A Dog's Way Home

by W. Bruce Cameron

  Over time Axel’s suffering became worse. He yelled out more in his sleep, and he had started talking loudly to me during the day, gesturing at the sky. Sometimes he would pant and twitch anxiously, then leave me tied to a stump while he left in the direction of town. Upon his return, he would have one of his pencils and would seem happy, but only for a little while. Then he would collapse and sleep deeply. Tied to him, I would go to the limits of the leash to squat to do Do Your Business.

  One such night I caught a familiar stench and when I looked I saw a lone coyote watching me from the opposite riverbank. I growled quietly, but I knew it would not come across flowing water. Axel did not react to the smell, nor to the sound of my building fury, and eventually the small, bad dog slunk away.

  I was alarmed when Axel began pacing and yelling along the riverbanks all day long. He took down the tent and threw it violently in a heap. He forgot to feed me once, then again, and then he poured an entire bag of food on the ground within my reach and left me, tied to a stump, kicking angrily at the rocks in his path as he marched away.

  He was gone for two days. I ate all the food and drank from the river. I was sad and anxious. Had I been a bad dog? When he returned, he was stumbling and talking and did not acknowledge how frantically happy I was to see him. His breath reminded me of Sylvia.

  He sat on a rock, hunched over by the river, and I knew from his motions that he was doing something to his arm and what would soon follow. Sure enough, he became very relaxed, and he laughed and called me a good dog. Peace erased all the fear and anger from his face. Soon his eyes were blinking very slowly.

  “Bella. You are my best friend,” he told me. I wagged at my name.

  Axel slumped into the dirt, breathing slowly. I curled up next to him, being a good dog and providing comfort. He had no pain and his breathing was slow.

  After a time, his breathing stopped.

  * * *

  I lay all night with my head on Axel’s steadily cooling chest. Slowly, his scent changed, as more and more of what had been the man left, and more and more of something else came into his body.

  Axel was a nice man. He was never mean to me. He was often angry and sad and frightened and upset, but never at me. I had done my best to be his good dog, to take care of him. I missed him now, lying there beside him, and wished he would sit up and talk to me one last time. I remembered how we would huddle together in the frigid night. How, when he had food, he would share it with me, just as I would share meals with Big Kitten. “You get the first bite, Bella,” he would say as he tore off a piece of something and handed it to me. I heard my name and could feel his love. Axel loved me, and now he was gone.

  He wasn’t Lucas, but aching for Axel just then, I did not feel disloyal. I had cared for many people in my life, not just Mom and Ty and Mack and Layla and Steve, but Gavin and Taylor, and even Sylvia. It was what I was supposed to do. Axel had just needed me more than anyone else.

  I had water in my bowl, which was good because my leash, now tied to Alex’s wrist, did not stretch to the river. Nor did it reach my bag of food.

  When I got to my feet, I could see the cars flying past on the paved road nearby. Sometimes a dog would be hanging its head out the window and would bark at me as it drove by. Most cars did not have dogs, though, even if they smelled like they once did.

  Eventually I grew hungry. I glanced at Axel’s still form, reflexively expecting him to feed me, and then when I saw him lying so motionless it would come back to me and I would be lonely again. I did Sit, thinking if people driving on the road saw what a good dog I could be they would stop and give me some food in my bowl. No one stopped, though, not that whole day. When night fell I strained on my leash, trying to reach my dinner and feeling a little like a bad dog as I was doing so, but Axel’s hand did not move.

  Axel was cold and hard when I touched my nose to his face. His clothes still smelled like him but otherwise it was as if he had never been a person.

  I looked out at the night, thinking of Lucas. Where was he, right now? Was he lying in his bed, missing his dog the way I was missing him? Did he open the front door to see if I had done Go Home and was lying in my spot? Did he have a treat ready to do Tiny Piece of Cheese, and was waiting for me to jump up to lick it from his fingers? I whined, I cried, and then I lifted my nose to the moon and wailed out a long, grieving howl. It was an odd noise, alien to my throat, and it carried with it all my heartache.

  Far, far away, I heard a single answering cry, a song of loneliness from some other unknown canine, and many dogs barked, but no one came to see what could make a dog so sad.

  The next morning my water was almost gone. I began barking at cars—if they would not stop for a good dog, maybe they would stop for a bad dog not doing No Barks.

  They did not stop. I started panting in the afternoon after licking up the last of the water in my bowl. The river now gave up the enticing fragrance of the refreshing, life-giving liquid, right there, just out of reach. I yearned to romp along the shore and to jump in the water. I wanted to swim in it, to roll in it, to play in it all day. Big Kitten could watch from the shore as I dove in and opened my mouth underwater as if trying to reach a sinking kitty.

  This was the sort of dilemma only a human could solve. I needed a person to come help me. Why wouldn’t anyone stop?

  My mouth was so dry it ached. An involuntary tremble shook my limbs, and I lunged repeatedly, helplessly, at the leash, feeling the stream right there, unable to get to it. Axel’s body barely budged as I tugged.

  I was becoming sick; I could feel it rising in me, overwhelming my body, which was turning hot and then cold, leaving me weak and shivering. I yipped and cried, missing Lucas more in that moment than I had since I last saw him.

  The sun was close to setting when I smelled some people coming—boys, their young voices calling to each other. When I saw them on the road I realized they were on bicycles. I barked at them, desperately pleading for them to stop and help me.

  They rode right past.

  Twenty-five

  Frustrated, I barked and barked and barked after the boys, my throat aching from the effort.

  Then I heard the bicycles coming back. I stopped barking. “See?” one boy demanded.

  There were four of them. They stopped on the road, sitting on their bikes.

  “Why would anyone tie up a dog here?” one boy wanted to know.

  “He looks hungry,” another observed.

  “He’s panting, maybe he’s rabid.”

  I did Sit. I wagged. I yipped. I leaned toward them, at the farthest tolerances of my leash, my front legs off the ground, begging.

  The boys got off their bicycles and wheeled them into the grass and set them down. The one in front smelled a lot like spicy food. He was thin and tall with dark hair. “You okay, boy?” The other boys stayed up by the road but this one cautiously made his way down to me. I wagged furiously. “He looks friendly!” he called back over his shoulder. He approached with his hand outstretched. When his fingers were barely within reach I licked them, tasting the rich onions and spices on his skin. He petted me, and I jumped up on him with my forepaws, so relieved to have a person find me because now I would have food and water.

  “Hey, toss my water bottle down here!” the boy said. The other boys had crept forward but one of them broke away, went back to the bikes, and threw something to the one closest to me, who caught it. I smelled the water before he poured it in my dish, and lapped desperately at it, wanting to immerse my whole head. My tail was wagging and I drank and drank and drank.

  “It’s like his rope got caught on some junk.” All the boys had joined me now and were standing between me and the road. I wagged and sniffed their outstretched hands, none of which were as spicy as the one belonging to the tall boy with the black hair.

  One boy lightly picked up my leash and tugged, following it down toward the river.

  “Ahh!” the boy screamed.

  The boys all scrambled away from
me, back up toward their bikes. “What is it?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh my God!”

  “What? What did you see?”

  “There’s a body.”

  “A what?”

  “There’s a dead guy lying there!”

  The boys stood far out of my reach, panting. I did Sit, a good dog who needed some food to go with the water I’d been given.

  “No,” one boy said finally.

  “No way.”

  “Seriously? Seriously, a body?”

  The boys were quiet for a moment. I watched them expectantly.

  “How do you know he’s dead?” the boy with spicy hands demanded finally.

  “He’s that homeless guy. The vet.”

  “So?” Spicy-boy said.

  “My dad said the homeless guy moved with his dog to a place by the river. You know, the soldier guy who is always screaming on the street?”

  “Okay, but how do you know he’s dead?”

  There was another silence. “Hey, mister?” Spicy-boy called tentatively. “Mister?” The boy came forward and put his hand on my head. I could feel his fear and excitement. He eased down to where what used to be Axel lay in his blankets. He tugged the leash, the motions slapping at my collar.

  “He’s dead,” Spicy-boy stated flatly.

  “Whoa.”

  “Jesus.”

  The boys seemed agitated, and none of them made any move to come any closer to where Spicy-boy stood next to me.

  “Okay, it’s going to be dark in a couple of hours, what do we do?” the boy farthest away wanted to know.

  “I’ll stay here to make sure nobody tampers with the evidence,” Spicy-boy said gravely. “You guys go call 911.”

  * * *

  Spicy-boy stayed with me while the other boys rode off. He made a wide circle around Axel’s blankets and found the bag of dog food and poured it into my food bowl. I gratefully bolted down my dinner.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to me after I’d eaten. He stroked my head. “I’m so sorry about your owner.”

  I was still thirsty, but the situation hadn’t changed—I was attached to the leash, which led down to the stiff, heavy body. I gave Spicy-boy an expectant look, but he didn’t provide any more water.

  It was very quiet, so still I could hear the hiss and gurgle of the river flowing past. Gradually I became aware of Spicy-boy’s rising fear—as the sun lowered in the sky, he seemed more and more anxious about being here with me and dead Axel. I knew what I needed to do. My thirst momentarily forgotten, I went to Spicy-boy and leaned against him to provide comfort. He ran his fingers through my fur and I felt him relax, though ever so slightly.

  “Good dog,” he told me.

  Soon some men arrived, plus one woman, in big vehicles that had flashing lights on top. They came down to look in Axel’s blankets. One of them slipped my leash loose and handed it to Spicy-boy, who accepted it gravely. He took me down to the river and I drank deeply. I had been right: people always knew what to do.

  Before long Tom arrived and there were flashing lights on his roof, too. He came down and joined the circle of people.

  “Overdose, if I had to guess. Won’t know until we get him back,” the woman told him.

  “God.”

  They were quiet. Tom knelt down. “Oh, Axel,” he murmured mournfully. I felt the grief pour off of him. He put a hand to his face, weeping. One of the other men put an arm on his shoulders. “God,” Tom repeated. He raised his face to the sky. “What a waste. What a tragedy.”

  “He was a great man,” the other man murmured.

  “Was.” Tom shook his head in disbelief. “Yes. And look how he wound up.”

  Other cars were arriving. They stopped and people got out and stood in the fading light, lined up on the road along the river. They were mostly quiet. Many of them seemed very sad. I saw men and women wiping their eyes.

  “Okay, let’s get him out of here,” the woman declared.

  They picked up Axel’s body and his blankets and carried him up to the road and put him in one of the big trucks with lights on the top.

  When I first heard the vocal tones I did not understand what they were doing, but then I realized it was singing, just like Mom used to do when she was at the sink pouring water on the plates. Just a few people, and then more and more until it seemed all of the people were joined in chorus. I did not understand the words, of course, but I felt the pain and the regret and the sorrow in the voices.

  We fight our country’s battles

  In the air, on land, and sea;

  First to fight for right and freedom

  And to keep our honor clean;

  We are proud to claim the title

  Of United States Marine

  When they were done singing the people had their heads bent and their arms on each other. The truck with Axel in it drove slowly away, and as it passed some would extend their hands and touch its sides.

  Then everyone started getting back in their cars, murmuring to each other. One vehicle at a time, they began driving slowly away.

  “Rick!” a man called. Spicy-boy snapped his head up. “I’ve got your bike. Let’s go.”

  Spicy-boy looked at me, hesitating.

  “Rick. Now!”

  “You’ll be okay,” he whispered to me. “I just need to find somebody to take care of you.”

  “Rick, dammit, move your butt!” the man yelled. Some people standing on the road stiffened in disapproval.

  “Somebody watch the dog,” Spicy-boy called, dropping my leash and climbing hastily away. Several people turned to look at me, but no one came forward to pick up my leash.

  After a moment, I padded over to where a few of Axel’s sacks and blankets remained strewn around on the riverbank. His scent was strong on the soft cloth, and I drank it in. I had been a good dog and I provided comfort to Axel, but he was gone. This was, I realized, the last time I would ever smell him. He had left and would never be coming back.

  Things repeated, which was how a dog learned. In order to do Go Home, I’d had to leave my Lucas blanket behind, just as I would now have to leave the Axel blankets behind.

  The sad grief inside me was familiar—I felt it whenever I despaired of ever seeing Lucas again. This was the same pain. I would never feel Axel’s hand on my head again, never sleep next to him, never be given a treat by him, held out between his fingers while he smiled at me.

  I looked up to where the steadily shrinking knot of people still milled about. Tom was there—if anyone would take notice of me now, it would be Tom. I liked him and appreciated that he always seemed ready to give me a snack, but he was busy speaking to others. These were human matters that he was tending to, and while a dog was usually very important to people, in this situation, my presence did not merit anyone’s attention.

  I turned away and no one said my name. I trotted along the riverbank, the cool shadows welcoming me in the settling gloom, following my senses.

  Time to do Go Home.

  I was making steady progress, my leash trailing behind me and transmitting a constant and somewhat irritating tremor up into my neck. It was slowing me down, and then it got worse when it snagged on a fallen tree. I was suddenly jerked up short, unable to go any farther. Frustrated, I whined, suddenly hating the leash. I tried pulling on it, but it did not yield. I circled the tree, but that did not help. I was stuck.

  I seized the leash in my teeth and shook it, but that did nothing.

  I looked around, suddenly aware of my surroundings. I had left town far behind. I was by a stream, sparse trees and brush providing cover, but as the moon rose I was starkly vulnerable out in the open. Far in the distance I could just make out the scent of coyotes. What if they could smell me? I thought how delighted they would be to find me hung up on a log, unable to defend myself, and felt a flash of fear.

  Twisting and pulling until my collar chafed, I tried everything I could think of to shake off my leash. At one point I backed
away from the tree, feeling my collar slip up my neck. Suddenly it was very uncomfortable, choking me. Desperately I ducked and shook my head, straining, and then without warning the collar popped off.

  I immediately felt like a bad dog. The only time I had ever been without a collar was at the place of barking dogs in crates. People give dogs a collar so the dogs will know they belong to a person. The lightness around my neck now was an utterly unhappy feeling.

  Well, whether or not I was a bad dog, I needed to keep going. I was closer to Lucas now; I could feel it—but I was still a long way away.

  * * *

  Though it had been a long, long time since I was on my journey, everything about my trek was familiar: the hills, the search for water, the lack of food. I smelled animals and startled a rabbit—they had grown no easier to catch. On the trail the scent of people was strong, but I avoided areas where I could hear them talking or moving, even as I became more and more hungry. Without a collar, I could not be sure how anyone would react when they saw me.

  I did descend to a road and found some old hot dog pieces in a metal bin that I knocked over, but other than that I was not doing well feeding myself.

  The offensive stench of coyote was always present on the air now—this was an area where the small, bad dogs roamed and hunted. I was wary and retreated instantly when I realized I was on a course to encounter them.

  The day I ate the hot dog pieces I picked up their stink very strongly—at least three of them, close by. I immediately reversed direction, because as important as it was to advance toward Lucas, I needed to avoid the canine predators above all else.

  Oddly, the odor of the three faded and then returned, so strong at one point that I turned and stared behind me down a long slope, expecting to see them emerge from behind some rocks. No, they were not right there, but they were close.

  I was being hunted.

  When the trail burst from some trees and fed into a large meadowed area, I felt nakedly exposed. They were behind me—retreating back into the trees would simply put me in danger. Far ahead, though, the meadow sloped steeply upward, and I could see a jumble of boulders pointing up toward the sky. My scent was flowing ahead with the breeze and nothing was flushed out—there were no coyotes up there at the top of the hill.