Chapter 56

In the shed, high up on the mountain, a man sat. With a great big, tan-colored lab, resting at his feet.

The wind howled, tore at the thin wood slats. In his great coat, the man was warm. And the heater helped.

But his mind was on the scene to come that night. The scene that would bring the horror his son had been through—was still going through—to its culmination.

The wind tossed an even bigger gust at the shed, rattled the one lone window at his back. The dog raised his head abruptly, intelligent eyes scanning. Located the source of the sound, then, as was his way, looked to the human he was with.

When the man didn’t notice him, he continued to stare at him. Moved his forepaw, nudged the man’s old and tattered boot.

He jerked him out of his reverie. The man looked down at him abruptly.“What’s that, Buddy?” He spat. “You worried? Don’t worry, boy.” He dropped his hand down to his side, and the dog nuzzled it.

The man spoke as if relating a story, a fearsome tale. “You’ll be going to your canine heaven tonight, Dog. Men are coming for us. Men on powerful snowmobiles. I’m sorry for it, but it must be done. And then, Dog, you’re going to face your maker.” He spoke in a soft, contemplative tone. He wasn’t mad, and he wasn’t mean.

And at that tone, the dog licked his fingers.

The man clenched his eyes shut, held them like that for a few scant seconds. Then opened them. “Don’t be trying to get on my good side, Buddy.”

The dog whined lightly, moaned at the use of his name. He remembered this man. He hadn’t liked his son. But he remembered the man.

He’d fed him bits of fat sausage. Sometimes, a big chunk of fried chicken. It had always been tasty, hanging around with this man. He shared his food with him.

Though he could be mean too. He’d hurt his mistress, with words he yelled, or spoke softly, with a bad tone. Hurt the boy Buddy was on guard against too, with hands and fists. The boy, he knew, was bad. He was the one he had to protect his mistress against.

He’d done that. When he was well, and when he was sick. The boy had hit him later, every time, once the mistress and the man were out of the house. He’d punished him roundly. Because he’d barred his entry, his path to his mistress. He’d struck him hard, given him pain.

So he’d known, even more, to guard his mistress with his life.

But this man? He was a question mark. Bad, but at times…alright. He knew a fierce love for the young man burned in his heart. And that he’d also done bad things himself. He could smell it on him.

But he also knew there was gentleness, at times, in him. A kind word. A soft pat.

He never had to shrink hard from this man. Sometimes when he yelled, he would hide, but with the knowledge that the storm would blow over.

Right now, the man looked worried. Upset. Like he was going to have to do something that troubled him.

Well, if he was here, in this moment, with him, and not with his mistress, he wanted to do what he could to ease him.

But he sensed he couldn’t reach him, not tonight. The man was in his own private hell. Humans did go to places, mentally, bad places, that his doggy brain couldn’t.

Humans complicated things so much.

So he’d do his best to ease the man. And wait for the moment until he could be united with his mistress. The one he really lived for.

He loved her. She was his. And he…he was proud to be hers. Would be hers, with his spirit, soul, and heart, until the day he died.

And then? He’d come back and watch over her, in amidst games, and Milk Bones and other wonderful things that awaited him in the great beyond.

Because the two of them would never part. This, he knew.

He laid his head gently on the man’s boot and waited.