A Dog's Way Home (10 page)

T
am's feet twitched fitfully in his sleep. He dreamed the foul-smelling man with the long black rifle chased him through a meadow. No matter how fast he ran, the man was always there, just behind. Tam called and called for the coyote, but she never answered. In his dream, Tam tore across a wide-open meadow. The man raised his rifle.
Crack!
Something slammed into his body, knocking him to the ground.

Tam jerked awake, heart pounding against his ribs. He heard a loud pop and then a crack. Struggling, he lifted his head. An old woman fed wood into the fireplace by the chair where he lay, safe. He lowered his head, exhausted.

Ivy turned and wiped her hands on her pants. She
smiled when she saw Tam's brown eyes fixed on her face. “You made it through the night, little boy. You're one tough cookie.” She reached down to stroke his head. Tam jerked away from her touch, fear filling his eyes.

Ivy pulled her hand away. “It's okay, boy. I know I won't hurt you, but
you
don't know that. You just rest a little bit longer before I see to your wounds.” Her gentle voice brought a familiar feeling to Tam. He didn't quite know what it was, but he knew enough that he could go back to sleep.

The next time Tam awoke, it was to the sound of wind and the delicious smell of food.

He couldn't see Ivy, but he could hear her rummaging around the kitchen.

“Aha! Found it!” She bustled over to Tam's bed in the old leather chair. She held a bowl filled with a wonderful smell. “I cooked up some of my mama's special Get Well Soup. She always made this when one of us kids was sick in bed. Always seemed to do the trick, so I don't see why it shouldn't work on you.”

She held the bowl up to Tam's nose for a sniff. He tried to lift his head to drink, but the side of his face was still too swollen and painful. He lay his head back down on the towel with a whimper.

“I thought so,” Ivy said. “So I devised a plan B.” She placed the open end of a turkey baster in the bowl,
released the rubber bulb at the other end, and sucked up a tube full of soup. Gently, she slipped her hand under the sheltie's head and tipped up his muzzle. She pried his mouth open just a bit and slipped the turkey baster in. Slowly, she released the warm soup. At first, it dribbled out the side just like the night before. But Tam had gotten the taste of the soup. The second time she placed the baster in his mouth, he swallowed hungrily, warmth filling his mouth and spreading through his body.

“Good boy,” Ivy said. “Let's see if we can get a little more down you.” Tam finished half the bowl.

Ivy placed the bowl on the table next to the chair and stroked the white star on the top of Tam's head. “You're not going to like what comes next, little friend. But I got to see to those wounds of yours.” She gazed out the window. “Storm's still going strong out there. No way Doc Pritchett can get out here. So,” she said, giving him a final pat on the head, “looks like it's up to me.”

She turned on the lamp beside the chair and moved it so it shone down on Tam's side. She pulled back the fleece blanket and parted the hair on his shoulder. Tam jerked his head up in alarm as she touched the painful place.

“Lie still, honey,” Ivy said in a soothing voice. It was a voice she had used many times to calm hurt and frightened patients and children. “I won't hurt you,” she said. Tam lay his head back down and gave himself up to her.

The cut she'd made the night before to clean the bullet wound looked good. At least there was no sign of infection. The skin around the stitches looked red but not unduly so. She smeared antibiotic ointment around the area, then pulled the blanket back up. She sighed. “Don't know if I should put a bandage over that shoulder or not. Seems like as long as you're not moving around, the air is the best thing for it.”

Next she checked his face. The swelling had gone down a bit, but the abscess where the quill had embedded in his cheek was still draining. His cheek felt hot to the touch. Ivy cleaned the drainage from his face with a warm rag. “I just don't know about this,” she said. “I sure wish it looked better.”

She and Tam studied each other for a moment, then she stood. “Well, I can at least try and call the doctor.”

Doc Pritchett picked up on the second ring. After he and Ivy had asked after each other's health and remarked on the storm, Ivy told him about Tam.

“Well, it sounds like you got your hands full, Mrs. Calhoun,” the old vet said with just a trace of laughter in his voice.

“Don't you dare tell me I'm too old to be taking in a hurt stray,” Ivy scolded. “You're older than me and you still got those sheep of yours.”

Doc Pritchett laughed. “I've known you too long, Ivy
Calhoun. I wouldn't dare tell you what to do and
not
do!” When Ivy didn't answer, he cleared his throat. “If I could, I'd come straightaway and see to this little dog,” he said. “But seeing as how I can't, what with the roads being closed and all, and the weatherman calling for still more snow…”

Ivy sighed. “Just tell me what to do, you chattering old fool.”

After he'd finished laughing, he said, “Sounds like you've handled things pretty well so far. I trust you to know whether or not there was a bullet still in his shoulder, and you stitched up many a patient.”

“It's where I had to dig out the quill I'm worried about,” Ivy said. “It's still infected.”

“Probably is,” the vet agreed. “Keep wet heat on it to draw out as much of the infection as you can. It's actually a good thing that the abscess is able to drain on its own. If it closes back up, though, you'll have to lance it.” After a quiet second, he asked, “You been able to get any food into him?” She explained about her mama's special soup and the turkey baster.

Doc Pritchett laughed and laughed. “Ivy Calhoun, if you don't beat all!”

Before they hung up, he said, “I'll check back in with you later tonight, see how your patient is doing. If this storm ever stops and the roads get cleared, I'll come on out
and take a look at him.”

Ivy stood at the kitchen window and watched the curtains of white snow blow across the meadow. “I'm just glad I found him when I did,” she said.

“Yep,” the vet said. “He's one lucky dog.”

 

Two days later, Doc Pritchett stood over Tam, who was laid out on blankets and towels on the dining room table. Ivy held a flashlight above with one hand and stroked Tam's ears with the other.

“You're right,” he said, gently pressing Tam's shoulder. “There's no bullet in here, although doubtless there was one. The wound looks fine. No sign of infection. Stitches look good.”

“Do you think there's any bone or tissue damage?” Ivy asked.

“Hard to say,” the vet said, straightening up. “Won't really know until he gets up and starts moving around. Bone could have been chipped. I think if there were any torn muscles or ligaments there'd be more swelling.

“This face, on the other hand, is where the infection is,” he said, bending back over Tam. “I'm going to give him a shot of painkiller and sedative, open this back up, and clean out the infected tissue.” He sighed. “It would be better to do this in a disinfected office under general anesthesia.” He peered into Ivy's eyes.

She shook her head. “Lord only knows what all's happened to this poor creature. I don't want to cause him any more fear. Let's just do it.” The vet sighed again and opened his leather medical bag.

 

An hour later, Tam was back in the leather chair before the fire, sleeping. Ivy and Doc Pritchett sat at the dining room table sipping tea.

“What do you think his chances are?” Ivy asked.

Blowing across the top of his cup to cool the hot tea, the vet said, “Pretty good, I think. That shot of antibiotic should go a long ways toward knocking out the infection. I'll give him another at the end of the week.” Glancing in the direction of the chair, he said, “The main thing is to get some food into him. He hasn't got a thing to him.”

Later, as the old man pulled on his coat and scarf, he looked down at Tam. “Hard to tell looking at him now, but he could be a Shetland sheepdog. Or at least part. If he is, he'll make you a good companion. They're smart as a whip and loyal as they come.”

“But why in the world would a dog like that be washed up half dead on the banks of the New River with a gunshot wound?”

Doc Pritchett reached down and stroked Tam's side. “Who knows. From the looks of him, I'd say he hasn't been someone's dog in a long while. He's seen some hard times.”

“Maybe I should take him in to town to see if anyone recognizes him or to see if he's got one of those microchips. Someone could be looking for him right now,” Ivy said, not really believing it herself.

As if reading her mind, the vet shook his head. “Whoever would let a dog get in this kind of shape doesn't deserve him. Besides,” he said, bending down and looking at Tam's feet, “this dog has been traveling for many miles in rough terrain.”

“Why do you say that?” Ivy asked.

“Just look at his pads,” the old vet said, running his thumb over the crosshatched scars and tears on Tam's pads. “They tell the whole story.”

I skipped along beside Daddy as we walked to the recording studio. Daddy had his favorite guitar slung over his back, and I carried his mandolin.

The studio wasn't far from our house. It was in a real famous area called Music Row. It kind of looked like a neighborhood, except most all the houses were actually recording studios. Only the really big studios, like Sony,
were in fancy, official-looking buildings.

I liked Daddy's recording studio. It was a happy-looking, purple wooden house with a nice porch on the front. It looked like a house made for music.

But inside, it didn't look like anybody's house. There was a receptionist's desk when you first came in and a tiny little kitchen back behind the desk. The rest of the house was made up of soundproof rooms, the room where a guy sits behind this big instrument panel with all kinds of lights and switches, and offices. Everywhere, there were photographs of famous musicians who've recorded there.

The other guys in Daddy's band—Tommy and Jeb Stuart, and Cue Ball—tuned their guitars and bass fiddle in one of those soundproof rooms.

“Hey, Half Pint,” Tommy Stuart said when we walked in. Tommy was always teasing me.

“Hey, Big Foot,” I said back. I called him Big Foot because of the fact he's so hairy on his head and arms and legs.

“You going to help us out today?” Cue Ball asked. The lights in the studio shined something fierce off his bald head.

“That's not a bad idea,” Daddy said, taking his mandolin from its case. “But for now, she's going to sit over there in the corner and be real quiet, right, sugar?”

“Sure thing, Daddy.”

I hopped up on a stool over in the corner. I had a million
and three questions about how all the things worked, but I zipped up my mouth instead.

“Okay, gentlemen, you ready?” a voice asked from the other side of a smoky glass wall.

Daddy looked at Jeb, Tommy, and Cue Ball. They all nodded. “We're all set, Mike,” Daddy said.

Daddy tapped his toes three times and counted down real soft, “One, two, three, and…”

And just like always, the Clear Creek Boys carried me away. I forgot I was in this tiny little room in Nashville, Tennessee. As Daddy sang his own special version of “The Water Is Wide,” I felt like I was right back on our porch way up in Wild Cat Cove. My fingers itched, though, for my own guitar, and I wanted to raise my voice and sing along with them.

Then they did some old Irish songs that liked to spin me out of my seat. Daddy looked like a wild man with that fiddle. After that, they slowed it down with one of Jeb's songs and then one of Daddy's. I was in pure-tee heaven.

“That's great,” the guy called from behind the glass wall. “Take a break.”

I jumped off the stool and ran over to Daddy. “Daddy, can I see what that guy is doing in that room?”

Daddy looked toward the glass. “Hey, Mike, is it okay if I bring my girl in?”

“Sure thing.”

I felt like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
, seeing what all the Wizard really did behind that curtain.

Mike showed me how he could mix the music he recorded. He could bring out the voices if he wanted to and soften the fiddle. He could make the music sound sharp and clear as cut glass or rich and smoky like the mountains at dusk.

“How many more we need to do?” Daddy asked.

“Mr. Katz wants six cuts for the demo disk, so you need to do two more,” Mike said.

We headed back into the recording room. Daddy and the rest of the guys talked about what songs to do. “Let's have some fun with these last two,” Tommy said. Tommy always wanted things to be fun, which was something I liked a lot about him.

“How about ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain'?” Cue Ball said. “That one's fun.”

I wiggled on my stool. “I love that one, Daddy.”

Daddy looked over at me and grinned. “I know you do, peanut, so why don't you grab my guitar and join us?”

I tell you, my jaw dropped straight down into my lap. “Really, Daddy?”

“Really and truly,” he said with a grin as wide as the world.

I held Daddy's guitar like it was a newborn baby. I had never played it before. It was so much bigger than my little Gibson guitar.

Daddy tuned up his banjo, Jeb settled his fiddle on his shoulder, and Tommy would play the other guitar while Cue Ball played his bass fiddle.

“Ready for us, Mike?” Daddy called.

And off we went, picking and singing and having a good time. With each stanza, we went faster and faster. By the time we came to the end, we all had a fit of giggles.

Then we decided to slow it down with a Meemaw favorite, “Down to the River to Pray.”

I imagined Meemaw there with us, playing her harpsichord or her dulcimer, her voice strong and clear as Clear Creek itself. I expected any minute to hear—

“Who the heck is that?”

My eyes flew open. Someone stood on the other side of the glass with Mike, squinting out at us.

“Uh-oh,” Jeb said. Everybody stopped playing and singing.

“Whistler,” a not-too-friendly voice boomed from behind the glass.

I saw Daddy swallow hard. “Yes, sir, Mr. Katz?”

“Do you have a new band member I don't know about?”

Daddy ran his hand through his hair. “This is my
daughter, Abby.” Motioning to the glass, Daddy said to me, “Abby, honey, say hey to our boss, Mr. Katz.”

I lifted a hand. “Hey, Mr. Katz. How are you?”

Silence.

I personally thought it was rude, him not coming out to introduce himself. Meemaw would accuse him of being raised in a barn. There was a long silence. Finally Mr. Katz said, “Whistler, meet me in my office.”

I mean to tell you, Daddy looked like a puppy that'd been caught peeing on the carpet. He slipped off his banjo, smoothed down his shirt, and gave us all a weak smile. “Wish me luck.”