Next day, the vet come out. He listened to her heart, shone a light in her eyes and ears. Stroked her side as he explained there was blood tests he could do if we wanted to bring her to the village, but to be honest he suspected there wasn’t nothing wrong, just old age.
The kitchen walls had moved closer together, the room too crowded with me and Dad and Scott plus the vet, plus Helen and Jesse, not to mention both retired dogs, perfectly healthy and lounging under the table.
Homer’s a lot older than Su, I pointed out.
The vet nodded. I couldn’t stand the look on his face.
What can we do? Dad asked.
Make her comfortable, the vet said. Give her a quiet space, keep the other dogs from bothering her. You can offer her food, but it’s likely she won’t want it.
Canyon, too, I spoke up. Su’s practically a pup compared to him.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder, and I shrugged it off. I wasn’t acting my age, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I felt Helen’s eyes on me, and Jesse’s. Brushed past the vet to sit next to Su, pressed my hot face into her fur.
I slept downstairs that night, curled next to Su where we’d moved her bed to the den in front of the fireplace. The next night, Scott joined us, all three of us snoring while the fire faded, till either him or me woke and added another log. We took turns helping her stand as she drunk from her water bowl. We brushed her fur and rubbed her belly. She didn’t make no sound, just watched us with soft brown eyes.
The third day, she wouldn’t stand up, not even with help.
I’m going to take her on a run, I told Dad.
He give me a long look. Then nodded.
Outside, I hitched a small team to the rig, then put some blankets and straw in the basket. When I come back in for Su, Dad was petting her and talking in a quiet voice. I backed out of the room, waited by the sled.
Dad come out after a few minutes, carrying Su. Together we clipped her into the basket, though she wasn’t likely to try and jump out. I whistled, and the team pulled us into the woods.
All round, the trees wearing snow like robes, trunks furred with it, limbs coated. It was a wet, sticky snow, and we went slow, breaking trail. Tiny crystals of snow hovered in the air, never seeming to land. I hopped off the runners and jogged alongside the sled, traveling in a cloud of my own breath, it crusted on my eyelashes and the ends of my hair.
When we got to the lake, I was shocked to find it still hadn’t froze over.
I slowed the team and threw out the snow hook. I had to pee.
After, I walked out onto the shelf of ice that edged the lake, a plate solid enough to hold me for about ten feet, then the ice thinned. The rest of the lake held a collection of little floes. I plucked a small rock from my pocket and tossed it at one. The rock hit the surface then slid into the water. The surrounding floes bobbed from the ripples, then stilled, the lake once again calm and anonymous.
Back on the sled, I passed by the place where the river made a waterfall as it emptied into the lake, the spot that never seemed to freeze over no matter how cold it got. We begun to climb, till we reached a wide shelf of land that overlooked the lake. We’d buried a number of dogs in that spot over the years, their graves marked with cairns made of stones.
I tied the sled to a tree and give the dogs on the line a treat. Unclipped Su and lifted her out of the basket. Carried her to the spot where the land ended and looked over the lake. She wouldn’t sit, so I laid her on her side, then curled myself round her.
The water coursed south from the lake to the river. The sun drifted across the sky.
The seconds between Su’s breaths grew longer.
Somewhere round twilight I sat up and wiped my eyes. I watched Su in the rapidly growing dark, looked for her flank to rise. It did, just barely. I said her name, but her eyes stayed closed.
I made the cut small. I didn’t want to hurt her, even if she was nearly gone.
I drunk. I took Su in and bounded down the snowy trail, and the delight that flooded my body was complete and overwhelming, pure, undiluted happiness. I felt the tug of the harness and saw no other dogs in front of me, felt the whole team watching as I led. I bolted my food, barely tasting it, and I scratched at my own ears, and I napped in front of the woodstove and in piles of my brothers and sisters and teammates. I watched white snow fall across the black-and-gray world and the frigid air sent a shot of electricity through me, and I howled, the only way to give voice to my want.
After, I wrapped Su in one of the blankets from the basket. Most winters, we would of let the body freeze then buried it come spring, when the ground thawed, but this season had been warm enough, I had little trouble digging a hole big enough.
She run with me all the way back home, and when we spilled into the yard Jesse was there, busying himself with the new dog wheel. He looked up when I slid past him, and our eyes met. Up at the house, Helen was at the window, and inside Dad and Scott would be rustling up dinner. I threw out the brake. Behind me, I could hear Jesse jogging over to help take the dogs off the line.
If I could stop when I wanted and not tell the rest, this is where I’d choose to end. I’d conjure up the hard freeze that was on its way, let the ice and snow set us just as we was that day, when a quiet happiness shot through me, something more like rightness, and I couldn’t tell if it was my own feeling, or Su’s, or Jesse’s. A recognition of coming back to a place where you know you belong. Where you know you are wanted and loved.
13
There’s some things you just don’t talk about, except to talk round them. Mom never told me that in plain words but she taught it to me.
Like when I wanted to know why I heard her in my head, even when she wasn’t nowhere nearby. Because you know me, she said.
I don’t, I said.
Her breath plumed and hung in the air between us. Then it was gone.
When you were born, she said, it was in the open doorway of the barn, with twenty-two pairs of canine eyes watching. You came out big and heavy. And always hungry. Some women have trouble getting their babies to take the breast, but that was never a problem with you. You were voracious. I fed you till I ran dry.
She looked in my eyes.
Then I fed you more.
My heart loud enough in my chest I wondered if she could hear it. Is that how come I’m like you? I asked her.
She looked up at the clouds. The air was brittle and made her eyes water. I don’t know, she said.
What about Scott?
He was never as hungry as you were.
I stared at the ground. Our footprints in the snow nearly identical, if someone come along they wouldn’t be able to tell one set from the other. But I wasn’t done growing yet, I might of got taller, my feet could of grown longer. I could of turned out nothing like her.
You told me it was wrong to make a person bleed, I said.
She nodded. That’s right, she said. But you didn’t make me. I gave it to you. She took my hand. She’d forgot her gloves, my hand warmed hers. Sometimes I’m sorry I did it, she said. Sometimes I think if I hadn’t, you might not be like you are. She give my hand a squeeze. But sometimes I’m not sorry at all.
Because it means we’re the same? I asked.
We had come off the trail already, crossed the yard, and now we was back at the house. Standing at the edge of the driveway together.
Because, she said, it means I’ll always be with you.