The Dog (6 page)

He takes it with him out of the grass, lying down under a

spruce at the edge of the forest. With his paws he pins the

vole against a root, tearing at it with his front teeth until the

fur rips open.

He's not especially hungry. The pasture is full of voles and

he's become skilled at finding them, though he's still somewhat

clumsy when he pounces. But after a few hours of

hunting in the morning he's no longer so eager that he gobbles

them up right away. He carries off his prey, tears at the

fur for a long time, leaves bits and pieces.

The strong wind blowing off the lake creates a little tempest

in the crown of the spruce. The sound makes him

sleepy. He dozes, eyelids heavy. The pasture rustles in the

wind and blades of grass gleam when it combs them apart.

The tiny birch leaves shimmer, too, catching the sun. Birch

saplings sprout up here and there in the heavy grass, an invasion

from the forest.

White flecks swirl across his field of vision. He knows

what they are. Butterflies don't have much taste. Bumblebees

sting in your mouth. He knows.

THE DOG

In his drowsiness he gazes out across the familiar pasture.

The grey fluttering of birds. The flecks of butterflies. The

grass is fragrant and the air is filled with pollen.

In the mornings he sees the vixen. She's usually there

before he is, hunting for voles, surrounded by a haze of powerful

scent. Ifhe he rushes her she vanishes, running low in the

grass, which closes above her.

They've never approached each other but he's lain on a

hill above the inlet, looking down on her den. Her cubs

often come out in the sun. Growling, they squabble over

bird wings. Though there are sometimes food scraps outside

the den he never goes down there. There's something

between the foxes and him, something that keeps them

apart.

The pasture is his. It billows under his drowsy gaze, humming

and whirring.

Catching the young hare brought about a change in him. So

much blood and warmth at once. Such extended pleasure,

along with the lingering sense of surprise.

It had happened quickly. The hare popped up in the grass,

rustling in a clump of ferns. With a single leap he had him;

the smell of blood merged with the smell of broken ferns.

The rustling of stiff fronds and their bittersweet fragrance

excited him long afterwards.

The full-grown hares kept their distance. Not so long ago

he'd thought of them as huge. As a pup he'd kept still by the

root of a spruce when they bounded by on the crust of the

snow. He hadn't felt safe.

It was the same with the large birds, the black or brown

speckled ones that flapped up from the thicket. For a long

time he didn't dare hunt them, remembering the hard wing

of the owl, the reprimand in his own pasture.

But now there were others like those hares, only smaller

and more afraid. The fine hairs of fur so erect the downy

undercoat caught the light. The eye. The smell of death even

before his fangs sank in. The stench of terror.

Prey.

There were wood grouse chicks in the grass. Cheeping,

scurrying in the same glassy-eyed terror of being caught.

The dog was changing, growing into his muscular body.

Inside him, something was evolving: a purpose. Filling his

mouth with blood and warmth, keeping it filled. Pouncing

when he heard a rustling noise. Sinking in his fangs. What

was there to be afraid of in the shadows? His body was nearly

full grown now. It hardened around this awareness: can

strike. Am stronger than the rustling and the shadows.

The warm nights brought gnats and black flies. They

plagued him and he never got used to it; the torment didn't

become part of him. He tried to flee but there was nowhere

the insects didn't catch up with him. The flies crept into his

eyes, the gnats settled in his belly fur. He licked the swellings

they left. Only the wind brought relief.

The voices were also part of the warm nights. He avoided

them. Now he was sleeping up in the woods, on windy

mountain slopes where the gnats and flies were swept away,

but the unfamiliar terrain made him uneasy. The wind was

blowing too hard for him to hear properly. He was on edge.

In the mornings, when he came down to the pasture to

hunt, the voices were gone. The smell of smoke hung in the

air. Gusts of wind brought other enticing smells, thick and

unfamiliar. He began going down to the shore and searching.

There was fish blood on the stones. If he got there

before the vixen he might come across a tiny, stiff fish that

had been left. He found rubbery sausage skins. Although

they were salty and hard to chew, he couldn't resist then;. He

was thirsty after going through the scraps the fishermen had

left by the cold campfire, and his mouth burned. He lay at

the edge of the lake by the boat landing, licking his paws

clean from grease and soot. Then he took a long drink of

cold lake water.

From the bramble down by the shore a surge of living

creatures makes its way toward the pasture. The air is humming

and sticks in his throat when he breathes. Everything

warm-blooded is fair game. There are swellings on his hide

from the stings. The more he licks the more it burns. He

wants to escape to a cool breeze, but the wind has completely

died down. During the white nights of summer the

water is smooth.

He spends his days stretched out motionless under a

spruce, as close to the water as he can get without being

seen. There are often boats on the lake now. The voices

make him uneasy. He wants to get away from them but the

heat in the clearing is so intense he's forced to turn back.

There's no escaping them by the shore; the voices even

punctuate the night.'

He hunts in the early morning when there's still a trace of

cool night air, going down to the lake to drink while it's still

quiet along the shore. The goldeneyes dive for food, pulling

up strips of vegetation that quiver on the smooth surface. He

listens for the sound of the beavers.

Everything is familiar. He hears the same sounds he always

does, but beyond them are the voices. They're present even

when they can't be heard. The activity along the shore has

scared off the otter and her young. Their scent gradually

fades away. The fox enters their den and roots around. Soon

his own scent has wiped out every memory of the timid

otters.

The shore belongs to those who dare to live with the

voices of human beings. The dog is one of them, but he's on

edge, his body tense from the plague of gnats and from listening.

There's no restfulness in the light, warm nights, no

deep sleep. In the pasture the valerian shines so brightly that

the opaque bells of the flowers seem to contain a white light.

The sickly smell reaches him in little bursts. Nothing is forgotten.

One

morning he was out at the point, digging for mouse

nests under the spruces. He let down his guard for a

moment, not listening around him, attuned only to faint

sounds under the moss. Then the voices swept over him.

There was barking and a creaking noise. He heard a smack

and water splashing, then wood scraping against stones. He

was so close to the shore he could glimpse the boat and all

the people in it through the alders.

They came ashore without noticing the dark mask in the

speckled shadow of the alders, but he couldn't escape from

the point. Their sharp voices and careless movements were

all around the cabin. He crouched in the blueberry brush.

No matter how hard he listened he wasn't sure where they

were. They tramped around the pasture and slammed the

cabin door. Windows flew open. Rugs and tablecloths

snapped in the air. None of these noises were familiar. He

was completely bewildered by them, lying with his head

cocked, ears perked to pick up the sounds. Even if he'd been

able to see what they were doing he couldn't have made

sense of it. Axes chopping. The screech of a saw on wood.

The clattering of a bucket. Last of all the smell of smoke

pouring out.

Lying there in this chaos of sounds and insistent scents, he

waited for a chance to get away, but the people were unpredictable.

The smallest ones hollered and flattened the grass,

throwing an object that kept landing near him. When they

fetched it he could pick up their smells, which were very

concentrated and seemed to burn and sting.

He withdrew farther out on the point. Although he was

lying still, he was agitated. All other creatures were in

motion at specific times. They hunted and searched and

then they looked for a den or a branch. But the people at

the cabin didn't leave, allowing him to sneak away. It was

impossible to outwait them. When they'd been quiet for a

few minutes the noise and activity started all over again,

without warning or respite. Their chaos was between him

and the forest. Each time they came in among the trees on

the point he grew more terrified. He was prepared to

defend himself.

Towards dawn he broke out. By then it had been calm for

quite a while after the last one had returned from the fishing

spots by the narrows and gone inside. The dog crossed his

tracks in the damp grass when he fled.

Belly close to the ground, he followed the shore of the

shallow inlet and then ran in among the scrubby birches

by the pasture. Without bothering to look for the easiest

path, he bounded across the wet area below the barn. It

was covered with meadowsweet, which left a dense,

honey-like smell when it broke off, making him dizzy. He

ran through the marsh, black mud splattering around his

legs. When he reached the spruce forest he had to slacken

his pace. He loped along until exhaustion dulled the tension

in his muscles. The memory faded. The throbbing

sensation in his throat and lungs let up and his heartbeat

grew steadier.

He was extremely thirsty; all day and all night he'd been

too afraid to drink. As he started looking for water his body

began to relax. Weariness came over him in the chill before

dawn. He discovered a brook and drank for a long time. As

he wound down he just lapped sporadically, standing with

hanging head, letting the murmuring of the brook clear his

head and drown out the loud surge of blood in his ears.

Then he pushed on through the forest. Dawn awakened

all the creatures that had perched on twigs to sleep. There

was a soft flutter quite nearby: the bold Siberian jays. He was

accustomed to them and kept going.

Exhaustion made him increasingly sluggish and empty

inside. Once the sun was up he came upon a boulder to rest

by. The warmth of the sun found him there; it penetrated

through his furry coat to his tired, tingling body. He slept in

fits and starts while the warmth took over, healing and calming

him. Only when the jays came too close did his paws

twitch.

That day he didn't hunt. He didn't recognise the forest

around him. He was searching, but not for food; it was

familiar places he was after, and the smell of his own markings.

He left no drops of urine, merely stayed on guard and

kept on searching. He didn't empty his bladder until it was

painfully full. Towards evening he started covering longer

stretches at a time, loping at a steady pace, stopping once in

a while to listen. But even the blend of sounds in the air had

changed. Everything was different.

He headed uphill. Sharp rocks protruded and he had to

climb. He was frightened of stones that might shift under his

weight but he had to get across the rocky area. Inside him

was a cavity that could only be filled by familiar things. No

matter where he stopped, listening and sniffing, the wind

brought only the unfamiliar, and it was vast.

The unfamiliar was hunger and stone. It was gravel and

debris he'd never seen before, blasted-out strips of new logging

roads, blotches of diesel oil in the gravel. It was rusty

iron, plastic containers, mouldering cloth, beer bottles and

jagged rocks. The pads of his paws got cut. Eventually he

retreated from the strip; it had seemed easy to walk on but it

exacted a price on his paws.

He drank from a brook, standing in the water for a long

time. It soothed the pain in his paws. The running water

cleared his nose but he still couldn't pick up any scents he

recognised. The only relief from fear and confusion was to

keep going.

The farther up he got the sharper the air became. The

cleared area was huge. He tried to avoid piles of twigs and

woodchips but there was no way round. Tractor ruts, deep

as ditches, cut into the ground. Above him a buzzard

sailed on outspread wings, screeching. It wanted him to

leave. He would have been glad to escape the horrible

noise and the circling overhead, but there was no forest to