A Dog's Way Home (12 page)

A
s Tam grew stronger, as he lived again among the comforts and smells of humans, memories of another home flooded back. Memories of a farm in the green folds of the mountains to the south; of hands that were not this old woman's, stroking him and loving him; of nights in the safety of a warm, soft bed, the music of a voice whispering to him in the dark; the memory of a name that was not Sam, but almost.

Tam had been with Ivy a little over a month when she first noticed it. He gladly accompanied her on daily chores and walked the property when the weather was good. He was content to lie at her feet as she ate her lunch and read. But every afternoon, as the sun's shadows stretched long
across the frozen ground, he grew restless.

He'd rise and trot to the door. He'd whine and look back at the old woman.

And every time, she would let him out. “Okay, Sam, go do your business.”

But Tam just stood on the porch, looking bewildered. As if, Ivy thought, he'd entered a room but couldn't remember why.

After this occurred several days in a row, Ivy kept count of the time. Three fifteen, he'd rise, go to the front door, and whine. He'd jump up on the cedar chest beneath the tall living room window, jump down, and poke the door with his muzzle.

By three thirty, the pacing would start. Back and forth, back and forth, from door to window, something drove him.

And then, several minutes later, he would collapse at Ivy's feet with a groan of disappointment.

Ivy would lift him into her ample lap and stroke him until he slept.

 

Light from the fireplace glowed on Tam's deep red coat. Doc Pritchett appraised the dog stretched before the fireplace. “He's a sheltie, all right,” he said. “Little on the small side, but a purebred, no doubt.”

Ivy nodded and smiled. “Amazing what a little love, a
lot of food, and a bath will do. 'Course, modern medicine and a good doctor don't hurt either.” They gazed at Tam in companionable silence; the only sound the fire crackling inside and the new storm outside.

Ivy sighed and shook her head. “I just don't know, though….”

“What's troubling you?”

“He's as devoted a companion as I could ever wish for, just like you said he'd be. I couldn't imagine life without him.”

“But?”

Her brow furrowed. “It just seems like his
heart
is somewhere else. Like a big part of him is looking for someone.”

The old vet fell silent.

“I've even worried sometimes when I let him out at night to do his business that he might run off.”

“Now, Ivy,” he said, “where in the world would he run off
to
, especially in the dead of winter?”

“I know I sound like a silly old fool,” she said, “but I just can't shake the feeling he was on his way to somewhere, on a journey.” And then Ivy described Tam's afternoon ritual.

Doc Pritchett stretched his legs in front of him. Tam jumped to his feet and moved into the shadows. “Dogs are creatures of habit, Ivy. Who knows what's ingrained in that dog.” The vet shook his head. “I still maintain whoever had him doesn't deserve him. You and I both know
what terrible shape he was in. And even after all this time he still doesn't trust me; I'd wager doesn't even like me.”

“James…”

He waved away his hurt. “All I'm saying is I strongly suspect this little dog was abused and neglected by a man. If he was on his way
to
somewhere, it was to a better home. And he found it with you.”

Tam jumped into Ivy's lap. She stroked the top of his fine head, gazed into his brown eyes.

“Ivy, he's your dog now.”

 

“Some famous poet said April is the cruelest month, but I think February is worse,” Ivy said to Tam as they watched snow blow through the branches of the great pines. “Why, just last week, it was warm as a spring day.” She sighed and turned away from the window and the storm beyond.

It had been snowing or sleeting for the last three days, turning the roads and the steps treacherous. “If I can't get out of this cabin soon,” Ivy said, “I think I'll go stir-crazy.”

Tam whined in sympathy.

Ivy smiled and scratched him behind his ear. “Oh, don't mind me, Sam. You'd think after living in these mountains over eighty years, I'd know about changeable weather by now.” She picked up her knitting, brushed her fingers across the soft rows of llama fleece. “Still, it seems the older I get the longer winter is.”

Tam ran his nose along the skein of llama wool in Ivy's lap. Pictures flashed in his mind of a barn filled with wooly, long-necked creatures. He saw a woman pitching hay and mixing grain. He sniffed the wool again. He smelled old apple orchards, wood smoke, a girl's sweet scent.

His heart filled. This was the scent of home.

Tam furrowed his brow, whined, and pawed Ivy's leg.

“What is it, Sam?”

The phone rang. “Why hello, Randall, honey. It's good to hear your voice.” And this time Ivy meant it. She got up to fix herself a cup of tea, letting her son's deep voice warm her.

“Lord yes, honey,” she said. “It's been snowing and blowing to beat the band. One minute it's sleeting and the next it switches over to snow.” Tam watched her balance the phone against her ear as she lit the burner beneath the kettle.

Ivy took a dog biscuit out of a tin and handed it to Tam. “No, no, I don't dare go out. I expect the roads are sheets of ice. I worry about my birds, though. I haven't been able to feed them in days.”

The kettle whistled. A strong memory swept through Tam. A memory of another kitchen and dinner next to a stove and the love he had for a girl.

“I think the weatherman said this storm is supposed to move on south by the end of the week. I sure hope so.
I'm about flat out of food.” Ivy poured boiling water over the tea bag.

“Why yes, honey, I'd love to have you come visit this weekend. I could do with a little human company.” Looking down apologetically at Tam, she said, “And I have a special friend I want you to meet.”

 

“Thank the good Lord that weatherman was right for once,” Ivy said, pulling on her boots. After two days, the storm had indeed moved on. Sun touched the tops of the trees on the far ridge for the first time in many days. Wrapping a scarf around her neck and stuffing the bag of bread crumbs in her coat pocket, Ivy said, “Come on, Sam. It's time to see those mountains come alive.”

Snow crunched beneath Ivy's boots as they walked slowly along the fence line. She squinted her eyes against the bright glare of sun on snow. “Lovely,” she murmured to Tam.

Leaning heavily on her walking stick, Ivy made her way down the gentle slope to the dogwood forest, Tam by her side. Chickadees flitted branch to branch, fluffing their feathers against the cold. The occasional flash of red announced the presence of a male cardinal or two. Ivy shook the bag of crumbs onto the snow. “Come here, my little babies,” she called. “Come get your treats!” The notch-tailed raven called from the high branches of an old
pine. “There's some for you too, old friend,” Ivy said with a laugh.

Tam followed a scent down toward the riverbank. Delicate, heart-shaped tracks filled his nose with deer. Three had passed this way just forty-five minutes before, his nose told him. They were hungry. One was old and sick. His nose told him that too. A dog's keen sense of smell can read the story on earth and wind as clearly as any human can read a book.

Just as he began to stalk a snowshoe hare, Ivy called, “Sam! Sam! Come here, Sam!” The hare startled and ran. Tam sighed. He shook himself and trotted back up the bank to the old woman.

“Where'd you get to, boy?” Ivy said. “You gave me a little start.”

Tam walked close by her side as they made their way back to the cabin. There was some indefinable scent on the woman that worried the little sheltie.

“I got to get on back and make up my grocery list before the boy gets here. Lord, I got to clean up those breakfast dishes too. Randall will think I've got the Alzheimer's if there's dishes in the sink. And I'm going to get him to put that identification tag on your collar.”

Ivy stopped to catch her breath at the top of the pasture. She rubbed her shoulder. “Lord, Lord,” she said. “I'm getting old.” She gripped her walking stick and
straightened her spine. “Nothing to do with age, Sam. Just been cooped up in that cabin too long. You and me got to get out more.”

As Ivy opened the front door, it hit her like a freight train.

She doubled over in pain and dropped her stick. “Sweet Jesus,” she gasped. Hot, searing pain shot up her arm, blazed across her chest. With steely determination, she straightened and pushed through the door. Out of habit, she pulled it closed behind her.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat poured down her face. Her world, the cabin, and all that she had known for more than eighty years fell away to one purpose: She must get to the telephone.

“Come on, old girl, you can do it,” she said aloud. She clutched chair backs and countertops and worked her way to the telephone. Just as she stretched her hand out, an iron fist squeezed down hard on her heart. Her legs gave way. She crumpled forward, slamming her head on the floor.

Tam barked frantically. Everything was wrong. The scent of fear and sickness filled the air. The woman smelled of blood and pain. Tam pawed her outstretched hand. She groaned. He licked the blood from her face, sniffed her breath. “Sam,” she breathed.

And then, all was silent. The clock ticked in the
hallway, water dripped from the faucet in the kitchen sink. The wind sighed in the trees. The raven called from somewhere outside the house. Tam lay next to the old woman and rested his head on her hip, his brown eyes abrim with sorrow.

After some time, Tam heard tires crunch up the drive to the house. He knew that sound. He ran to the cedar chest, jumped up, and barked at the big truck. A man stepped out, ran up the porch steps. Tam barked and barked. The man knocked once, left a package by the door, waved to Tam, and ran back to the truck.

Tam whined as the truck pulled away. He went back to the woman, sniffed her face. Her breath came in tattered threads. Her eyelids fluttered. Tam pawed the front of her coat. She opened her eyes. “Good boy,” she said. And closed her eyes again.

More time passed. The slam of a car door woke Tam. He sat up and listened to the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch steps. A man. A big man. Tam growled low in his chest.

Ivy's son picked up the package the UPS driver left. He pushed open the door and stomped the snow off his boots. “Mama, you got a package,” he called. Tam pushed closer into the woman's side and growled louder.

Randall dropped the package. “Mama?” he called. His eyes swept the room. The fire was out, dishes were
piled beside the sink, the lights were off, and there was the sound of a dog growling. His instinct as a policeman took over. He reached back through the open door, grabbed a piece of firewood from the stack on the porch, and walked slowly toward the kitchen.

Fearful, sickening memories flooded Tam: a big man with a long stick in his hand coming toward him. Tam stood beside the crumpled figure on the floor, eyes wide with fear, teeth bared to protect his friend. He growled a warning to the man to go away.

“Oh good Lord,” Randall said at the sight of his mother on the floor, blood on her face, this dog crouched over her. Randall raised the piece of wood, brandishing it like a club. “Get out of here!” he yelled.

Tam barked and snapped. Randall started to swing the club down on Tam, then realized he risked hitting his mother too. Instead, he rushed Tam, yelling, pretending to swing.

Tam bolted past the man into the living room. He whirled and barked furiously. The man threw the piece of wood at Tam, catching the side of his head. Tam yelped in pain. Still he would not leave his friend. He took a step forward and barked the gruffest bark he could muster.

When the man grabbed a plate from the counter and hurled it, Tam finally fled out the front door and into the woods.

He circled back and watched the house from the cover of the laurel thicket. He heard the man's voice, fear-filled, inside the house. He heard the old woman's voice faint as a spider's web. He watched as the big man carried her to his car, laid her gently in the backseat, and drove away.

 

Nightfall came. The air turned from cold to freezing. The man had not closed the door when he had carried Ivy to his car. Tam poked his head around the door and listened. Quiet.

Tam ate the last of his dry kibble and drank deeply from the water dish. He sniffed the chair by the fireplace where the woman sat at night. His toenails clicked on the pine floors as he trotted from room to room looking for any signs of the old woman. There were none. He sniffed the square brown package on the floor. If Tam could've read, he'd have known the label said
Whistler Farm Specialty Fibers.

He trotted up the stairs to her bedroom and jumped up on the bed. He found a lingering scent of her on the pillow and lay down. But he could not sleep. For the first time, the scent of the old woman felt wrong. He should have been surrounded by the scent of a girl. His girl.

“Daddy,” I said, planting myself right in front of him and that telephone, “I'm going for a walk.”

Daddy's wild red hair shot off in twenty different directions, looking like it was in full agreement about how crazy everything was.

Daddy nodded and put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Have a good time, sugar.”

As I pulled on my coat, I heard him say to the person on the phone, “No, sir, I wasn't calling you sugar. I was just…”

Poor Daddy.

I headed down the sidewalk past the little houses on our street. They were all tiny and hunched together like a bunch of wet chickens in the cold. I hardly ever saw kids playing out in the little-bitty yards or riding their bikes. I reckon they were all inside watching TV or playing video games or out shopping at the mall.

I turned on Edge Hill and cut over to Music Row. I liked that area for all its trees and colorful houses. I saw all kinds of people walking along with guitar cases and such strapped to their backs. I reckon they were all following their north star, just like Daddy.

Thinking of Daddy and his north star made me think of Tam, my north star. My heart got all heavy and sad.

Actually, ever since I'd seen that movie
Tennessee Home
, I'd been kind of down in the dumps. When that girl was sent from the city to live with her family at their home way out in the country, it made me miss my home in the mountains. She didn't have the great big mountains like I did, but she had lots and lots of green grass under her feet instead of this concrete, and big fields and pastures
full of flowers, just like home. I swear, the whole movie I kept expecting to see a red and white sheltie come running across the fields, grinning his sheltie grin.

A horn honked, and then another. I stopped and looked around. I'd been thinking so hard about Tam and Wild Cat Cove, I hadn't realized where I was.

I turned all around and looked. Traffic and people were hurrying every which way. Big, tall buildings climbed up and up. I craned my neck till it about broke off to see the sky. Everywhere I looked there were people, buildings, and cars. In all my thinking, I'd walked smack into downtown Nashville.

I took a deep breath to calm my hammering heart. I pointed my toes in front of me and followed them down the street. Just about every store I passed had music coming out of it. That and the smell of food. My stomach grumbled.

I was just about to turn around and find my way home when I spotted a big river. It'd been so long since I'd seen a river or creek or anything, I just had to go pay my respects.

I trotted down to the end of the sidewalk and crossed First Avenue. I leaned against the railing and drank in the sight of that big ol' river lumbering along. I closed my eyes and listened for its voice. I knew, even right smack-dab in the middle of this big city, the river would have a voice—just like Clear Creek and the apple trees in our orchard
and the big willow down by the creek. I held my breath and listened real hard.

A crow cawed. A boat horn honked. And then…

“Oh no!”

My eyes flew open. This was not what I expected to hear the river say.

I heard car tires squeal and even more horns honking than usual.

I turned around to see what all the ruckus was about.

Right there on the sidewalk, hardly ten feet away, a girl jumped up and down, screaming and waving.

“Please!” she hollered. “Don't hit my dog!”

Dog?

And sure enough, there it was, a tiny little bit of a thing dashing in and out of traffic.

The girl darted into traffic too, yelling, “Dusty! Come here, Dusty!” A car swerved to one side, just barely missing the girl. Still, Dusty did what every dog does when someone chases after him: He ran away.

“Great bucket of gravy!” I dashed over and called to the girl, “His name's Dusty?”

She looked over at me. Her face was streaked with tears underneath the bill of her purple baseball cap. “Yes,” she sobbed.

I looked up the street. The cars at the traffic light were just leaving. I looked down the street. Those cars were still waiting for the light to turn.

And that crazy little dog, no bigger than a dust bunny, stood right in the middle of that street.

I grabbed the girl's arm. I had no doubt what was running through her head. “
Don't
chase him,” I commanded.

I took one little step toward the dog and whistled. He looked at me and cocked his head to one side.

The cars from up the street were coming closer.

I swallowed hard and pitched my voice as high and as excited as I could. I clapped my hands and called, “Here, Dusty! Come see what I got!”

He took one little step toward me, just the tip of his tail wagging.

The cars were almost upon us.

I clapped and called to him again. “Oh, look here, Dusty! Isn't this fun?”

And then I took little baby steps, running away from him, clapping and calling, “Come come come, Dusty! Come come come!”

Now, anybody who knows squat about dogs knows they can't resist an excited voice and a good game of chase.

Dusty dashed right after me, yapping his fool little head off about a mile a nanosecond. It was, quite frankly, an annoying yap. But I didn't care. He'd followed me out of the street, across the plaza, and over to the grass.

I knelt on the ground and got down as low as I could. “Come here, you little mouse,” I said, laughing. He jumped in my lap and covered my face with kisses as fast as his little
pink tongue would go. I couldn't believe how good it felt to have a dog kissing me again.

“Oh my God, I can't believe you rescued him.”

I squinted up into the sun. For just a split second, I'd kind of forgotten all about him being someone else's dog.

I scooped up the little pup with one hand and stood. I brushed my hair, which had gone all scatter-wonky, out of my face, and handed her the dog. “Here you go. I don't think he's any worse for wear.”

The pup was surely excited to see his girl. He licked her face and tried to climb up her neck.

We both laughed. “He sure is an excitable little guy, isn't he?” I said. The dog about knocked her hat off her head.

I froze. I gasped.

She opened those ice blue eyes of hers and stared down at me.

“It's
you
,” we both said at the exact same moment.

It was the Queen, Cheyenne Rivers, looking right down her nose at me like I'd dropped out of the sky from an alien spaceship.

But it wasn't the Cheyenne Rivers I knew either. Instead of her usual black clothes, she wore an old jacket and jeans. Instead of those big army boots with all those buckles, she had on just a regular pair of sneakers. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup and her ponytail stuck
through the back of her baseball cap. I couldn't believe it. She looked like a regular kid.

She hugged her little Dusty against her chest and looked away. I figured she was about to tell me to scram, tell me to get out of her city.

But do you know what? She buried her face in that little dog's side and said in a voice I could barely hear, “Thank you so much.”

Well, that about shocked the socks off me. But then she did an even more shocking thing. She started to cry.

Now, if anybody'd told me the Queen was capable of shedding one tear, I would've told them maybe pigs could fly too. But there she was, crying all over her dog.

I touched her arm. “He's okay, Cheyenne. Really.”

Dusty licked at the tears coming down her cheeks, just like Tam used to.

“I don't know what I would have done if he'd gotten hurt,” she sobbed.

Squashed like a bug on a windshield more likely, but I didn't say that. Instead, I just stood close and patted her arm.

Finally, she scrubbed her sleeve across her face and looked at me. I tried out a smile on her. She laughed.

I took a step back and got ready for whatever insults she was going to throw at me. Instead she said, “Anybody'd think we called each other this morning.”

I shook my head. I had no idea what she was talking about.

With her free hand, she motioned to my jeans, my shoes. “We're dressed just alike,” she said chuckling.

And do you know what? She was right! Jeans, old flannel shirts, ratty jackets, and sneakers.

I laughed and pointed. “You look like a hillbilly!”

Her face turned red. “Sorry about that. I didn't really mean it in a bad way.”

I smiled. “That's okay. In my head, I call you the Queen.”

She let out a big belly laugh. “Oh my gosh, that's what I call my
mother
.”

It was pretty funny.

“Do you live around here?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I live over by Music Row. I got bored and decided to go for a walk and—” I looked around at the river and tall buildings. “Here I am.”

“Wow,” she said. “That's kind of a long walk, isn't it?”

I shrugged. “What about you?” I asked. “Do you and Dusty live around here?”

She sighed. “No, we live out in Belle Meade.” When I shrugged, she said, “It's kind of a long ways from here. I got bored too, though.”

“You walked too?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Took the bus.”

My eyes popped open. “They let dogs on the bus here?”

She laughed and pointed to the big canvas bag on the ground. “Dusty rode in that.”

I'd seen pictures in magazines of famous movie stars and such carrying their little dogs in purses. “Wow, you've got a dog purse.”

“Yep,” she said. “That way, he can go with me just about everywhere.” She stroked the little dog's ears. “He's my best friend.”

I nodded. I knew just how that was. All of a sudden, I found myself liking Cheyenne Rivers.

She dug around in that big canvas sack and pulled out a soda. “Want it?” She held the can out to me.

“That's okay,” I said. “I'm not allowed to drink Cokes. My mama says they'll eat the enamel off my teeth.”

She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “Do you see your mama around here?”

I laughed and took the can. She took another one out of that bag and popped the top. She also pulled out a bag of Cheetos, the crispy kind, which are my favorite. And then—I couldn't believe it—she pulled a tiny little dish and a water bottle out of that bottomless bag and poured Dusty a drink!

We sat on the grass enjoying our Cokes and Cheetos, not saying much. But it was a good not-saying-much, a comfortable, smiling together not-saying-much.

And then it started to rain. It was like someone flipped a switch and the rain came pouring down.

We gathered up all our stuff and ran to a shelter by the river. Cheyenne watched the rain and said, “So much for Camelot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Camelot,” she repeated. “You know, the perfect place where King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Guinevere lived?”

I nodded. “I think my friend Olivia told me about that place.”

She rooted around in her bag again and pulled out a red, sparkly cell phone. “Let's go to my house,” she said.

She punched some numbers into her phone. “Hi, Richard, it's me. Can you come pick me up?” She smiled. “And a friend too. We're down at Riverfront Park across from First Avenue.”

She snapped her cell phone shut. “He'll be here in a few minutes.”

“Is Richard your brother or something?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “My driver.”

 

As the long black limousine purred down the interstate, I tried to act like I rode in limos all the time. I tried not to gawk too much at the TVs and tiny refrigerator and computer. There were all kinds of secret cabinets and drawers. I about wet my pants.

We pulled into a huge, semicircular driveway. Richard opened the door for us.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “You drive real good.”

We went up about a million marble stairs. A woman in an apron opened the biggest doors I've ever seen. I figured it was Cheyenne's mama.

Wrong again. “Welcome back, Miss Rivers,” the woman said in an annoyed kind of way.

“Thanks, Eudora,” Cheyenne said. “We're hungry. Could you fix my friend and me some sandwiches and bring them up to my room?”

And without even waiting for an answer, Cheyenne said, “My room's up here, Abby.”