Read Online Stay!: Keeper's Story by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lois Lowry
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nights. At first I had wandered joyfully, feeling myself to be a truly free and untamed creature, sharing my world with deer, raccoons, hawks, and countless other inhabitants of the outdoors.
But after two days I realized I was having difficulty with the food. My first cuisine had been French, as I was weaned from mother's milk to the world of pâtés and terrines and gâteaux. I knew a béchamel sauce from a Hollandaise, and the difference mattered to me. My early poetry had had a Gallic influence; remember " Adieu to Jack ..."? Not a mature work, of course, but one that played with bilingualism.
My stay with Jack, though never in the least luxurious, had nonetheless had a certain standard as far as food was concerned. Sorting through discarded garbage after the market had closed, Jack had carefully carved away spoilage from apples and pears with his penknife. He had examined each morsel carefully before slicing it into portions for himself and me. Jack was a fastidious man, though hard times had caused him to be less selective than he might once have been.
It was while sharing discarded pizza remains that Jack had first alerted me to the delights of Italian cuisine.
"This isn't bad, Lucky," he had said (for I was still Lucky then), "but wait till you taste a real good pasta. Maybe a linguini with clam sauce, or a fettucini Alfredo. Then you'll know what Italian cooking's all about."
And so I had, through the photographer, before our life was ruined by fame and fortune. Oh, the puttanesca sauce! The funghi and the carbonara!
Dogs don't weep, but the memory of those sauces, French and Italian both, almost brought tears to my canine eyes during those two days in the woods. I thought of tender asparagus—perhaps a crème d'asperges vertes —when I found myself, ravenous, nibbling at slimy swamp cabbage; and when I shared a rotting rabbit carcass with a roaming possum, I remembered lapin au saupiquet with ineffable sadness.
It was, in fact, while gnawing at rabbit that I remembered watching Scar devour rat remains, and the disgust I had felt at the time. Suddenly I felt with horror that I had been reduced to a creature as primitive as my enemy, and I resolved to turn my life around once again.
Those two days had taught me that I was not cut out for a survivalist existence. The romance of it was false. Carefully I found my way back to a road. I shook myself to rid my fur of the reek of rotting lapin, took a deep breath, and set out at a trot to seek a more amenable life somewhere.
It was not very long before I saw the little girl, who was carrying schoolbooks and just turning into a curving dirt driveway that led to a small brick farmhouse covered with ivy. Obviously well brought up, she spoke softly in greeting and held her hand out politely for me to sniff. Then, gently, she stroked my head and neck. I moved my lovely tail back and forth for her to admire.
She had a similar tail of hair at the back of her head, and she swung hers back and forth in reply. I looked at it carefully, assessing it as a rival tail. But human tails do not compare with those of dogs. Hers was tied rather messily with a band of ribbon, and there was something that looked like a wad of chewing gum near the end. I do have to deal with burrs and other intrusions from time to time, so I understood the problem. Still, it did not appear that she had even tried to gnaw it loose.
When she smiled at me, I saw that her front teeth were missing, which obviously accounted for her failure in adequate grooming. Perhaps she had been in a terrible fight.
Thinking of battles reminded me of Scar, my enemy, and I glanced apprehensively around. But I was far from the city now. Scar was in my past, both geographically and chronologically. Alas, I thought sadly, so was Wispy.
The little girl invited me to walk beside her, and I stayed obediently at her heels as she continued the length of the driveway and opened the back door of the house. By her side I entered
But after two days I realized I was having difficulty with the food. My first cuisine had been French, as I was weaned from mother's milk to the world of pâtés and terrines and gâteaux. I knew a béchamel sauce from a Hollandaise, and the difference mattered to me. My early poetry had had a Gallic influence; remember " Adieu to Jack ..."? Not a mature work, of course, but one that played with bilingualism.
My stay with Jack, though never in the least luxurious, had nonetheless had a certain standard as far as food was concerned. Sorting through discarded garbage after the market had closed, Jack had carefully carved away spoilage from apples and pears with his penknife. He had examined each morsel carefully before slicing it into portions for himself and me. Jack was a fastidious man, though hard times had caused him to be less selective than he might once have been.
It was while sharing discarded pizza remains that Jack had first alerted me to the delights of Italian cuisine.
"This isn't bad, Lucky," he had said (for I was still Lucky then), "but wait till you taste a real good pasta. Maybe a linguini with clam sauce, or a fettucini Alfredo. Then you'll know what Italian cooking's all about."
And so I had, through the photographer, before our life was ruined by fame and fortune. Oh, the puttanesca sauce! The funghi and the carbonara!
Dogs don't weep, but the memory of those sauces, French and Italian both, almost brought tears to my canine eyes during those two days in the woods. I thought of tender asparagus—perhaps a crème d'asperges vertes —when I found myself, ravenous, nibbling at slimy swamp cabbage; and when I shared a rotting rabbit carcass with a roaming possum, I remembered lapin au saupiquet with ineffable sadness.
It was, in fact, while gnawing at rabbit that I remembered watching Scar devour rat remains, and the disgust I had felt at the time. Suddenly I felt with horror that I had been reduced to a creature as primitive as my enemy, and I resolved to turn my life around once again.
Those two days had taught me that I was not cut out for a survivalist existence. The romance of it was false. Carefully I found my way back to a road. I shook myself to rid my fur of the reek of rotting lapin, took a deep breath, and set out at a trot to seek a more amenable life somewhere.
It was not very long before I saw the little girl, who was carrying schoolbooks and just turning into a curving dirt driveway that led to a small brick farmhouse covered with ivy. Obviously well brought up, she spoke softly in greeting and held her hand out politely for me to sniff. Then, gently, she stroked my head and neck. I moved my lovely tail back and forth for her to admire.
She had a similar tail of hair at the back of her head, and she swung hers back and forth in reply. I looked at it carefully, assessing it as a rival tail. But human tails do not compare with those of dogs. Hers was tied rather messily with a band of ribbon, and there was something that looked like a wad of chewing gum near the end. I do have to deal with burrs and other intrusions from time to time, so I understood the problem. Still, it did not appear that she had even tried to gnaw it loose.
When she smiled at me, I saw that her front teeth were missing, which obviously accounted for her failure in adequate grooming. Perhaps she had been in a terrible fight.
Thinking of battles reminded me of Scar, my enemy, and I glanced apprehensively around. But I was far from the city now. Scar was in my past, both geographically and chronologically. Alas, I thought sadly, so was Wispy.
The little girl invited me to walk beside her, and I stayed obediently at her heels as she continued the length of the driveway and opened the back door of the house. By her side I entered
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