The Dog (11 page)

Now he would be standing in the trees by the lakeshore

when the man landed his boat. His curly tail wagged; he

paced eagerly, twisting and turning and letting his ears relax.

His throat produced sounds he hadn't really mastered. Out of

him came yaps and yelps. When he heard the rattling of the

enamel bowl against the bottom of the boat he would tramp

back and forth under the alder bushes. Soon he came closer.

The man had started feeding him where he landed the

boat. He would put the bowl down on the stones by the

shore, then head up towards the cabin by himself. He'd stop

about halfway up the slope, watching the dog eat. The bowl

jumped on the stones. Sometimes it was in the water by the

time he had finished. The man would wade out to get it later,

talking softly all the while. The dog would be sitting on the

slope by then, watching. They switched places comfortably

and sometimes they were very close when their paths crossed.

One evening he left the bowl in the boat. He'd landed it

stern first, close to a flat stone. The dog hesitated briefly,

then stood on the stone and ate. The next evening the bowl

was in the bottom of the boat.

When he had eaten they would take a walk. The man's

boots trampled down the tufted brown grass. The dog ran in

big circles in front of and behind him. He stopped and

waited at the edge of the marsh. His mask looked very black

there, against the fluttering leaves in the sparse birches.

When darkness crept up on the spruce forest the man

would leave. The dog followed the boat from the shore,

walking all the way out to the end of the point. He stood

there listening to the scraping and banging of the boat landing

on the other side. Chains jangled. There was rattling

when the man pulled in the oars and a sliding sound as he

dragged the boat ashore. All these sounds were now familiar.

He knew what came next: the pounding of footsteps on the

hard, dry, grassy soil. Then there was silence. He stayed sitting

there for a while. The water at the narrows purled, and

in the distance was the roar of the rapids, blocking other

sounds from the mysterious opposite shore where the footsteps

had vanished. He went back to the pasture and climbed

the steps to the cabin, going in through the open door, held

with a hook. He would lie in the opening and wait. That

was his place.

He was the one who waited.

One day the man arrived in the morning. The wake rippled

the water, creating a pattern of light and shadow. The dog sat

at the edge of the woods, listening. He was uncertain and

had to scratch his ear. He thumped for quite a while, sensing

it was the wrong time of day. His stomach told him it was

wrong, and the light falling from the wrong direction. He

couldn't hear the rattling enamel bowl, either. The man

walked right up to the cabin. He looked around, squinting;

the light was so sharp the rowan berries on the leafless

branches gleamed bright against the sky.

The grey dog stopped scratching and followed, bounding

cheerfully, keenly excited, like one who has been waiting for

a long time and now senses the wait is nearly over.

The man strode on; he was happy, too. He radiated good

cheer; it was in the calm morning air, without him saying

anything.

Above the pasture, where the wetlands began, the meadowsweet

was more than waist high. The soggy ground had a

strong smell. The dog followed, engulfed in naeadowsweet.

When they reached the marsh the man stopped, looking for

hoof tracks. He'd put a salt lick at this spot during the

summer. It was gone now, but the ground under the pole

was still salty. The dog had been there too, sniffing and digging.

Now he waited at a distance. The minute the man

moved on he bounded after him.

He criss-crossed the marsh, following scents and gusts of

airborne smells playfully, without any real intent to hunt. He

kept his eyes on the man, as he strode calmly across the

higher ground. When he entered the woods the dog ran up

behind him and followed at his heels on the path, ears alert

and tail tightly coiled.

They crossed a second marsh, after which they headed

sharply uphill towards a little slope of crooked, lichen-clad

birches. At the top, the man stood still for a long time, staring

out across the marshes and the parcels of forest land,

across the lake water gleaming so bright it was difficult to fix

one's gaze on the huge sheet of pure light. He looked

towards the blue mountains over in Norway, their slopes

dotted with snow. The dog sat a little way behind him. His

nose was sensitive to what the gusts of wind carried with

them, but he certainly wasn't looking at the view. He sat

there squinting.

The moss was bright, and the sun caught in the yellowing

field of grasses. Around tree stumps there were ripening

clusters of lingonberries, and every single shiny leaf among

them stood out as if it had just been created. The man pulled

off handfuls of lingonberries, letting them run through his

fingers down into the moss. His gaze wandered. Sometimes

it played on nearby things, on the ground and the grass.

Sometimes it sought things far away, off in the marshes, and

where the forest became sparser. For a few minutes he

looked at the distant ridges and mountain peaks, jagged and

blue, and at the bright light on the lake. Then his gaze

returned to what was nearby, resting on the stumps and the

berries.

The dog sat, ears cocked. He followed what was happening

in the distance, mostly the doings of the birds in the

trees; once a snapping branch, a crashing hoof made his ears

perk even more and his shiny, black nose wriggle.

They both heard a game bird rise, possibly a large wood

grouse. The man looked at the dog, saying a couple of

words. The dog's tail began to twitch and he sat even more

attentively.

The sun warmed him. It shone down on his curly white

chest; it felt good. This morning there was no pain. He grew

sleepy in the sun and lay down, forepaws extended. He kept

his head up and his ears perked, his nose sniffing, but his eyes

were shut for longer and longer spells.

The man lay down, too. He'd turned around, saying

something in a soft voice, waking the dog from his sun

slumber. Then he stretched out in the moss on his stomach.

His face vanished. His voice was gone, his gaze, the teeth

that gleamed.

The dog jumped up. Initially tense, he moved slowly

toward the man, tail straightening. Then he pulled it back in

with a twitch. He ran up, poking the man's neck and ears

with his muzzle. When the man rolled over, the dog licked

his face. Eagerly, his tongue swept all over it. When the man

rose onto his elbows, the grey dog lay down, belly-up. His

insect-bitten stomach glistened in the sun.

Now the man spoke to him again in the same way he had

done when they had met during the moose hunt. He put

one hand on the dog's neck behind his ear and scratched his

short fur hard.

After a while the two of them rose, the dog leaping up

with a bound. When he had shaken himself he was composed again. They began to hike back down. He was

happy. That was clear from the way he ran in circles in the

THE DOG

marsh. He ran much more than he had to, out of sheer joy.

When the man began to laugh at him he ran even faster.

He took off at great speed, kicking up a nasty smell in the

mire.

When does something end?

Perhaps never. There's always something else after it. Hunting days follow with sun and strong wind, and lazy days

of rest, head against forepaws, listening to the heavy rain

streaming through the branches of the aspen and drumming

on the tin roof. Long, sleepy days when wooden walls make

clicking noises in the cold, and spring days of dripping water

and chirping birds, when the very air seems to come to life,

tickling nose and ears.

This tale will not end as long as a dog's strong heart goes

on beating, as it is likely to do for quite a few years to

come.

They called him Plucky. That name came to the man as

he rowed back that Sunday morning when he had been

allowed to touch him for the first time.

People asked how he managed to get him tied up. But he

never used a rope or a leash. The dog had come of his own

accord.

The man often told the story of how he'd started putting out

food at the lakeshore and then in the boat. One day when

the dog had become accustomed to standing in the boat he

had carefully shoved it out. The dog had crouched down,

ears pulled back. But they got across without him trying to

jump out.

He also spoke often of how they made their way home

through the village. The dog had walked right at the edge of

the woods, often entirely out of sight. Now and then he

peeked out. Almost invisible, he followed his master.

Like some damn cat, the man said.

The dog came to love sitting by the stove. His old injuries

sometimes ached, and the older he got the more he loved

the sunshine, the warmth from the sun on the rag rug on the

front steps, and the heat of the white enamel Husqvarna

stove in which they burned birch wood. He liked her, too,

the one who put down his bowls of food. When no one was

looking he would jump up on the wooden kitchen settee

and lie on her sweater.

He was quick to learn what he wasn't allowed to do. The

mother dog knew. But she no longer punished him. There

was no need. He copied her.

One winter day a flock of migrating moose crossed the

clearing on the other side of the ridge. The mother dog

was loose and the grey dog followed her. They cornered three moose on the marsh. The snow reached way up over

their bellies, so they couldn't move fast enough to prevent

the moose from getting away. The flock dispersed and the

dogs were left with just one, a yearling with long, white

legs.

After two hours the mother dog had had enough. But the

grey dog kept it up. When his master came skiing to call him

off, he had been barking for five hours. That was when the

man realised he was a very special dog. That's what he said

later, over and over again.

He started training him, first on the ski track and then

behind his bicycle. In September he took him along hunting

for the first time. He wouldn't chase his prey very far, but the

man said that was an advantage. Saved you standing around

waiting for a dog that had gone his own way.

That first season they shot five moose he had hunted

down, four bulls and a calf. There would be more. He'd

earned his name, the man said.

Now he was able to take him in the car when he was

going to meet the others, and he could also put a collar and

leash on him. Not even the radio scared him any more.

But he remained a one-man dog and no one could touch

him but his master, and the woman who put down his food

bowl by the kitchen sink. Both of them also knew they

should speak gently. A raised, angry voice would make him

retreat and not reappear for a long time.

He was constantly watchful. Often he sat upright on the

front porch or out at the top of the steep hill on which the

farmhouse perched, ears and nose attentive. He followed

things that happened far away. The brown, squinting eyes

THE DOG

in the black mask monitored movements in the leaves and

the grass.

Even indoors' he was on his guard. Often they thought he

looked as if he were listening for something, though they

couldn't imagine what.

They would put a hand on his head and talk to him, but

he would pull away and settle back down somewhere he

would not be disturbed.

He remained alone in his waiting.

The tale ends there. No one knows what he was listening for

or what he had been through out there where no one had

been able to see him.

No one even knows whether there's a word for whatever

it is he's waiting for.