this as well: he had to keep the fox

away. Not until the man's boots could be heard tramping

through the overgrown pasture could he abandon his post.

He stretched his back legs, squatting down to do what he'd

needed to do for hours. But he seldom went farther than to

the barn nowadays, although his pain had let up and no

longer slowed him down.

The wind rose to storm strength. One night the rumbling

in the tops of the spruces intensified until the dark night

roared from a hole no one could see. The lake thrashed and

thrashed against the stones, lifting heavy logs of loose timber

far up onto the shore.

He lay in the dark cabin by the woodpile, his body tightly

curled around muzzle and paws, listening through the open

door to the cracking of branches and the crashing of tree

trunks. Although the wind was coming from the other side,

the door kept slamming on the wire loop the man had made.

It jerked all night long, creaking, trying to come loose along

with the other things being blindly tossed about outside.

Day arrived with bright light and a cold wind under a sky

with scuttling wisps of cloud. There was a glimmer of blue

beneath them, and now and then the sun glistened in high

breakers on the lake. He went out to pee, and then headed

down to the lake to drink at the shore that was sheltered

from the wind. The grass lay in brown drifts. It caught at his

paws as if wanting to drag him down into the wetness. Gusts

of wind tore at his coat, combing it up sharply on end.

The storm that tore at his fur was not merely cold and

unpleasant. It robbed him of his dignity and composure. He

needed to present a strong, cohesive front to the world. But

now, shaggy and hunched down, he was being buffeted

towards the water, half fearful, half angry, and vulnerable. By

the time he headed back up, though, he was whole again,

although his ears were still pressed back and the white fur on

his chest was matted.

For two more days the wind continued to blow. He

curled up around his hunger, not leaving the cabin to hunt.

One cold morning when the tail end of the storm was still

surging against the rocks on the shore, the man returned.

The dog didn't see him until he was at the bottom of the

slope between cabin and lake. They hadn't been this close to

each other since the dogfight at the shore. But this time the

man didn't crouch down and he didn't say anything.

If the dog left the steps he would have to approach the

figure standing down there. Or he could rush into the tall,

straight raspberry canes alongside the cabin. From there he

could sidle off towards the cleared area.

He rose slowly, standing still, his back legs bent. His ears

were perked. The fur on his back had risen and darkened to

a sharp strip running like a fin all the way to the root of his

tail. The mane of fur around his neck and muzzle was also

on end. His slanted eyes in the stiff, black mask stared at the

man. But he still hadn't moved.

There was a flutter. The last brittle leaves from the crown

of an aspen had resisted the storm but now let go in a puff of

wind that blew through the branches. Perhaps the man

thought it was a bird taking flight. He took his eyes off the

dog.

And the dog went down the steps. He descended in three

quick leaps, with no limp and no trace of his ribcage injury.

He stopped at the bottom, suddenly unfurling his tightly

coiled tail. It twitched.

The man made a sound: exhaling. The grey dog flicked

his tail again. His head was cocked and he'd relaxed his ears.

His smooth brow creased straight across. Twisting, he moved

in an arc down towards the man, simultaneously approaching

and keeping his distance. In spite of being out of

practice, he looked genuinely friendly. The hair on his back

had settled down, without depriving him of his dignity or

composure. His curly tail, almost floppy, was wagging. The

whole hind part of him was in motion and he took little

tripping steps in smaller and smaller loops around the man.

That was when the man started to talk. He muttered and

mumbled, head turned aside, moving in the direction of the

cabin. When he went into the hall, putting pieces of bread

and meat in the enamel bowl, the dog sat nearby, staring

intently in through the doorway. He listened to the crinkling

of the plastic bag and to the soft, rhythmic voice. When the

man had gone back down to the shore, the dog went straight

up and ate. For the first time he ate while being watched. He

gobbled the food; the enamel bowl rattled against the floorboards.

When it was empty he didn't take the time to lick it

clean. He ambled out, settling in partway up the pasture

slope, watching the man.

A series of bright, clear days followed. The wind was sharp

and churned up the lake, but only on the surface, and never

enough to prevent him from hearing the creaking of the oarlocks

as the man came rowing.

One evening he barked when he heard the boat. He

wasn't accustomed to barking. His voice cracked and his

yapping became a howl. Soon, though, it carried well.

He would bark out across the lake now. Sometimes when

he heard the creaking of the oars, sometimes just because he

had the urge. He would sit out at the end of the point listening

to his yaps reverberate against the cliffs by the narrows.