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.