Read Online Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing by Sonny Brewer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sonny Brewer
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room to room, I speed up to get ahead of him and then duck behind a door to jump out as he passes and scare him the way Dylan likes to do to me. Cormac has not yet once appeared even remotely startled by my antics. I’m pretty sure it’s his nose that lets him see around corners. When I leap out with a big yaah! he only looks at me with his big brown eyes worried that I’ve lost it.
My new life as a novelist was like a monk’s insight after a long trek toward some evasive truth. Those first weeks of long hours spent writing, there was a time or two when I wanted to pinch myself: Emmylou Harris singing from the stereo, sweat pants and bare feet all day, my protagonist’s story unfolding for me like I had it all on tape, my dog on the floor while I pecked away at the computer keyboard. We had it easy. If I turned my head in his direction, he’d watch my eyes to see if I needed him to fetch something. But I did all the work and just let Cormac guard the muse so he wouldn’t abandon us. Cormac did a good job.
In the space of about a month my whole life had turned around, the cavalry had come riding over the hill, publishing contract in velvet-gloved hand. Sonny the novelist. I had the papers to prove it. Diana told me she’d known it all along, and had many times tried to tell me so. She reminded me more than once that Thoreau said our focus determines our reality. “Seems I remember,” Diana said, “saying something like you should focus on your writing.” She had told me precisely that.
And Cormac. Bless him. The doggie would not have to fret that any day might find me poking around in a bare cupboard, looking for a bone, and the poor dog would have none. No, sir. Cormac was ruler of his two acres. Until, that is, the king would one day feel abandoned upon his lands, and then a keen, deep fretting would extend the edges of his world into the outer dark.
NINE
TWO THICK-ARMED men in tight T-shirts pulled into my driveway with an array of supplies and wire-burying tools. Neither would step out of the pickup when the big reddish-brown dog bounded up to greet them. My friendly Cormac, a tail-swishing 75-pounder, standing down a 400-pound pair of men.
“Cormac! Leave the fellows alone. They don’t love you the way I do,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the rumble coming from the hole in the truck’s muffler. Neither did my smile get to them. They were stone-faced, frowning, and not about to step out of their truck until I did something with Cormac. The driver switched off the engine.
“Don’t worry, men,” I told them.
They didn’t budge.
“I’ll take him inside the house,” I offered.
“You want this wire buried in the dirt, you’ll do that,” the driver said. It seemed odd to me that these men who installed underground dog fences would be afraid of dogs. But I guess it wasn’t in their job description to deal with dogs, only to bury wire.
Cormac headed for the front door, every few steps looking over his shoulder toward the men still in the truck. I let him cross the threshold then closed the door. I walked back outside to discuss the work with the guys, each now taking a small machine trencher from the bed of the truck. I turned back to look at the house. Cormac had gone into my son’s bedroom and straight to the window there. He found the blinds raised and the curtains drawn back. He took his post, and fixed us in his stare the way a bank security guard watches a man with sunglasses and a ball cap third in line for the teller window.
I introduced myself. The driver, John, was the leader. I shook hands with both men, and showed them the layout of my two acres, told them I wanted to be sure the wire was set deeply enough that it didn’t migrate upward into the blade of my lawn mower. “We know ’bout that,” said John.
“Yes,” I said. “I imagine you do.” I told them I was grateful they’d responded so quickly to my call. Again John spoke. “We go where we
My new life as a novelist was like a monk’s insight after a long trek toward some evasive truth. Those first weeks of long hours spent writing, there was a time or two when I wanted to pinch myself: Emmylou Harris singing from the stereo, sweat pants and bare feet all day, my protagonist’s story unfolding for me like I had it all on tape, my dog on the floor while I pecked away at the computer keyboard. We had it easy. If I turned my head in his direction, he’d watch my eyes to see if I needed him to fetch something. But I did all the work and just let Cormac guard the muse so he wouldn’t abandon us. Cormac did a good job.
In the space of about a month my whole life had turned around, the cavalry had come riding over the hill, publishing contract in velvet-gloved hand. Sonny the novelist. I had the papers to prove it. Diana told me she’d known it all along, and had many times tried to tell me so. She reminded me more than once that Thoreau said our focus determines our reality. “Seems I remember,” Diana said, “saying something like you should focus on your writing.” She had told me precisely that.
And Cormac. Bless him. The doggie would not have to fret that any day might find me poking around in a bare cupboard, looking for a bone, and the poor dog would have none. No, sir. Cormac was ruler of his two acres. Until, that is, the king would one day feel abandoned upon his lands, and then a keen, deep fretting would extend the edges of his world into the outer dark.
NINE
TWO THICK-ARMED men in tight T-shirts pulled into my driveway with an array of supplies and wire-burying tools. Neither would step out of the pickup when the big reddish-brown dog bounded up to greet them. My friendly Cormac, a tail-swishing 75-pounder, standing down a 400-pound pair of men.
“Cormac! Leave the fellows alone. They don’t love you the way I do,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the rumble coming from the hole in the truck’s muffler. Neither did my smile get to them. They were stone-faced, frowning, and not about to step out of their truck until I did something with Cormac. The driver switched off the engine.
“Don’t worry, men,” I told them.
They didn’t budge.
“I’ll take him inside the house,” I offered.
“You want this wire buried in the dirt, you’ll do that,” the driver said. It seemed odd to me that these men who installed underground dog fences would be afraid of dogs. But I guess it wasn’t in their job description to deal with dogs, only to bury wire.
Cormac headed for the front door, every few steps looking over his shoulder toward the men still in the truck. I let him cross the threshold then closed the door. I walked back outside to discuss the work with the guys, each now taking a small machine trencher from the bed of the truck. I turned back to look at the house. Cormac had gone into my son’s bedroom and straight to the window there. He found the blinds raised and the curtains drawn back. He took his post, and fixed us in his stare the way a bank security guard watches a man with sunglasses and a ball cap third in line for the teller window.
I introduced myself. The driver, John, was the leader. I shook hands with both men, and showed them the layout of my two acres, told them I wanted to be sure the wire was set deeply enough that it didn’t migrate upward into the blade of my lawn mower. “We know ’bout that,” said John.
“Yes,” I said. “I imagine you do.” I told them I was grateful they’d responded so quickly to my call. Again John spoke. “We go where we
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