A Dog's Way Home

by Bobbie Pyron

  You asked what the kids are like at my new school. The girls all dress up like they’re famous country music stars—short, flouncy skirts and cowboy boots. Lots of jewelry. Even the girls in my grade wear makeup and have pierced ears! They’re nice, but they mostly talk about shopping. The boys all have this hair that looks like it’s blown by a good, stiff wind to one side. I think the boys spend as much time on their hair as the girls do! Ha! The weirdest thing is, during recess, all the kids just stand around texting each other on their cell phones, playing Game Boys by themselves or listening to music on their tiny little iPods. They don’t play dodgeball or four-square or anything. It’s boring. My teachers are nice, though, especially my homeroom teacher, Miss Bettis. She’s my English teacher too. She has the nicest smile of anybody.

  Oh, Olivia, I had the WORST dream about Tam a couple of nights ago! In my dream, he was lost and cold in the woods. He hardly looked like himself, but I could tell he was looking for me. I called and called to him, but he couldn’t hear me. All of a sudden, this big black thing—kind of like a bear—started chasing him. Then it turned into a man and started shooting at Tam. I screamed and screamed until Mama came in and woke me up. I think I gave her a real scare. And even though it’s been a couple of days, I just can’t seem to shake that dream.

  I better do my homework. The teachers here think I’m real smart. That’s a first! I told my math teacher the smartest person I know is named Olivia and she lives in Harmony Gap. Ha!

  Write me soon. I miss you.

  Your friend,

  Abby Whistler

  By the end of my second week at Jesse Rogers Middle School, I didn’t get lost finding my classes anymore. I remembered my locker number and combination. I didn’t really need Madison to escort me around, but I was actually glad she still did. She was as different from me as a pickle is from a pear. But she was smart and knew just about everybody in sixth grade.

  We were eating our lunch together as usual. She and her friend Bree pored over some teen fashion magazine. Every now and then, they’d eye me, then study a picture in the magazine and say, “We could do that to her hair,” or “Green would bring out those gray eyes of hers.”

  I wadded up my paper bag. “I am not y’all’s latest makeover project.”

  Bree smiled, her lips all shiny with pink stuff. “But you could look so pretty, Abby.”

  Madison sighed. “And no one wears their hair like that anymore. It’s so, so…well, hillbilly.”

  If there’s anything I hate, it’s being called a hillbilly. I was just about to tell her what she could do with her precious magazine when Bree said, “Oh my gosh, there she is!”

  Madison gasped. “So it’s true. She is coming to this school.”

  Bree and Madison and just about everybody else in the cafeteria, including the lunch ladies, stared at the girl who’d just walked in. She didn’t look that much different from all the other girls at the school, except maybe a little taller and dressed all in black, from head to toe. She had on these clunky army-type boots with all kinds of buckles and laces and such.

  “Who’s she?” I asked.

  Bree and Madison said at the same time, “Cheyenne Rivers.”

  I looked back at the girl strutting over to the salad bar. Kids moved out of her way, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

  “Why is she such a big deal?” I asked.

  They looked at me like I’d suddenly sprouted two heads. “You don’t know who Cheyenne Rivers is?”

  I shook my head. Madison rolled her eyes. “She’s Randy Rivers’s daughter.”

  “Please tell me you know who Randy Rivers is,” Bree said. Sometimes Bree had a way of talking like I was from another planet.

  “Of course I know who Randy Rivers is,” I said, even though I didn’t. But in this city, if anybody was somebody, they had to be a country-western singer, so I figured that’s who Randy Rivers was.

  So I said, just like I knew what I was talking about, “What’s the daughter of a rich and famous country music star doing at a public school?”

  Without peeling one eyeball off the girl, Madison said, “I heard she’s been kicked out of every private school in Nashville.”

  Bree nodded. “I heard they hired a tutor for her at home, but she was so hateful, she ran the teacher off.”

  I watched this Cheyenne Rivers walk over to an empty table by the windows, never looking right or left. She carried herself like the Queen of England.

  “She doesn’t look so bad,” I said.

  They looked at me and shook their heads. “I heard practically everyone in eighth grade is making bets on how long it’ll take for her to get kicked out.”

  Bree and Madison pretended to read their magazine while they watched Cheyenne Rivers. “I heard her mother takes her to New York City six times a year just to shop for clothes,” Bree said.

  “I heard she has a boyfriend who’s eighteen,” Madison said.

  One thing I know from living in a small town where everybody thinks they know everybody else’s business is most of what is said about a person is just pure exaggeration. I watched this famous girl sitting over there by the window all by herself. It didn’t look to me like her teacher in the eighth grade had thought to give her an escort, like Miss Bettis did for me. Nobody said hey or welcome to our school. I felt sorry for her.

  I slid into the truck next to Mama that afternoon when school was out. “Mama,” I said, “do you know who Randy Rivers is?”

  Mama peered through the rain and sleet lashing the windshield. “I hate this weather,” she grumbled.

  Mama didn’t seem like she was in the best mood in the world, so I figured I’d better keep my mouth shut and let her drive. Mama had not been the happiest person since we’d moved to Nashville. Oh, when Daddy was home, she tried real hard to act happy. But when it was just us—and with Daddy at the studio so much, that was most of the time—she sighed a lot and looked sad. And not being able to find a job wasn’t helping her general disposition either.

  We pulled into the parking lot of the Harris Teeter grocery store. Mama just sat there, watching the windshield wipers going back and forth, back and forth. I touched her arm. “Mama, are we going in?”

  She looked at me and blinked, then turned off the wipers and smiled. But it wasn’t her real, I’m-happy-to-be-alive smile.

  She touched my cheek. “Sorry, Abby. Let’s go in and see if they have some of that good fried chicken for dinner. Your dad won’t be home until later and I don’t feel like cooking just for us.”

  Me and Mama had already had Harris Teeter fried chicken for supper twice that week, and I surely was not eager to have it again. But I didn’t have the heart to tell Mama that.

  I hugged the warm, greasy bag of chicken pieces to my stomach while we wandered the grocery aisles. I tugged on Mama’s sleeve and said, “Mama, do you know who Randy Rivers is?”

  Mama tossed some boxes of cereal in our basket. “Sure, he’s a real famous country-western singer. Why?”

  “His daughter just started at our school,” I said.

  “Really?” she said. “I’d think a rich kid like that would go to some fancy-schmancy private school.”

  I grabbed a box of Nilla Wafers and slipped them in the basket. “She did, but you know what?”

  Mama shook her head, her long braid switching back and forth. Madison and Bree would want to give her a makeover too.

  “They say she’s gotten kicked out of every private school there is, Mama, and she had a tutor at home and she was so mean, she ran him off. Our school,” I whispered, “is a last resort.”

  Mama frowned. “You know as well as I do that you can’t believe half of what people say, especially about other folks. She’s probably lonely, just like everybody else.”

  “I know,” I said. “I was thinking that too. Nobody at school will talk to her or even go near her. It’s kind of sad,” I said.

  Mama stopped and looked down at me and smiled. “I bet you will.”


  “Me?” I said. But, truly, sometimes it was downright scary how well Mama knew me.

  The next day in the cafeteria, I watched for Cheyenne Rivers. As usual, Madison and Bree and another friend of theirs were busy dissecting the way everybody in school dressed and how they acted.

  Just when I’d about given up on her, Cheyenne Rivers appeared in the door of the cafeteria. And again, the whole noisy place went stone quiet.

  She sashayed over to the salad bar and tossed a few things on her tray. Then she made her way over to that table by the window, not once looking at anybody, just like before.

  She sat down, opened a book, and took a bite of apple.

  Madison sighed. “She’s so cool.”

  “Totally,” Bree said.

  “Beyond cool,” their friend Courtney said.

  “Then why don’t you go say hey to her?” I asked.

  They looked at me like I’d asked why they didn’t go peek into the boy’s bathroom.

  I threw up my hands. “Great bucket of gravy.”

  I could feel a million eyes watching me as I walked over to Cheyenne Rivers’s table. The closer I got, the more it seemed like this was not such a bright idea. Then I remembered Mama saying, She’s probably lonely, just like everybody else.

  I took a deep breath and walked right up to her. “Hey,” I said.

  Without even looking up from her book, she said, “Hey.” But it wasn’t a hey-I’m-happy-to-meet-you kind of hey. It was more like a go-away-and-leave-me-alone hey.

  “My name’s Abby Whistler,” I said.

  She looked up from her book and glared around the cafeteria with narrow, mean eyes. “So who put you up to this?”

  I shuffled my feet. “Nobody,” I said. “It’s just, I’m new here too, and I thought—”

  She looked back down at her book and waved me away like an annoying fly. “Stop thinking and scram.”

  My mouth fell open, and my face turned hot. Who the heck did she think she was? I balled up my fists and said, “Just because you got a rich and famous daddy doesn’t give you the right to be rude. My Mama would jerk a knot in your tail for talking that way to someone offering kindness.”

  She closed her book, sat back in her chair, and took me in. There I was, a scrawny little sixth grader with long braids, baggy jeans, and a flannel shirt, who didn’t matter a toot, telling the Queen she was rude. Right then and there, I wanted a big ol’ hole to open up and swallow me up.

  She smiled like a cat fixing to eat a mouse. She opened her mouth to say something…

  And the bell rang.

  I never made it so fast from lunch to history before.

  CHAPTER 24

  Tam

  Tam’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 in
fected.”

  “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.