The Dog

"Hey, listen: So I started this little story thing. It's more like a fable and I need your help with it."

"I'm sleeping. This is me asleep."

"No, you're not. I saw you moving."

"How could you see that, you were in the kitchen."

"Move over, and here eat this. I made breakfast."

"Mmmngh. Snore, snore, snore."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, ready?"

"What kind of tea is this? It's good."

"Is it? I dunno, I just picked something out of the sampler box. Okay, so listen. I've been up thinking about this and I don't want to forget it. It's a story."

"Listening," he kisses Good Morning.

THE STORY:

Once, a dog that was cold and wintered decided to take refuge in the warmth of a woodpile beside a peasant's hut. He had been travelling long and ice was thick in his shaggy coat. His paws hurt. It was night and the home was dark inside. In earlier times, he would have considered scratching at the door, or howling his plight. When he was younger, it was easier for the dog to find a kindly hand from humans who thought his puppyish nature was charming. But now, haggard and scarred, he wandered as a ghost and was driven from children he frightened without meaning to. He knew that if he pawed at the door, there would only be a kick in the side. But the storm...

He circled the hut and saw a woodpile along the side. Nosing into the split logs he made a space for himself there against the wall and took his shelter. After a time, he slept.

He awoke and was warm. Those who lived inside had a fire going and it heated the wall against his body. He yawned and considered his situation. He was safe and hidden. Although he was near people, he could feed on their trash and perhaps hunt down a rat or two. There did not seem to be a cat about. It was still deep into winter and he was not eager to wander unless he had to. He put his head on his paws and relaxed.

Over the days that followed, the dog came to learn more of the peasants within the home. He never dared to show himself, and so he did not see them either, but he heard their conversations from his hidden home. They were fierce and angry. There was a man and a woman, sometimes crying, something yelling. There were no children. During a fight, the dog would tuck his tail and shudder, his ear pressed to the wall. No, he would not show himself to these humans.

From time to time, boots crunched upon the snow and stood before his hole. Either the man would split and throw more wood onto the stack or gather up a bundle, muttering and ominous. Peeking from his dug shallow, the dog tried to keep from whimpering while he watched those heavy boots twist in the frozen muck.

One day, snug in his home, while the dog gnawed the last gristle from a sick rabbit he had managed to catch, the violence inside the hut burst into the yard. A pot was thrown, something else was smashed. The woman shrieked as the man walked away, shouting back over his shoulder. The dog sunk into his fur and sagged his ears. The edge in their rough voices made his hairs stand.

And after that, there was no longer a male voice. Instead of boots, he now saw the ragged hem of a dress brush by. She often dropped her load and the dog could see that she was clumsy and swollen. She looked pregnant. Some days he heard sobbing.

The dark winter wore on, pouring ice upon ice. With the wall at his side, the dog did not fear for freezing yet, but he did notice that the woodpile around him was thinning. The woman did not cut more fuel as the man had done. More and more, wisps of chill would sneak up his back. It was the wood that keep the wall warm and protected him from the world, yet it could not do both for long. He would be discovered soon. He would have to move again.

And one grey evening, with the air wet and raw, he shivered behind the last few logs and waited for his fate. There had not been food lately, and he was weak. Perhaps he could fight, but it would be costly. His stomach gnawed on itself. He did not want to leave, but he could not stay. He did not want to leave, but he could not stay. There came her footsteps in the slushy mud. She bent down with a grunt and pulled the top off his feeble den. She cried in surprise and staggered back, dropping the wood. She looked down at the gaunt mongrel that was more bones and snarled burrs than meat. The dog tried to growl and whimper at the same time. It wanted to run but its ankles hurt, its feet were too cold. It lay in the rut of earth by the side of her home and watched her feet with wild and frightened eyes that would only dart to her gaze and look away.

She pulled her shawl about her and pushed her hair from her face. She felt her baby shift. She carefully knelt to pick up the wood, but paused, her hand upon damp bark. What was left lay scattered about the animal and would not get her through the season.

The dog struggled to get to its feet. She put out her hand near its face and waited. It would not look at her. It wobbled on unsteady legs. With ease she put her arms around and lifted it to her chest. It was light and thin with a heart pounding against her own. It squirmed weakly and she shushed it, carrying them all back inside to keep warm together.