The Dog Hunters: An Apocalyptic Ice Age Story

by John Silveira

  “I can get this one before it runs,” Wilson whispered.

  The old man still tried to penetrate the glare with his old eyes. “Wait. Let me look. There’s something with it.”

  “There’s nothing. Let me take the shot,” Wilson said and pulled the rifle away.

  “Don’t shoot yet! Look through the scope, son. Tell me what’s beside it.”

  Wilson looked through the scope again. “Nothing.”

  “There’s a white mound beside it.”

  “It’s snow.”

  The old man squinted. “Do not shoot yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “The dog’s seen us. It should have run. It’s guarding something.”

  The old man drew his revolver and skied ahead. Wilson didn’t know what his grandfather was doing and he lowered the rifle and followed. The dog barked more insistently as they got closer, but it still wouldn’t run.

  When they got close enough, they saw it was standing over a body in a white snowsuit that was similar to their own.

  “Damn,” Wilson said “it’s killed someone.”

  He raised the rifle again, but his grandfather shouted, “No!”

  The dog bared its teeth, snarled and barked defiantly, but stood its ground.

  “You stay here,” he said to Wilson. “You don’t know what’s going on.” Then he moved slowly ahead, deliberately putting himself between the rifle and the dog, until he was within twenty feet of the dog.

  It was a pregnant bitch. She wore a collar. The old man fell to his knees and started to laugh.

  Wilson wondered if he’d gone mad.

  The old man lowered his pack and opened it. From it he took the last of the fish and tore a small piece off. He stopped laughing and whistled, and the dog barked furiously.

  “Come here, girl.”

  The dog wouldn’t move away from the body and continued to bark ferociously.

  Wilson’s concern turned to curiosity.

  His grandfather, still facing the dog, said to Wilson, “Watch this. She’s going to make this tough for me.”

  “Make what tough?” Wilson asked.

  His grandfather didn’t answer. He edged closer, holding the small piece of the fish before him.

  The dog barked fiercely.

  The old man held the fish out.

  The dog stopped barking and sniffed the air then barked again and the old man looked back over his shoulder at Wilson. He smiled. “Sit down. This is going to take a while.”

  “What’s going to take a while?”

  The old man laughed again.

  Wilson looked around for signs of danger. He saw none, so he squatted, but kept his rifle poised so he could get off a quick shot if he had to. He watched his grandfather move closer, dangling the fish and teasing the dog.

  She barked incessantly. For most of twenty minutes the old man edged closer, tempting her with the fish and talking to her softly. He got within an arm’s length of her, his hand reaching out, a small cube resting on his open palm.

  She strained forward indecisively, her ears down, her tail between her legs, her snout sniffing the air, but she was no longer barking. She was clearly starving and there was a morsel before her, but just out of her reach, and it was becoming apparent to both Wilson and the dog that the old man would bring it no closer.

  Hunger overcame caution and she stretched her neck. But she couldn’t reach it without taking one more step.

  She backed off and barked in frustration.

  The old man laughed.

  The dog got closer, again, and bobbed her head up and down as she sniffed the air. With a final stretch of her neck, she reached. The old man didn’t move and he let her take it.

  Wilson’s grandfather’s tone was appeasing. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

  She watched him tear off another small chunk.

  “Would you like more? You’re going to have to come and get it.”

  She bobbed her head up and down again to savor the scent. She waited for him to extend his hand again, and he did, but not as far as before.

  Lowering her head, she carefully took a step forward. He continued to talk to her and she stepped inches closer than before and inches further from the body that she guarded, stretching her neck until she could take the second offering. Then she returned to the body and barked.

  “Ingrate,” the old man said, but he was laughing.

  He tore off another small piece as both she and Wilson watched.

  “How much of our food are you going to give her?” Wilson asked.

  “It depends on how much it takes to win her over,” the old man replied.

  Then again he said to the dog, “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

  Wilson watched in disbelief.

  “Is that your master?” the old man asked. “Is that your problem girl? You can’t leave? Poor thing.”

  This time, he held his hand right in front of his chest while he whispered to her. She stopped barking and sat and waited for him to extend his arm. He didn’t. She grew impatient and yelped several times. But she wasn’t barking anymore; she was pleading. He talked to her, but wouldn’t extend his hand. It was a waiting game, and her hunger was on his side.

  She stood and danced around, then sat again until she got up and danced around some more, hoping she could induce him to hold his hand out one more time.

  He wouldn’t.

  Slowly, she moved closer, straining against her own reluctance, stretching her neck to its physical limits, until she could take one more cube. And as she got closer the old man reached up with his free hand and stroked her under the chin as she took the morsel.

  She immediately withdrew and he continued to talk to her. He held his hand out and she came forward to inspect it. It was empty, but he allowed her to lick it, and he stroked her chin again as she did.

  “Sit,” he commanded, and Wilson was surprised when she sat back on her haunches.

  “You’re trained, aren’t you, baby.”

  He cautiously rubbed her ears and offered her another piece of fish.

  She took it.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “Speak,” he repeated.

  She barked once.

  “You are,” he laughed.

  Wilson started to reach for the chip, but stopped. He took his hand away. All the magic was in his grandfather.

  “Lie.”

  The dog did nothing.

  “Lie,” he repeated.

  Again, the dog didn’t move.

  “Lay.”

  She lay on the snow.

  “She understands bad grammar,” the old man said laughing and he slowly reached to scratch her sides, digging his fingers into her thick fur, and she rolled onto her back, without reluctance, and exposed her swollen stomach, and he scratched it.

  With his free hand he dug the rope from the sack and threaded one end through her collar and secured it. The rest he wrapped around his waist.

  He stopped petting her and moved slowly toward the body as she watched. He rolled it over. It was a man.

  He waved Wilson closer. The dog warily watched Wilson as he approached and she began to bark again.

  “Sit,” the old man said and when she sat he stroked her while holding her by the collar.

  “Pet her,” he said when Wilson got closer.

  Wilson reached and she lunged for his hand, but hit the end of the rope first.

  The old man tugged on the rope and pulled her back. “Sit,” he commanded, and she did.

  “Lower your hand,” he said to Wilson. “Hold it palm up and stroke her under her chin.”

  Wilson hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” he commanded.

  Wilson’s hand reached out and head and hand touched, like aliens from two different worlds.

  The dog was guarded but accepting. Wilson slowly lowered himself and an unspoken truce was arranged between them.

  “Looks like he’s been dead for days,” his grandfather said. “A
nd from the looks of the bitch I’d say she’s been in a few fights with wild dogs to protect his body.” He stroked her head. “You’ve been a good girl, haven’t you?”

  The old man started undressing the dead man.

  “You won’t be needing this anymore, friend,” he said without humor. This was a man from his own time. A man who just days before was a fellow traveler from the Golden Age into this forsaken world.

  He made a bundle of the clothing and shoes, putting everything in the coat and tying it up.

  There was a rucksack on the body and he emptied it onto the snow. There were snares, fishing equipment, a compass, a .22 pistol with three hundred rounds of ammunition, a first aid kit, and several packages of dried fish. He examined the pistol like a jeweler handling a fine gem.

  “He took care of this. It’s almost like new, but it’s got to be over forty years old.”

  Wilson reached to touch the dog again and she lunged and snapped at him, and barely missed taking off some fingers.

  His grandfather laughed but scolded the dog.

  “Sit,” he said, and she sat.

  “Give her time,” he said to Wilson. “Let her get used to you. You don’t know what dogs are like.”

  And you do, Wilson thought. One more thing he had to learn from his grandfather.

  The old man put everything back in the rucksack then he tore off another piece of fish and handed it to Wilson. “Put it on your opened palm and let her take it. But make her come to you.”

  Wilson held the fish in his hand and the dog watched him for several minutes before she cautiously stepped forward and took it. Then she barked at him again.

  “She is an ingrate,” Wilson said angrily.

  His grandfather laughed as he inventoried their find.

  “What did he die of?” Wilson asked.

  “I don’t know. Heart attack, maybe. He looks pretty old.”

  Like you? Wilson thought to himself. “Where do you think he came from?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” the old man said. “Maybe a village we don’t know about. I can’t imagine him and the dog having survived out here alone. I wish I could have known him. It would have been nice to have talked with him. You know, someone from my own world.”

  “You’re lonely, aren’t you gramps.”

  After a brief silence, the old man said, “Yes. I came from a world you’ll never know and a world I can never go back to.” He looked around. “We shouldn’t linger here. Someone might be out here looking for him.”

  “What about the dog?” Wilson asked.

  “We’ll take her back to the village on the rope.”

  “Will she stay with us?”

  “We’ll have to keep her tied up at first, until she gets used to us. Given time she will. Then she’ll stay on her own. Dogs are like that.”

  He stood up and surveyed the now naked body of the stranger.

  “It’s too bad we can’t give him a proper burial.” He took a deep breath then let it out. “The dogs can have him now. I guess that makes sense. And someday we’ll be eating the dogs that ate him.”

  He slung the sack over one shoulder then picked up the bundle he had made of the clothes. The sun was higher in the sky and the glare was off the snow. He tugged the line he had attached to the dog and tried to get up. He had been sitting in a cramped position for too long and getting to his feet was painful. He threw his own pack over his other shoulder and they started to leave. The dog resisted. “I’m getting too old for this,” he said.

  “Not once we build the sled.”

  The old man didn’t reply. He tugged the rope again and Wilson watched the dog give in to being towed. He was impressed with her devotion to the dead man. She was nothing like the wild dogs.

  His grandfather stooped and stroked her head. “Come on girl, you did all you could. There’s nothing more you can do for him, now.”

  Wilson reached and helped his grandfather pull the rope and they headed east toward Salem Harbor.

  “You know,” his grandfather said, “there’ll come a time when the wild dogs will either be starved or hunted out of existence. There’s damned little left for them to prey on or forage for. And other than eating them, I didn’t think there was any place for them with man anymore. But we’ll find a use for them, won’t we?”

  Wilson was thinking about the dogsleds again. He reached into his pocket and rubbed the chip.

  “Capturing and raising them is going to be a lot more important than hunting them for food, now,” the old man said. “They’re going to replace the engine. They’ll pull those dogsleds you’re thinking about.”

  How did he know I was thinking about them? Wilson thought. His grandfather was magic.

  The old man continued, “You’re going to find out that dogs are useful as a warning system against intruders. They have supersensitive hearing, and they can smell things a mile away if the wind’s right. They’re loyal if you bond with them and they’ll protect you with their lives. You’re going to discover they’re the only creatures you’re ever going to meet that love you more than they love themselves. You saw the way she protected the body.”

  Wilson nodded.

  “And they can make you a better man.”

  “How?”

  “There was a man, a writer, named Robert Ruark who said, ‘Never knew a man not to be improved by a dog.”

  Wilson looked at her. He couldn’t see how this beast could change him, never mind improve him.

  “And they’re really intelligent. They can even keep you warm at night. There used to be a musical group called Three Dog Night. You know where they got the name? A three dog night was a night so cold that you needed three dogs to sleep with you to keep warm.”

  Wilson looked at him and laughed incredulously. “People slept with those things?”

  His grandfather nodded and laughed at him.

  Wilson thought about sharing his sleeping space with this thing and said, “I thought you guys were supposed to be civilized.” He looked back at the dog who sulked behind as she was towed and said to her, “And, if worse comes to worse, we can eat you, too.”

  His grandfather laughed harder. “It’s true. It’s the way primitive people used to treat dogs; they were tools, they were friends, but they were also food.” When he stopped laughing he looked about the snow barrens and said, “But now we’re the primitive people and it’s the way we’ll treat them again.”

  “And you say we’ll be able to use her to pull a dogsled?”

  “Sure. From the looks of her, I’d say she was part husky, maybe some malamute. These are the kinds of dogs they used to pull sleds. It’s all good working dog material. If we find when we get home that the village’s fishing expedition was successful, there’ll be fish to feed her. But we’re going to have to convince people she’s worth it. After that, in order to keep her, we’re going to have to do more fishing ourselves, you and me. But at first we’ll have to leave her in the village until she has her pups and they’ve been weaned. We’ll have to have someone tend to her.”

  “Laura will do it after I give her those pearls and shirt,” Wilson said.

  “Careful! You’re giving her those pearls as a gift; not to buy her or her time.”

  Wilson felt foolish after the admonition.

  “After that,” the old man continued, “we’ll take her with us. She’ll carry a load for us. And she’ll be our sentry. In less than two years, the pups will have grown enough to hitch to some kind of sled. It’s not going to be easy, raising dogs. But one day it’ll pay off and the dogs will more than pay for themselves—otherwise,” and he turned to the dog, “we’re going to eat you.”

  Wilson laughed, but lagged back and reached down to pet her again. She snapped at his hand again.

  “How come she’s not trying to bite you anymore, but she’s trying to bite me? I’ve been with her as long as you have.”

  “Because she’s perceptive. She can tell I’m comfortable around dogs and that you’r
e not, so she doesn’t trust you.”

  How can she know how I feel? Wilson thought. More magic.

  The old man thought a second. “In fact, she doesn’t even like you.”

  Wilson had already figured that out. Dogs were more complex than he thought. More stuff to learn.

  “Talk to her,” his grandfather called back. “You’ve got to win her over.”

  Wilson reached in his pocket and rubbed the chip. “What do I say?”

  “Anything. But speak gently. Sing her a song if you want. Tell her about the village. Tell her about your talisman. Anything. Get her used to your voice.”

  Wilson walked alongside her. He smiled. She slunk.

  “Go on, talk to her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “We’ll never know, now.”

  “Then what do we call her?”

  His grandfather thought. “Now? Think of a new name. She’s ours, so we can call her anything we want and, pretty fast, she’ll know it’s her new name.”

  The responsibility of naming her seemed formidable to the young ice age hunter. It was something not to be taken lightly. The name had to be right. He traveled along beside her trying different names. None seemed appropriate.

  “You name her,” he called to his grandfather.

  “No, this is going to be your responsibility.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  What if he named her something unlucky? He kept that question to himself.

  They skied along over the flat terrain for about a mile. The old man had taken point, Wilson lagged behind with the dog.

  “How about Chip,” he called ahead to his grandfather.

  “Chip?”

  “Yeah, the name for the dog.”

  His grandfather smiled and shook his head, but he didn’t look back. “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  But it seemed oddly appropriate to the grandfather. “Then Chip it is,” he yelled back.

  “Chip,” Wilson said to the dog, but she didn’t respond. He’d have to call her that a lot of times before she knew it was hers. But that was all right. He was patient.

  The rope slackened as the dog walked with them, and the two ice age men and a dog crossed the snow barrens into the rising sun, pounding on the doors of anew civilization.