I also smelled something else: burned wood. Not smoke like from Sylvia’s mouth or when Taylor and Gavin had a fire inside the hole in the wall in their cabin, but the clear tang of wood remnants when the flames have long died out. Tracking the water, I soon came to a vast, yellow-grassed area where most of the trees poking skyward were coated all along their trunks with this odor. Most of them were stark black and sported no leaves, and many were lying flat on the ground. I sniffed curiously at one of them, not understanding what could possibly have occurred to cause so many charred logs.
When the clear feral stench of a coyote came faintly to me from the forest of burned wood, I turned away.
* * *
After two days of steady progress, I was miserably hungry. I had followed my nose to water and had come across a pretty large lake, but I had to cross a busy road to get to it and I felt like a bad dog as the vehicles roared past. There were no trees, just rocks and some scrub, so I was exposed as I drank.
I wanted my Tiny Piece of Cheese. It wasn’t the treat I craved, it was the love and attention from my person.
I felt lost.
The cars on the road meant people, and I could smell a town nearby. It would take me away from the most direct route home, but I needed to eat, and where there were people there was food. I stayed as far from the road as I could, which was, for some time, fairly easy—the area well to the side was flat and a shallow stream flowed through the rocks and the road followed along its banks. Then the soil seemed to moisten and the brush became thicker. I began encountering farms, which I skirted, ignoring the dogs who barked at me in outrage or disbelief.
It was dark when I came to streets with homes and shops. I smelled food cooking; the odors were tantalizing on the air, but I did not see a dog pack sitting outside any place I came to. I found some large bins with delicious, fragrant bits of edible meats in them, but they were too tall for me to climb up into.
I was soon attracted to a large building with many cars parked in front of it. Light poured out through large windows that lined up across the entire front of the building. Adult humans pushed carts filled with food and sometimes a child or two, unloading bags into cars and then pushing the carts away and abandoning them. When I approached I saw people going in and out of the building, and it seemed the doors opened without anyone touching them. And every time the big doors eased open, seductive aromas danced out onto the air.
The most enticing of these wonderful smells was chicken. There were chickens cooking in there.
People looked at me but did not call me as I went closer and closer to the big doors, drawn by the tantalizing fragrances. None of them seemed to want to put me on a leash and keep me from Lucas—mostly they completely ignored me. A little boy called “doggie” and held out his hand in my direction, and the scent of sweetness was strong on his fingers, but before I could go lick them his mother snatched his arm away.
None of the people mattered to me at that moment as much as the fact that just inside those doors was some chicken.
I sat for a while and drank in the waves of deliciousness every time the doors parted with a whoosh, but no one brought anything for a good dog who was doing Sit.
When a long time passed with no one coming out, I grew impatient and went closer to the glass doors to look in and see if I could locate the source of the chicken aromas.
The doors opened.
I stood on the threshold, unsure what to do. The doors seemed to be waiting for me, the way Lucas would hold the door whenever we got home from a walk. It was as if I was invited. And right inside, directly in front of me, was a metal display with shelves. Heat from lights above the shelves pushed the wonderful smell of roasting chicken out into the night air. I saw bags with cooking chickens in them, and they were there, right there!
I slunk into the brightly lit building, feeling guilty. I could already taste the chicken, could imagine chewing and swallowing, and licked my lips. I hesitantly crossed a slick floor, and then I was at the display. I stood on my rear legs, trembling, and reached for a bag. The warmth from the lights made me blink as I carefully took the bag with just my front teeth.
“Hey!” someone shouted.
I looked up and a man wearing white was coming around a corner. He seemed angry.
I dropped the chicken and it fell to the ground.
Food on the ground is always for a dog unless someone says no. “Scat!” the man yelled, which was not the same thing. I picked up the bag and turned away.
The doors were closed.
I wanted to get away from the man, who was bearing down on me. I darted forward, looking through the window for someone to come from outside and open the doors. “Stop! Dog!” the man in white shouted. I went to scratch the door and the doors opened! The night air poured in and I ran out, galloping away with my dinner in my jaws.
My instinct was to run and run, but I was too hungry to do more than escape to a puddle of darkness at the edge of the paved parking lot. I could have this meal all to myself—there was no Big Kitten to share it with. I tore into the bag and the warm, juicy chicken was so delicious I licked the plastic completely clean.
It felt good to have food in my stomach, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen on the shelf when I had been in the building: more bags with more chickens. Now that I knew where they were and how to get them, I wanted nothing more than to go back into the building.
I trotted up to the door. The man had been angry at me, but those chickens were just sitting there. When he yelled I felt like a bad dog, but those chickens seemed left out for me—how bad could I be if my actions led to chicken?
I approached the door. A woman came out, pushing a little cart, and only glanced at me. She didn’t think I was a bad dog.
When the doors eased shut I moved closer and they opened and I smelled the chickens and went inside as if Lucas had called me. I went straight to the steel shelves with the warm lights and the succulent odors.
“Gotcha!” a man yelled.
I turned and looked. It was the same man, and he stood between me and the door, his arms out as if to give me a hug.
I snatched a chicken, and took off running.
* * *
My fear came from the sure knowledge that the man in white was one of those who would keep me from Lucas. He was angry, and I remembered the man with the hat and the truck with the crates and the cries of pain and grief from all the dogs in the room where no one did No Barks. Angry men hurt dogs. This man might hurt me, might put me back in that horrible place.
I ran, but where could I go? Only humans can find ways in and out of buildings. The floor underneath my claws was slippery, and I scrabbled for purchase, seeing people stare at me as I galloped along rows and rows of shelves.
I still had the chicken. It was my chicken now. All I wanted to do was find a place to tear into the bag and eat it, but people were yelling, yelling at me. I had to get away!
“Get him! Catch the dog!” the man in white bellowed.
A boy with a broom in his hands ran at me so I turned, sliding, and frantically dashed down between tall shelves. A man with a cart called, “Here, boy,” and seemed friendly but I shot past him. All I could smell was the chicken in my jaws and all I could feel was my panic. Everyone thought I was a bad dog who needed to be punished.
“Here!” another man shouted as I came to the end of the passageway between shelves. He waved his arms at me and I skittered to a halt and I nearly fell before I gained traction and backed wildly away.
“Got you!” It was the man in the white clothes, right behind me, running hard. I bounded forward, toward the man waving his arms, then jinked to one side. His hand brushed the fur on my neck. The man in white tried to change direction and crashed into a cardboard shelf and little plastic containers rained down, bounding all over the floor. He slid, falling in a heap.
I smelled the outdoors and scampered in that direction, but when I got there I was not outside; I was in a part of the bu
ilding that only carried the aroma of outside: dirt and plants and flowers. Fruits I recognized from when Lucas would eat them gave off their strong fragrances—oranges and apples. There were no angry people here, so I dropped the chicken, ripped open the bag, and bolted down some of it. Humans were such wonderful creatures that they could hunt chickens and cook them and set them out in warm bags!
I heard running footsteps. The angry men, including the one in white clothes and the boy with the broom, were sprinting for me. I seized my dinner and darted to one side and the boy slammed into a table and a whole pile of oranges cascaded down on the floor with soft, dull impacts. They rolled like balls but I did not pause. I took off toward where there were fishes and meats, cold air pouring from the walls.
“Get him!” someone yelled. There were now even more people hunting me.
I turned up past fragrant breads and cheeses. There was so much food here! This was the most amazing place I had ever been, except for the attitudes of the people toward dogs. I would have loved to sniff every shelf, but I could hear the angry men closing in on me.
I was back to a familiar place—the shelves of delicious chickens were directly in front of me. I rushed past it. A woman carrying a sack in her arms was strolling away and I heard a whoosh as the doors parted for her and the night breeze wafted in.
“No!” someone howled.
I knew that word but felt it clearly did not apply to me under these circumstances. The woman, though, stopped and turned, so perhaps the “No!” was about her behavior. I ran right past her, just brushing against her legs. “Wow!” she said.
“Stop the dog!” commanded the now-familiar voice of the man in white.
“Doggie?” the woman tentatively called after me.
I was still afraid. I loped into the darkness, deliberately putting the wonderful food building directly behind me. I found a street with a few houses on it, but kept going. Finally, when I heard a dog challenge me from a backyard, I knew I was in a safe place, a place that liked dogs. I stopped, panting, and eased down onto my belly and crunched through the rest of my dinner.
* * *
When I awoke a light layer of snow was falling. A cramp seized my stomach and I did Do Your Business in a painful, violent fashion. Afterward I scooted my butt along the snow and felt somewhat better.
I was still processing the feeling that I had somehow been a very bad dog. When I thought about the man in white the fear came back to me easily, and I was anxious and a little sick. I padded silently through the snow, wary of people, worried someone would want to hurt me, or catch me and take me away.
Cooking food floated seductively on the air currents, magnetically drawing me forward. For a time I sat at a back door, waiting for someone to come out with something delicious—I could smell bacon, and thought that for a good dog doing Sit a piece or two might be available, but no one noticed me. Possibly I needed a dog pack with me to receive such kind attention.
I spent the day moving cautiously between houses, sniffing hopefully at plastic bins with food smells wafting from them, but not finding any with an open lid. The sun melted the snow, and the streets were wet and the houses dripping in a patter that filled the air with sound and the clean, cold smell of water. Several times I touched noses with friendly dogs behind fences and other times I ignored dogs who took fierce offense at my presence.
I did not eat until late in the day, when I passed a garage door that was raised just enough for me to squeeze under. A mostly empty bag of dog food yawned open in the corner and I buried my head in it, ignoring the outraged yowling of two dogs on the other side of a door.
Eating dog food reminded me of Lucas. I recalled the excitement that came with him setting the dish on the floor in front of me, how grateful I was, how full of love I was for the man who was giving me dinner with his hand. Homesickness gripped me as powerfully as the cramps I had awakened with that morning, and I knew I would soon be leaving this town to get back on the trail.
I was learning, though, that I needed to eat whenever the opportunity presented itself. It might be many days before my next meal. When darkness fell I went to the street with the most food smells. The night was bringing a cold with it, and I remembered being in the hills with Big Kitten. I would have to hunt like her to feed myself. But I would do whatever I needed to do to be a Go Home dog.
A man was sitting on the sidewalk on blankets in a pool of light falling from a lamp overhead. “Hey, dog,” he called softly as I made to avoid him.
My first instinct was to flee. I paused, though, hearing something in the voice that sounded friendly.
The man smelled of dirt and beef and sweat. The hair on his face and head was long and tangled. He had plastic sacks piled up next to him on one side and a suitcase like Taylor’s on the other. His wore a glove with no fingers, which he extended in my direction. “Here, puppy,” he said gently.
I hesitated. He sounded nice, and because he was lying there with his legs extended and his back to the building behind him instead of standing with his arms out or a leash in his hands, did not seem like the sort of person who would try to keep me from doing Go Home.
He dug into a small box and extended a piece of beef in my direction and I went to him, wagging. The beef treat had cheese on it! I gobbled it quickly and did Sit.
“Good dog,” he praised. He apparently recognized a good Sit when he saw it. He dug into his box and came up with another chunk of meat. He ran his hand over my fur and briefly held my collar, squinting at it. “Bella,” he said.
I wagged. Most people who knew my name would give me treats. The people in the building with the chickens had not known me, which might explain why they were so angry.
“What are you doing out by yourself? Are you lost, Bella?”
I heard the question in his voice and looked pointedly at the box by his side. Yes, I would be happy to have more beef with cheese.
“I’ve been lost,” the man stated softly after a moment. He reached into one of his sacks, digging around. I watched attentively.
“Hey, here, would you like these?” He fed me a handful of nuts and while I was chewing them he played with my collar some more. When I was finished I realized I now had a stretchy cord tied to my collar. Alarmed, I tried to move away from the man, but was not able to go far before the rope flexed taut.
The man and I gazed at each other. A small whimper escaped my lips.
I had made a terrible mistake.
Twenty-three
The man owned a pushcart like the ones people used in the parking lot to ferry food and children to their cars, but he had no children and most of what he stuffed into the cart in plastic bags was not food. “Go for a walk,” the man would say nearly every day, loading everything off the sidewalk into the cart. I longed to walk, to get away up into the hills, but we rarely went far. Usually we would stroll up the street to a flat yard with pieces of plastic and metal in it strewn across the soil, and I would squat to do Do Your Business and then we would return to the place by the wall where he would spread his blankets. Next to the wall was a metal fence, and when the man would leave me he would tie me there. Most of the time he went across the street to one of several buildings—one smelled of food, and one smelled of nothing I could detect except people and boxes. When he emerged from this second place he would be carrying a glass bottle and when he cracked it open the pungent tang reminded me of Sylvia.
Mostly we just sat. The man would talk to me almost constantly, repeating my name every so often but mostly just droning words I did not recognize.
“I am not stupid. I know what you did to me. I know who you are. But these are my thoughts!” he would say repeatedly. “They are not in charge. I am in charge. Cease transmission.”
When people approached, the man would quiet himself. “Just need money for my dog,” he would say softly. “Need to buy food for her.” People would stop to pet me and talk to me but none of them untied me. Many times they would drop things into a small can and the
man would say “Thank you.”
Several of the people said the word “Axel,” and after a time I knew that was the man’s name. Axel.
Why Axel slept on the sidewalk and not in his house, I did not know. He seemed very lonely—he needed a friend the way Gavin had Taylor. But no one who stopped to talk acted like that sort of friend, even if they were nice.
At first I only wanted to get away from Axel, to get back to Go Home. But then I came to understand that Axel needed comfort, just as Mack and my other friends at Go to Work needed me. At night, Axel wrestled with people I could not see, shouting at them, squirming in his bed, his fear strong on his sweat. When I put my head on his chest I could feel his heart pound. But then, when his hand found my fur, his fevered agitation would quiet, and his breathing would slow.
I liked Axel. He talked to me all day and told me I was a good dog. After living with Sylvia, it was nice to receive so much attention. I felt very important when I was with Axel.
I wanted so much to do Go Home, but I knew I was doing what Lucas would want, just as taking care of Big Kitten was what he would have wanted. More than anything, more even than Go Home, Lucas wanted me to be a good dog. And I was never more of a good dog than when I provided comfort for a scared person or kitten who needed it. It was my job.
Nights were getting colder, so something else I could do was keep Axel warm by pressing up against him. I also alerted him when a car pulled up in the street and two men slid out of the front seat. I had met their kind before: they had heavy, odd-smelling objects on their hips—police. I associated them with the truck with the outdoor crates that came to take me away from Lucas. I cringed at their approach, and Axel woke up.
“Hey, Axel,” one of them said, kneeling down. “When did you get a dog?” He held out his hand toward me but I did not approach, not trusting this man.