Wild Life (4 page)

Erik couldn't stay put, despite his promise to Oma. He went back out to the barn, where the dog remained curled up by the hay bales. Erik approached slowly, speaking softly. The dog's brown eyes found his and didn't waver as he walked up and knelt down. Now that he was a little more calm, Erik noticed that the dog wasn't wearing a collar. Did that mean it was a stray? Its ribs showed clearly, and Erik wondered how many days it had been suffering, hungry, yet unable to eat because of the quills.

With great care, he reached out and gently stroked the dog's side. “The vet is on his way, boy,” he said. “Hang on.”

It seemed as if hours passed before Erik heard a car pull into the driveway. He got up and watched from the barn door as Oma's friend dropped her off. Just seconds later the vet arrived, and Erik called them both over to the barn. Oma introduced him to “Dr. Bob,” and they all went inside to where the dog lay.

Dr. Bob examined it quickly. “It's bad, but I've seen worse,” he said cheerfully. “Erik, I'll need you to hold her still while I pull out the quills.”

“Me?”
Erik asked with surprise. He hadn't anticipated being asked to help.

“Oh, Doc, I don't know,” Oma said uncertainly. “Is that safe? I don't recognize this dog. I don't think it belongs to anybody I know. I can't have anything happening to Erik. He's my daughter Darlene's boy, you know.”

“Don't worry, Grace. She seems very good-natured,” Dr. Bob answered, echoing the very thing that Erik had sensed about the dog. And he had called the dog a
she
.

“Sorry, girl,” Erik murmured. “I didn't realize.”

“Some dogs react to pain and fear with aggression,” Dr. Bob went on, “but I think she's going to be okay.” Looking at Oma, he added, “If I'm wrong, I'll take her back to my office and anesthetize her. But, in my opinion, it probably won't be necessary. Compared to some dogs I've seen, the porky let her off easy.”

“Well, Doc, you know best,” said Oma. “But I'm going back to the house. I can't bear to watch.”

Dr. Bob, speaking in the same low, soothing voice Erik had tried to use before, positioned the dog and showed Erik how to hold her. “Keep talking to her,” he said.

Erik did as he was told. Dr. Bob drew a pair of forceps from his bag. Gripping firmly onto the base of the first quill, he pulled, hard and fast.

The dog flinched violently and yelped. The sound wrenched Erik's heart, but he got hold of her again, gently but firmly, and kept up a steady stream of comforting words. One by one, Dr. Bob carefully and methodically pulled out the rest of the quills.

“The small ones are the hardest,” he explained as he worked. “They're the ones that tend to break off. She's lucky; this must have been a pretty quick encounter. There aren't any in her tongue.”

Erik shuddered at the thought.

“Sometimes,” the vet continued quietly, “if the dog shakes the porcupine, the quills will get in their ears and all along the sides of their face and neck. Then, if they start to roll to relieve the pain, they end up driving the quills in farther.”

Erik held on, very glad that this dog had been smart enough not to roll. He was happy, too, to note that, after the first few quills were out, she'd begun to settle down. Never once did he fear she was going to bite him. Rather, she turned her head toward him for a moment with a look so full of trust he had the feeling that if she could talk she would have said, “I know you don't mean to hurt me. I know you're trying to help.”

“Such a brave girl,” he crooned. “Such a brave pup you are. Hang on now, it won't be much longer. Hang on, that's right, hang on, that's good, hang on, good girl.”

Dr. Bob continued to talk to Erik as he worked. “A lot of people think porcupines are nasty animals and that they actually shoot or throw their quills. But the truth is they're gentle little guys who just want to be left alone. A person or another animal has to come in direct contact with their tail in order to get stuck.”

“Those quills have barbs, right?” Erik asked.

Dr. Bob held up a quill so Erik could get a close look. There was no hook on the end, as he had imagined. The tip looked stiff, sharp and pointy.

“Another myth,” Dr. Bob said matter-of-factly. “There are tiny, microscopic scales that point backwards, but no actual barbs. Thank goodness,” he added. “They're the devil to get out as it is.”

Finally it was over. Dr. Bob gave the dog an injection of antibiotics. Then he swabbed her face with alcohol, which she didn't like at all, followed by some antibiotic cream, which she seemed to like a lot.

Dr. Bob laughed as she licked off all the cream he had just applied. “The shot'll take care of any infection. Now, her face might be a little swollen tonight, but that's normal.”

“Okay,” Erik said uncertainly.

Dr. Bob said, “That's assuming you're going to take care of her until her owner shows up.” He looked at Erik, eyebrows raised in a question.

“I-I'd like to,” Erik said. “But, well, I guess it's up to my grandmother.”

“Let's go ask her,” said Dr. Bob.

They stood up and so did the dog. “Come on, girl,” Erik said. He wasn't certain she'd follow them to the house, but she did.

Oma met them at the kitchen door.

“Can she come in?” Erik asked.

Oma hesitated, then nodded.

Inside, the dog sniffed around a bit, then came and stood by Erik's side. Dr. Bob said to Oma, “That went really well, and I think she's going to be fine. Erik here says he's willing to take care of her for now, if that's okay with you. Otherwise, I can take her with me.”

Oma's eyes grew wide. Then, blinking nervously, she said, “Well, I don't know…”

“I've never seen this pup before, but I doubt it will be long until we track down her owner,” Dr. Bob went on.

“I thought maybe she was a stray,” said Erik.

“No, I think she must have just slipped her collar. She's a purebred German shorthaired pointer. Pheasant season just opened, and sharp-tail grouse season's been open for a while, so probably someone was hunting birds with her. Whoever it was will be looking for her, I'm sure. She's a valuable dog.”

Oma considered this, a concerned expression on her face.

“Please, Oma,” Erik whispered. “Can I?”

“I-It's just—it's just that…well, we haven't had a dog in over thirty years. When our dog Elvis died, Big Darrell said, ‘No more dogs.' So I don't know…” Her voice drifted off again, and she looked worried.

“I'll ask him,” Erik rushed to say. The words were out before he realized it. The idea of facing Big Darrell with a request was more than a little intimidating. But he couldn't let the dog leave with Dr. Bob. If she left, Erik would never see her again, he knew it.

Oma looked at him, her lips creased with worry. Then she turned to Dr. Bob, let out a long breath, and asked, “It'll most likely be just the one night, you think?”

“Sometimes people abandon dogs, and that could be what's happened here. But, as I said, I doubt someone would do that with a purebred pointer. A day or two should tell the story. She may have already been reported missing. I'll check with the police and humane society and my colleagues when I get back to the office.”

“Well, then, I suppose…”

Before she could think it over further, Erik wrapped her small frame in a hug. “Thanks, Oma!”

Afterwards, she looked flustered, but pleased.

“Well, that's settled, then,” Dr. Bob said. “If nobody's claimed her by Monday, bring her in. I'll want to check her over, anyway, to make sure she's healing the way she should. If you want, you can leave her with me then, and I'll see what I can do about finding her a home.”

Oma nodded, looking relieved.

“Right now, she could use a good meal and plenty of water. She's not emaciated, but she's pretty thin. Probably hasn't been able to eat since she tangled with that porcupine.”

“Hey, Doc,” said Erik. “You called her a pup. How old is she, anyway?”

“I'd say she's right around a year, give or take a month or so.”

Erik reached down to give the dog a pat and murmured, “Poor puppy.”

He and Oma thanked the vet, and Erik offered to pay him out of his allowance money.

Dr. Bob shook his head and smiled. “No charge. I'm glad I could help.”

After they said their goodbyes, Erik knelt beside the dog. She licked his face. He laughed, and she looked at him with her left eyebrow lifted, which made her look so funny he laughed again. She answered with a singsongy little howl, then danced backward for a few steps, before coming back to lie down with her head in his lap. Erik rubbed behind her ears and felt her body relax under his touch. Then she closed her eyes in what looked like pure contentment.

Until this very moment, Erik hadn't even known he wanted a dog. But he wanted this dog so much it hurt to think of giving her up. He didn't know how it was possible to feel so connected to a creature he'd only known for a couple of hours. But he did. There was a bond between them, the boy and the dog. It had been forged in the moments when their eyes held as the quills were being removed. Erik knew she felt it, too.

She was
his
.

Erik glanced up to see Oma watching him with an odd expression on her face. She turned away quickly, but not before he saw the shine of tears in her eyes.

“What's the matter, Oma?” he asked. He wondered what he had done wrong now. Or if maybe she was already regretting her decision.

She shook her head, as if to clear away an unwanted thought, and said, “Nothing's wrong, dear. It's just that, for a minute there, the two of you reminded me of—well, I'm just being silly.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, before Erik could say anything, she changed the subject. “Dr. Bob said to feed her, poor thing, but I don't have any dog food. What shall we give her?” Oma considered this as she set a bowl of water on the floor. Then she snapped her fingers and said, “I know!” She went to the freezer, took out a package wrapped in white paper, and held it up. “Ground venison,” she said. “Best meat there is.”

“That's what my friend Patrick's father says,” Erik told her. “I've never had it, though.”

“Oh, wait until you try it,” said Oma as she put the meat in a frying pan. “Your friend's father is right. Big Darrell used to get a deer every year until—” Once again she hesitated, then measured her words. “Well, until he stopped hunting. Now Jim Lund gives us a share of his. Helps us get through the winter.”

As the meat cooked, the dog's nose began to twitch eagerly. She watched intently as Oma pushed the frozen glob around with a spatula, breaking it up as it slowly browned.

When it was cooked through, Oma let it cool, then scraped it into a plastic dish and placed it on the floor. The dog walked over and sniffed the food with great interest.

“What a lady,” said Oma with a laugh. “Why, Elvis would have wolfed that down in two seconds.”

“Go ahead, girl,” Erik urged. “It's for you.”

The dog began to eat in earnest. It made Erik happy to watch her, knowing how hungry she had to be.

“Erik,” said Oma quietly, “it would be best not to mention Elvis. Or to say anything to Big Darrell about giving the dog meat from the freezer…”

“Meat?” Erik said, pulling an innocent face. “What meat?”

Oma's laugh rang through the kitchen. It sounded nice. He wanted to ask her about Elvis, but the dog was obviously a sensitive subject, even though he'd been dead for thirty years. He didn't want to make Oma sad again.

Using an old blanket Oma gave him, Erik made a bed for the dog in the corner of the living room. She rested peacefully on it, and Erik sat beside her, stroking her, taking in every feature: the velvety softness of her ears, her warm, earthy smell, the pattern of large brown spots on her mottled coat, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. What really killed him was the way she looked right into his eyes. It was like she
knew
him in a way he'd never been known before.

He stayed with the dog all day, or she stayed with him. Whenever he got up, even to get a glass of milk, she followed. Erik wanted her to rest, so he got some pillows off the couch and leaned against the wall beside her bed.

Please, Dr. Bob,
he willed,
do not call. Please don't let there be an owner, who will take her away.

As the hours passed, it became impossible to think and speak of her as “the dog.” Erik knew someone had probably given her a name, but he had no idea what it was and he wanted to call her something. He thought about it all afternoon, but couldn't come up with anything.

He and Oma had a quiet supper. Afterwards, she set aside a plate for Big Darrell, who still hadn't returned from harvesting beets, and switched on the news. Erik sat down beside the dog, scratched her ears, and was glad to see her close her eyes.

“That's a good girl,” he murmured. “You need to sleep, poor pup, you fought with a porcupine, you were full of quills, you brave little quilly dog.”

All afternoon long, he'd been whispering a similar stream of nonsense and—he might as well admit it—
baby talk
. But hearing himself now, he sat up straighter and repeated “quilly dog.” He liked the sound of it. “Hey,” he said, “what about Quilly?” He thought for a moment, and added, “Or maybe just Quill. What do you think about that for a name?”

The dog lifted her head and looked him square in the eye.

“Quill,”
he repeated. “Do you like it?”

The dog lifted her left eyebrow, then lowered it.

“What do you think? You want to be Quill?”

She thumped her short tail, put her head on his lap, gave a deep, contented sigh, and closed her eyes again.

That settled
that
.

Erik was just telling Oma that he'd come up with a perfect name for the dog, when the door opened and Big Darrell walked in. His clothes and face were dusty, and when he took off his farmer's cap Erik was once again struck by the blazing blue of his eyes and the contrast between his pale forehead and the rest of his face. He hung the cap on a hook by the door and was leaning down to unlace his boots when his gaze fell on Erik and the dog. He jerked upright, as if
he'd
just been stuck by a porcupine, and stared.

After what felt to Erik like a very long time, Big Darrell asked, “What's that dog doing in here?” His deep voice sounded to Erik like a growl.

Erik stood up. Quill stirred and rose to her feet, too. With her stubby tail wagging, she approached Big Darrell. He ignored her.

Oma jumped up from her seat in front of the TV and started to say, “Darrell, it's only for—”

But Big Darrell cut her off. “Didn't I say no more dogs?”

Erik couldn't help himself. “But that was a long time ago!”

Big Darrell's face froze. He stiffened, and for a moment no one moved. He turned slowly to Erik and said deliberately, “What do you know about what happened here a long time ago?”

Erik, taken aback by the coldness in Big Darrell's gaze, stammered, “N-nothing. I—”

“That's right. Nothing. Remember that.” He turned back to Oma, who looked every bit as frightened as Erik felt. Erik could hardly bear looking at her, wringing her hands and blinking with anxiety.

“But, Darrell, I—” Oma began.

Big Darrell interrupted. “Didn't I say
no more dogs
?”

“Yes, but let me ex—”

“There's nothing to explain,” Big Darrell said flatly. “The dog goes.”

“It's not Oma's fault!” Erik shouted. “The dog's face was all full of porcupine quills and she couldn't eat or anything. She needed help, and Dr. Bob came—”

Big Darrell's eyes narrowed at this, and Erik hurried to add, “He didn't even charge us anything because he's a nice guy and he just wanted to help her.”

Not like you.
The unspoken words hung in the air. If Big Darrell sensed them, he showed no sign.

“Quill, come,” Erik said. He couldn't stand watching her standing at Big Darrell's feet, wagging her tail and sniffing his boots, waiting for a pat that wasn't going to come. When she returned to stand beside him, Erik reached down to rub her head. Then he stepped forward, placing himself between Quill and Big Darrell.

He tried to keep his voice even, although his hands were shaking and his heart was drumming a jerky rhythm in his chest. “Oma told me you said no more dogs. It's only until Dr. Bob finds the owner. And I've got money. If there's any charge, I'll pay for everything.”

There was silence for a while. Finally, Big Darrell heaved an angry sigh and said, “It's too late to do anything with it tonight. It can stay until tomorrow. No longer.”

“Oh, Darrell, that's wonderful. Isn't it, Erik?” Oma asked softly.

Erik didn't answer. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth he'd say what he was thinking, which was that there was no way he was going to thank Big Darrell and act all grateful because the man had said Quill could stay one lousy night in his lousy house.

He and Big Darrell continued to stare at each other. Finally Big Darrell spoke. “You called it a name.”

“
Her
, not
it
.”

Big Darrell said impatiently, “How did you know its name?”

“I just made it up,” Erik answered, wondering what the man was getting at.

Big Darrell shook his head slowly, a disgusted expression on his face. Erik had to force himself not to look away from the man's icy blue gaze.

“No sense in giving a name to what's not yours to keep,” Big Darrell muttered. “Now take that mutt out to the barn.”

“If she's sleeping in the barn, then I am, too,” Erik answered.

“Oh, Erik—” Oma began, looking distressed.

But Big Darrell interrupted, saying, “Suit yourself.” He went into the kitchen, where he sat down and began to silently eat his supper.

Oma gave Erik a weak smile and gently touched his shoulder. “I'll talk to him,” she said.

Erik could hear the fear and reluctance in her voice. “No,” he said. “Don't bother. I'll be fine.” He bit his tongue to keep from saying what he wanted to say:
I'd rather sleep out than in the same house with him, any day.

“Erik,” said Oma, almost in a whisper. “Won't you—”

“I
want
to sleep in the barn. With Quill.”

Oma sighed, her distress evident in her face. “Wait, then.” She took a flashlight from a shelf by the door. “You'll need this. And a pillow and some more blankets for yourself.”

“I'll get them off my bed,” Erik replied, and headed for the stairs. He hastily removed his bedding and put on a sweatshirt. Back in the living room, he picked up Quill's blanket. Arms full, he turned to face Oma, who appeared close to tears.

“I wish you'd stay inside,” she said. “He—”

“I'm sleeping in the barn, Oma. It's
okay
. Really.”

His grandmother reached up and fussed with the neck of his sweatshirt. Then, with a brave attempt at a smile, she said, “Good night, then. And—sleep well.”

“'Night,” Erik said, and escaped gratefully into the darkness.

Oma turned on the porch light as he and Quill walked toward the barn. Once inside, he found the hay bales, spread out his blankets and Quill's, plumped his pillow, and stretched out with Quill beside him. He buried his flushed and angry face in the warm fur of her neck.

For a long time, he lay awake, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he thought about Big Darrell.
What's his problem, anyway? What did I ever do to him? Him and all his stupid rules. “Don't go in that room. Didn't I say no dogs? No sense in naming something that's not yours.” I don't know how Oma can stand living here alone with him. There's no way I can take it for six months. I won't make it one more day in that house.

The instant he stopped thinking about Big Darrell, he worried that Dr. Bob would call at any moment, having found Quill's owner. He tried to think of some way, any way, to keep her, but there was no solution, not as long as he lived under Big Darrell's roof.