Shiloh Season

Everyone comes running, and I can’t tell who’s hugging who. Ma’s hugging Becky, Dad’s hugging Ma, Dara Lynn’s hugging Shiloh, but I’m not hugging Dara Lynn. Not that far gone. I guess I’m hugging Shiloh, too.

  Dad picks up Becky in his arms and carries her into the house and she don’t even open her eyes. Bet you could operate on her brain and she wouldn’t even feel it.

  Ma takes off Becky’s shoes and lays her down on her bed, clothes and all, and then the only thing left to do is have some ice cream. Dad calls the sheriff again to tell him the search is off, and Ma’s dishing up big helpings of fudge ripple. Shiloh gets the first dish.

  “Would have saved us a lot of grief and worry if that dog could talk,” says Dad. He’s smiling now.

  “He did talk, we just didn’t ask the right questions,” I say. “He knew Becky was in that shed the whole time. She must have gone in there to hide and fell asleep. He was watching over her, not making any fuss. It was when we all went in the house without her that he figured he ought to let us know.”

  “Well, if I don’t see Judd before next weekend, I’m going over there and settle this whole thing peaceably,” Dad says. “Can’t go on worrying this way every time a gun or firecracker goes off.”

  I sleep real good that night.

  Ten

  The Tyler Star–News says that rabies has been reported in Tyler County, and Dad says it’s time we took Shiloh to a vet, make sure he has all his shots.

  We know for a fact that Judd never takes his dogs to a vet unless he has to. Says with his dogs being chained and all, how are they going to get rabies?

  Judd’ll do most anything to keep from spending a nickel he don’t have to, but Ma says if he took the money he spent on beer and spent it on his dogs instead, he’d have a lot happier, healthier animals. Happy and healthy ain’t what interests Judd, though. Hunting is.

  Doc Murphy gives us the name of his veterinarian friend down in St. Marys, and we make an appointment for Tuesday afternoon late. Dad goes to work early that morning to get his mail delivered in time, and about four o’clock, after Dara Lynn and me get home—have some pop and cheese crackers—Dad and Dara Lynn and me put Shiloh in the Jeep and drive to the vet’s.

  John Collins is his name and, just like Doc Murphy, he uses part of his house for his clinic. Shiloh is not one tiny bit happy about going, let me tell you. He’s happy about gettin’ in the Jeep, though, and likes to ride up front with Dad, his head out, the wind blowing his ears. Dara Lynn and me laugh at the way spit drops off the end of his tongue. Jeep gets going fast enough and the wind’ll blow that spit right into the backseat. Dara Lynn lets out a shriek when some of it smacks her arm.

  Once we get to the clinic, Shiloh knows something is up. Don’t know how dogs can tell that, but they seem to. Not a place he’s ever been before, that’s one thing. The scent of other dogs around, that’s another. Scared dogs, too.

  We’re walking up the sidewalk with Shiloh on a leash, and the more he smells the bushes, the more scared he gets. By the time we reach the door, his tail’s so far tucked in between his legs he can hardly walk. Dara Lynn picks him up in her arms and carts him inside.

  Dad signs in at the desk, and a young woman in a blue shirt rubs Shiloh on the head, but that don’t fool him one minute. He knows right off this is a place he don’t want to be. Knows it for sure when a fifteen-pound cat reaches out and swats at him as we go past.

  We sit in a row on the plastic chairs and Shiloh’s sitting on the floor between my feet. I sort of press the calves of my legs close around him like a hug, but I can feel him shaking. I reach down and pat Shiloh on the head. He licks my hand, but it’s not a very strong lick. Think he’s saying, “I thought you liked me. How come you’re bringing me here?”

  Dad’s reading some pamphlets on distemper, rabies, and something called hepatitis. I’m looking at a dog chart over on the wall. Shows a side view of a dog, and every part of him is named—parts of a dog I never even heard of before. Figure if I’m going to be a vet I got to know them all, so I start memorizing ’em right here—the hock joint, loin, croup, withers, brisket, stifle, flews. . . . Should’ve brought my notebook, I’m thinking, so I could put it all down.

  Dara Lynn, though, is reading about worms. She sits there with her mouth full open, eyes big as quarters, and nudges me in the side.

  “Marty,” she whispers, “you know that puppies have worms in ’em?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I know dogs can get worms.”

  “Live ones!” says Dara Lynn, eyes like fifty-cent pieces now. “Crawling around inside ’em!” She’s looking more horrified every minute. Then she looks over at me. “Maybe Shiloh’s got ’em.”

  “I suppose he could have.”

  “How would they know?” she asks me.

  I lean over and whisper: “You have to look in his poop.”

  “EEeeuu!” Dara Lynn cries, and claps her hands over her mouth.

  Only thing I like better than teasing Dara Lynn is making her sick.

  Now it’s our turn to take Shiloh into an examining room. I get up and tug on the leash, and Shiloh follows, looking about as mournful as a dog can look.

  The vet is a tall man—must be six feet four, I’ll bet—and he’s got on a blue shirt, too. Got a big head, big ears, and a big smile.

  “Well, well, so this is Shiloh!” he says in a friendly, calm kind of voice as Dad lifts our dog up and puts him on the examining table. “This the one Doc Murphy told me about?”

  “He’s the one,” says Dad.

  The first five minutes all John Collins does is pet Shiloh and talk real soft. Runs his hands behind his ears, smooths his head, and pretty soon Shiloh’s feeling like maybe this isn’t going to be so bad. Starts frisking up a little, tail begins to wag, and then he’s lickin’ John Collins all over his hands and chin. The vet laughs.

  He asks us questions about Shiloh, about how many shots he’s had, and of course we don’t know the answers because we don’t know who had him before Judd. Wants to know what we feed him, and I can tell he don’t like the idea of table scraps.

  “You’ve been taking real good care of him, but he’d be even healthier if he had more protein in his diet,” John Collins says, and tells us what kind of dog food we should be buying and where we can get it cheapest.

  Then he gives Shiloh a couple of shots—Shiloh’s right good about it, just flinches a little—and tells us never to give him bones, make sure he has fresh water, clean his food dish every day, what to do for fleas. . . .

  When Dad and Dara Lynn take Shiloh out to the desk to pay the bill, I say to John Collins, “Something I’ve been thinking on: Chaining dogs makes ’em mean, don’t it?”

  “It makes them scared, so they act mean,” the vet says. “When you chain a dog, he feels trapped. If other dogs or people come over and he thinks he might be attacked, he tries to pretend he’s big and fierce in order to scare them off.”

  “And these dogs just stay mean for life?” I ask.

  John Collins shakes his head. “They don’t have to. Once you unchain a dog, he doesn’t feel so threatened. Knows he can get away if he has to. He may not settle down right then, but if he learns to trust you, knows you’ll treat him right, he can become a loyal, gentle dog.”

  We go home and I sit at the kitchen table and write all that down for my report. We got a vet now; I can call him and ask questions, and I’m thinking how maybe some day I’ll have an animal clinic—my name there on the door. Folks will bring their pets in with all kinds of problems, and I’ll know just what to do. But two days later, something happened and I sure didn’t know what to do then.

  It’s after school on Wednesday—a common kind of school day. Couple kids give their reports for their “Imagine the Future” project.

  Sarah Peters stands up and reads how she is going to be a swimmer and swim the English Channel. Miss Talbot says that’s an interesting goal, but what about the rest of her life? She has to be thinking about what else she could
do with swimming even after she becomes a champion.

  Sarah turns her paper in, and Fred Niles reads the report he’s written. He wants to be a policeman, and if he can’t get on the police force, then he’ll settle for rescue squad.

  Miss Talbot says this is a good example of how you can use your desire to help and protect people in several different ways. The boys all give Sarah our smart look, but then Laura Herndon gets up and says she wants to own a restaurant. If she can’t own her own restaurant, she says, she’d like to be a cook. If she can’t be a cook, she’ll be a waitress. And if she can’t get a waitress job, she’ll start out as a dishwasher and work her way up. Boy, Laura sure knows how to please a teacher. Miss Talbot likes Laura saying how she’s willing to start out small and work up.

  David Howard and I look at each other and figure maybe we better do a little more work on our reports before we give them.

  It’s about five o’clock that afternoon that something happens.

  Dad’s not home yet. Ma’s in the kitchen cooking some turnips and onions, and listening to the news.

  Dara Lynn has a wire strung between the chicken coop and the shed, and she’s got these little cereal boxes fastened to it like cable cars or something, and she’s running ’em back and forth. Sort of neat, really. Wish I’d thought of it myself.

  Becky’s rolling around in the grass with Shiloh, who’s looking about as bored as a dog can look and still be polite about it. Becky rolls over his back and then rolls the other way. Each time Shiloh sort of braces himself, digging his paws in. Don’t even protest. Just turns around and licks her now and then.

  I’m trying to pick enough apples off our two apple trees to see if there’s enough for Ma to make applesauce. The peaches are all gone now, but Ma wants every last apple I can find.

  I’ve found about six, when I hear this barking and carrying on. Sounds like it’s far away but coming closer. Shiloh turns his head in the direction of the sound and stands up, body all tense, and Becky rolls right off in the grass.

  “Who’s that? Your friend?” I ask Shiloh, thinking of the black Lab.

  But the noise is too much for a single dog. Gets louder and louder, and I’m wondering what it could be when suddenly, here come these three dogs through the trees back beyond the house. I know the minute I see them that they belong to Judd Travers.

  Eleven

  There’s not even time to think. I grab Shiloh up in one arm, Becky in the other, and run up on the porch.

  “Ma!” I yell, and she’s already halfway to the screen. She opens it for me and I drop the two inside. Shiloh runs over to a window and stands up on his hind legs, front paws on the sill, wanting to see.

  “Dara Lynn?” calls Ma.

  I turn around on the porch to see Dara Lynn backed up against the chicken coop, like her body’s frozen, dogs all around her snappin’ and snarlin’, and first thought in my head is that Judd’s sicced ’em on us.

  Ma goes charging down the steps and grabs the clothes pole that props the line up on wash day. I grab my baseball bat from off the porch and we’re running over to that chicken coop.

  Dara Lynn’s screamin’ now, elbows up over her face, and this one dog, the black-and-white one, lunges forward and nips her arm.

  Whack! Ma brings down the clothes prop on the black-and-white dog. The others snarl and turn our way, but I’m swinging that bat out in front of me ninety miles an hour and Ma’s bringin’ that clothes prop down a second time. The dogs back off.

  Air is filled with noise. Dogs are yelping, Ma is shouting, Dara Lynn’s screaming, Shiloh’s yipping, Becky’s standing at the screen squalling, and the hens are all carrying on in the chicken coop.

  The black-and-white dog seems to be the leader. As Ma’s pole comes down again he hightails it out of the yard, and the others follow.

  Ma grabs Dara Lynn and rushes her in the house, cleans that bite with soap and water.

  About this time Dad comes home.

  “Whose dogs are those running up the road?” he asks.

  “Judd’s!” I tell him. “They got loose and come over here, and one of ’em bit Dara Lynn.”

  She’s sobbing. “I didn’t do nothing! All I was doing was playing out in the yard and those dogs come up and bit me.”

  “You sure they were Judd’s?” Dad asks.

  “I’d know ’em anywhere,” I tell him.

  Ma calls Doc Murphy and he says to call the sheriff and get those dogs picked up. The one that bit Dara Lynn’ll have to be kept locked up for ten days to see whether or not he’s got rabies. If he does, Dara Lynn’s got to have shots. If we can’t find the dog, she’ll have to have ’em anyway.

  Dara Lynn howls again.

  Dad calls the sheriff and he says someone already reported them, that those dogs killed somebody’s cat. He’s got a man out looking for them.

  Dara Lynn’s sobbing now and Becky squalls, too, just to join in. Shiloh runs from window to window, whining, standin’ up on his hind legs. Meanwhile Ma’s turnips have boiled dry and the pan’s starting to scorch.

  Ma turns off the fire, takes Becky out on the swing, and tries to cool her own self down.

  “Let’s just sit out here a spell and rest,” she says. “Becky, it wasn’t you got bit, so quit squallin’. Dara Lynn, you’re not going to die anytime soon, so just come sit here by me. Let me have five minutes of peace and quiet or my head is going to fly straight off.”

  Becky looks up at Ma’s head and starts suckin’ her thumb.

  Dad and I come out on the porch then with Shiloh, and we sit on the steps while Shiloh goes trotting all around the yard, smelling for a trace of those dogs. Guess a dog’s nose tells him a whole lot we don’t know anything about.

  “Wonder how in the world those dogs got loose,” Dad says. “Judd had chains on ’em that would have held a grown man. Were they dragging their chains, Marty, or what? I didn’t notice.”

  “No. Looked to me like they were all unhooked at the collar,” I tell him.

  And just when we thought we’d had about enough excitement to last us a while, here come Judd’s pickup turning into our drive.

  “Well, look who’s comin’,” says Dad.

  Shiloh stands so still it’s like he’s turned to stone. He knows the sound of that pickup better’n he knows his own name, almost. And soon as it stops beside Dad’s Jeep and Judd puts one foot out, Shiloh races over to our steps and crawls underneath. Seem like he don’t even trust that I can save him. Got to get to some deep dark place away from the reach of Judd Travers.

  Judd comes stompin’ across the yard in his cowboy boots, and his face looks like thunder. If you was to give Becky her crayons and tell her to draw it, she’d choose purple.

  “Ray Preston, I accuse you of turning my dogs loose,” Judd says right off, a voice three times too loud.

  “Now calm down, Judd. I did no such thing,” Dad tells him.

  “You put your boy up to it, then.”

  “Marty didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Well, somebody come by and unhooked the chains on all three of ’em, and a neighbor says he saw my dogs coming off your property.”

  Now Ma speaks up: “They were here all right, and one of ’em bit my daughter. Show him, Dara Lynn!”

  Dara Lynn holds up her arm and gives a loud sniffle.

  “If Marty hadn’t got Becky, no telling what they might have done to her,” Ma continues.

  But Judd don’t believe it.

  “That is a put-up lie, I ever heard one. Sheriff tells me he finds my dogs, he’s keepin’ the one in a cage for two weeks. That’s my second-best hunting dog, the black-and-white.”

  “It’s the only way they can tell for sure whether or not the dog has rabies,” Dad says. “Any dog that bites someone has to be watched.”

  “I see what you’re up to, don’t think I don’t!” Judd goes on, like he never heard one word. “You took my best hunting dog and now you’re cooking up some story about my second-best. I?
??m going to lose two good weeks of hunting because of this, and I want you to loan me that beagle. I can use him.”

  My heart almost explodes inside my chest.

  “No!” I say.

  “Judd,” says Dad, “why don’t you sit down? We can talk this over man-to-man without getting all hot-under-the-collar.”

  “I’m not sittin’, and I have nothing to say, except you owe me the use of that dog.”

  Becky slides down off the swing. “You can’t have him!” she says, her little neck thrust out, face all screwed up. She’s sassing this big old man in the cowboy boots, but I notice she’s got one hand still holdin’ fast to Ma’s skirt.

  “Hush, Becky,” Ma tells her.

  “Judd,” I say, trying my best to reason with him. “Even if we were to let you, Shiloh wouldn’t go.”

  “He’d go, all right,” says Judd. “Where is he?” And he gives a whistle.

  Under the steps, Shiloh don’t move. I wonder if he’s even breathing.

  “See?” chirps Dara Lynn. “He won’t even come out!” and she points to the steps. I could have drowned Dara Lynn.

  Judd goes over to the side and gets down on all fours. I’m just close enough I can smell the beer on his breath. Don’t think he’s drunk, but he’s been drinking.

  “Here, you!” Judd yells, and whistles again. “Come on outta there, boy! Come on!”

  I’m wondering what Shiloh’s thinking right now. Does he think I’m lettin’ this man come get him?

  Stay there, Shiloh, I whisper. But I’m remembering the way he looked first day I found him back in the weeds over near Judd’s, crawling along on his belly. Only thing that brought him to me was to whistle. What if he’s so scared of Judd, of what will happen if he doesn’t obey, that he comes out? Am I going to just sit here and let Judd take my dog, even for ten days? Will Dad let him?

  I’m glad to see that nothing’s happening. Shiloh’s probably scrunched up in the far corner beneath the steps as far away as he can get.

  Judd gets up off his hands and knees, cussing to himself, and goes to get the clothes pole. He comes back with it, ready to poke my dog out.