forecasters’ hysteria might be warranted.
Sam unlatched the gate, slid open the barn door, andturned on the single bare bulb that lit up the cavernous, dusty barn. He stopped. He saw Rose move over to what at first appeared to be a dead dog lying on the ground. The dog lifted his head, then lowered it again warily.
“The wild dog,” he said softly. It pierced his heart to see this battered creature, Harold McEachron’s old border collie mix—for so many years a shadow in the woods, a rumor—now lying in his barn.
“You look a wreck,” he said. “But you can’t stay in here, old boy.” The words came spilling out of his mouth, a farmer’s reflex. Almost anything from outside the fences was a potential danger or problem. It was never a simple thing to bring a new animal onto a farm, especially a wild dog into the midst of chickens and sheep.
He was amazed that Rose had allowed it.
Sam took a few steps toward the dog, who growled, quietly but clearly, and then stopped. Rose lay still, almost stiff. She rarely looked into Sam’s eyes and he was startled to see her looking into his eyes now.
“You let him in, didn’t you?”
Rose did not move.
The last thing he needed was another animal now, let alone a sick old dog. He tried to figure out what had happened; normally Rose chased strays off and would have prevented any dog from coming onto the property. Now she was lying next to Harold’s old dog, Flash, a dog Sam had pretty much given up for dead.
“Rose,” he said, quietly.
She lay still, but looked away. The wild dog remained still as well, his eyes closed, his stomach heaving gently. It was clear he was spent.
Sam took a deep breath. He might not have a lot of time tothink about things, but when he did, it was carefully. He looked at this loyal dog, and felt he owed this to Rose. It was her farm, too. He thought of her dignity, here in the barn, in front of the animals, and her pride. She had never asked a thing of him, and gave so much, every day of her life.
It was dark in the barn, even with the bare bulb, and they were all cast in flickering shadow. The barn was rich in smells—hay, manure, dirt, animals. The wind was shrieking outside, and piercing the slats in the walls. Inside, the cold was tolerable, but still biting.
Sam left the barn and walked back toward the house. In a few minutes, he reappeared with a large bowl of dog food and put it on the floor near the old dog.
“See you in the house,” he said to Rose, and left again. Outside, night had fallen, and the snow swirled through blackness.
SEVEN
T HAT NIGHT , R OSE WAS UNEASY , PACING THE HOUSE . Occasionally she walked over to the bedroom window upstairs, the one that faced the pasture. A few feet away Sam slept fitfully in the big bed. By midnight, the snow was piled up to the lower windowpanes downstairs, and Rose could no longer see the sheep, although she could make out the dark outline of the barn.
She heard the wind, the snow falling, the bellow of a cow or the call of an anxious ewe. Then she heard another sound, faint, but to her distinct. There were squawks coming from the barn. Chickens almost never make noise at night, sound sleepers up in their roosts. And this was a sound of alarm.
There were things for which she awakened Sam—a ewe in labor, animals out of the fences—and things she did not, things that were her work alone. This time she did not bark for Sam.
She tore out the back door and raced through the snow.
She could hear what was happening, piecing it together from the noise a bit more with each step. She heard the yip-yipof a fox, the crowing of Winston, the rapid, excited clucking of the hens.
The drifts had grown since she’d come inside earlier that evening. She dove over and through them, scrambling and clawing her way to the gate, and then squirmed under it. She threw herself through the open side door of the barn and into the dimly lit space, where she was greeted by chaos. The cats were
Sam unlatched the gate, slid open the barn door, andturned on the single bare bulb that lit up the cavernous, dusty barn. He stopped. He saw Rose move over to what at first appeared to be a dead dog lying on the ground. The dog lifted his head, then lowered it again warily.
“The wild dog,” he said softly. It pierced his heart to see this battered creature, Harold McEachron’s old border collie mix—for so many years a shadow in the woods, a rumor—now lying in his barn.
“You look a wreck,” he said. “But you can’t stay in here, old boy.” The words came spilling out of his mouth, a farmer’s reflex. Almost anything from outside the fences was a potential danger or problem. It was never a simple thing to bring a new animal onto a farm, especially a wild dog into the midst of chickens and sheep.
He was amazed that Rose had allowed it.
Sam took a few steps toward the dog, who growled, quietly but clearly, and then stopped. Rose lay still, almost stiff. She rarely looked into Sam’s eyes and he was startled to see her looking into his eyes now.
“You let him in, didn’t you?”
Rose did not move.
The last thing he needed was another animal now, let alone a sick old dog. He tried to figure out what had happened; normally Rose chased strays off and would have prevented any dog from coming onto the property. Now she was lying next to Harold’s old dog, Flash, a dog Sam had pretty much given up for dead.
“Rose,” he said, quietly.
She lay still, but looked away. The wild dog remained still as well, his eyes closed, his stomach heaving gently. It was clear he was spent.
Sam took a deep breath. He might not have a lot of time tothink about things, but when he did, it was carefully. He looked at this loyal dog, and felt he owed this to Rose. It was her farm, too. He thought of her dignity, here in the barn, in front of the animals, and her pride. She had never asked a thing of him, and gave so much, every day of her life.
It was dark in the barn, even with the bare bulb, and they were all cast in flickering shadow. The barn was rich in smells—hay, manure, dirt, animals. The wind was shrieking outside, and piercing the slats in the walls. Inside, the cold was tolerable, but still biting.
Sam left the barn and walked back toward the house. In a few minutes, he reappeared with a large bowl of dog food and put it on the floor near the old dog.
“See you in the house,” he said to Rose, and left again. Outside, night had fallen, and the snow swirled through blackness.
SEVEN
T HAT NIGHT , R OSE WAS UNEASY , PACING THE HOUSE . Occasionally she walked over to the bedroom window upstairs, the one that faced the pasture. A few feet away Sam slept fitfully in the big bed. By midnight, the snow was piled up to the lower windowpanes downstairs, and Rose could no longer see the sheep, although she could make out the dark outline of the barn.
She heard the wind, the snow falling, the bellow of a cow or the call of an anxious ewe. Then she heard another sound, faint, but to her distinct. There were squawks coming from the barn. Chickens almost never make noise at night, sound sleepers up in their roosts. And this was a sound of alarm.
There were things for which she awakened Sam—a ewe in labor, animals out of the fences—and things she did not, things that were her work alone. This time she did not bark for Sam.
She tore out the back door and raced through the snow.
She could hear what was happening, piecing it together from the noise a bit more with each step. She heard the yip-yipof a fox, the crowing of Winston, the rapid, excited clucking of the hens.
The drifts had grown since she’d come inside earlier that evening. She dove over and through them, scrambling and clawing her way to the gate, and then squirmed under it. She threw herself through the open side door of the barn and into the dimly lit space, where she was greeted by chaos. The cats were
Similar Books
