Dog Gone

by Cynthia Chapman Willis

  His words explode in my head: Dogs that go after livestock should be destroyed. “Lyon! No! Don’t!” I run at his truck, throwing myself in front of it. “You can’t take Mom’s dog! You can’t!”

  Lyon leans out the window. His face is rock-hard. “I’m sorry, Dill, but this dog is a threat.” His voice booms.

  “But he’s Mom’s dog,” I blurt out. Tears leak from my eyes despite my fight to hold them back. “We had a deal! Mrs. Doyle can make him a good dog again!”

  “Get out of the way, Dill. Please.” When I don’t, won’t, Lyon throws the truck into reverse again, backs up some, then shifts back into drive and steers wide around me.

  I chase that truck with everything I’ve got. The tears come strong now. “Don’t take her! You can’t!” My soaked, wet cries get lost in the spitting gravel of our driveway. When I finally stop, breathing hard enough to pop a lung, sobbing to the point of shaking, I watch through blurry eyes as the truck tears down the road. Then I drop to my knees, grab handfuls of gravel and throw them as hard as I can at Lyon and his truck. “I HATE YOU!” I scream as loud as I’m able, my vocal cords close to snapping. “You took Mom away. I didn’t even say good-bye. I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” And I crumple into a limp heap.

  Slow, hesitant steps crunch the gravel behind me.

  “She’s gone,” I gasp at Cub in a trembling, snuffling voice. “I mean … they’re gone.”

  “I know, Dill.” He kicks at the ground, harder than usual. “I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER 15

  GOOD DOG

  I stare at the phone on the kitchen wall until it stops ringing. In the master bedroom, the answering machine finishes recording a fourth message. With a sigh, I start back to my bedroom.

  When I get to the hallway, Cub turns away from the closed door of Lyon’s bedroom and comes to meet me, stomping on the ends of his untied laces. “Dill, I think that last call might have been your dad again. His message sounded like it said something about Dr. Kitt and St. Bernard’s Animal Shelter.”

  I shrug, acting like I don’t care, and step back into my bedroom. I return to G.D.’s knapsack, in the middle of the floor, and stuff Mom’s bottle of gardenia perfume into the side pocket of it. Then I rub at the puffy, raw skin around my eyes. Less than a blink of sleep all night from grieving for G.D. and waiting for the time when Dead End and I could leave the ranch, combined with the drain from this latest drama, has left me feeling as if I’ve been dragged behind a train from Virginia to California. But the jar inside me sits empty, the lid blown off from my outburst at Lyon. After all that letting go, the emptiness (despite my tiredness) is clean and fresh—and tastes like relief.

  “Lyon has been leaving messages all morning,” Cub reminds me, like I don’t know this, don’t recognize my father’s deep voice on the machine in the other room, even if I can’t make out his words.

  I’d closed the door of the master bedroom when the phone first rang. I don’t want to know what Lyon is doing.

  “Lyon’s either dumping our dog at a shelter or having Dr. Kitt…” put Dead End to sleep lumps in my throat. My head still aches. Another tidal wave of tears rises behind my eyelids, which feel as thick and as swollen as overcooked pasta.

  Cub turns away, sniffing and wiping at his face in quick swipes.

  “Why couldn’t I convince Dead End to stay here with us?” My voice cracks.

  “Maybe G.D. was right, Dill.” Cub’s voice comes out shaky. “Maybe that dog has been on a mission to find your mom.”

  I drop my head, push my knuckles against my eyes as if I can plug up the tears. How will I ever tell G.D. what has happened to his four-legged buddy? “I’ve got to get out of here.” I sniff.

  “You can’t run from a busted heart,” Cub says low. “That’s not facin’ life head-on.”

  Before I can scream that I don’t give a rat’s rear end about facing anything head-on, a familiar rumble crawls up the driveway.

  Cub turns his head to the sound.

  The truck goes quiet. The door to the garage opens, stays that way for a long few minutes, then shuts again, slow. Lyon’s boots thump. They’re followed by a shuffling of feet. “Dill,” Lyon calls. “Where are you?”

  Cub heads for the kitchen.

  “Hey, Cub.” Lyon’s voice comes out slow and heavy, tired.

  “Hey, Mr. MacGregor, Sir. And…” Cub sounds as if the air’s being sucked out of him the way his voice trails off.

  “Where’s Dill?”

  I stand and hike the knapsack onto my shoulder. Fighting back more tears, I force myself into the kitchen.

  Lyon and his toothpick come at me. “Dill, I’m sorry I had to leave you upset. And I’m sorry I didn’t get home sooner. Did you get my messages? I had to drive…”

  “I don’t want to hear it. You took him away. You take everyone I love away—to die.”

  Everyone freezes, including me. Because die isn’t a word I’ve been using. And because at that moment, I see G.D. at the kitchen table, settling his bone-thin self into his usual chair. “G.D.,” I whisper with a smile in my voice. “You’re home.” I go to him, wrap one gentle arm around his shoulders, and kiss his papery cheek.

  He nods, pats my hand with his, gives me back a smile. “Can’t keep this old hound down. No ma’am.”

  When I straighten, Lyon reaches for my shoulders, but I turn away from his hands, still too mad to do business with him. “Dill, you said die. You finally said die,” he breathes, sounding relieved, even pleased.

  The word brings on another gush of tears like water from a faucet. Lyon reaches for me again. I turn away, knowing how long he’s been waiting to see me cry. His hands hit the knapsack.

  G.D. arches his bushy eyebrows. “Going somewhere, girl?”

  When I don’t answer, Cub clears his throat. “We know what you did, Sir,” he says low to Lyon.

  I glare sidelong at Lyon then. He turns to Cub. The toothpick goes still.

  Cub looks at his feet and blinks fast. “I’m talking about putting Dead End to sleep.” His voice breaks apart.

  “He was her dog,” I squeeze out, my voice thin.

  Lyon’s big hands come to my shoulders. I don’t fight him this time, so he turns me to him. “Dill, didn’t you listen to my messages?”

  I can’t even begin to answer him.

  He sighs. “I didn’t know you saw the dog that way.” Lyon hesitates. “I, uh, didn’t even realize, didn’t truly understand until talking with G.D. this morning, how furious you’ve been with me for taking your mother to the hospital. I should have known, but you wouldn’t talk and I guess I…” He stops, takes in a deep breath as if for strength. “I’m sorry, Dill. Not for the treatments or for taking her to the hospital. I’m sorry because they didn’t save her.”

  His voice trails off. The sadness in it feels like my own, stabs my heart like the sharp point of an ice pick, chips away at the anger with his name on it.

  “I thought about what you said—about taking Dead End to Sarah Doyle. The more I thought this over, the more it seemed like a good solution. So I took him to Doc Kitt to get that shoulder wound stitched up and to talk to him about dogs that start running in packs, start killing.”

  Stunned and unable to speak, my swollen throat convulsing in after-crying hiccups, I stare at Lyon through soggy eyes.

  “Kitt explained what’s been going on, explained how once dogs start killing, it’s near impossible to control or stop them,” G.D. puts in. “Instinct takes over.”

  “That’s why I took the dog north to Fairfax County. To Sarah Doyle. She and Mike have always loved Dead End. And their boys have been itching for a new dog since their old hound died,” Lyon adds. “They’ve got the perfect home for our dog. And they don’t have sheep and livestock in their backyard.”

  “Home?” What is he saying? Even though my tears have slowed, a cloud settles in my head, making me foggy.

  “I didn’t bring our dog to the Doyle’s for retraining, Dill.” Lyon’s fa
ce hardens as he stares into my eyes. “I gave them Dead End. To keep.”

  An invisible fist plows into my belly, making me suddenly certain that I’m going to throw up. Everything goes blurry from the hot anger that bubbles up inside me. I want to scream, lash out, swing at something, anything. “WHAT?! You did WHAT?!”

  Cub sniffs, looks up into Lyon’s face. “Dead End hasn’t been put to sleep?”

  “No,” Lyon says without smiling. He glances at me, his eyes alert and maybe even a little afraid. “He’ll be kept inside, be confined by a fenced yard, and be taken on lots of long walks, Dill. He won’t have much of a chance to run off, but he’ll have a fine life.”

  “That beats any kind of shelter by a long mile, Dill,” G.D. tries to tell me.

  Cub glances at me, then back at Lyon. “They got groundhogs up by the Doyles?”

  I glare at Cub, ready to call him a traitor.

  Lyon crinkles his eyebrows at us, looking confused for a second before he focuses back on me. “Giving Dead End to the Doyles is the only way to save his life. It isn’t right that we keep a dog that kills sheep. This isn’t fair to our neighbors or to their animals. I’m sorry, kiddo, but I really had no other choice.”

  I’m sorry, kiddo—the words Lyon used to say whenever I got sad, words that always made me feel better. They soothe some, but it’s what else he’s said that begins to sink into me, calming my belly like peppermint-flavored medicine: He’s saved Dead End’s life by giving him to the Doyles. This was the best Lyon could do, given his choices. And maybe this is something like what happened with Mom. Maybe he made the best decision he could when it came to taking her to the hospital, too. The thought warms me, spreads slow, and feels like the beginning of something bigger. But most of all, it pulls me a littler closer to him, closer than I’ve been in months.

  Cub steps toward Lyon. “Do the farmers know what you’ve done, Sir? What about the sheriff and Ms. Hunter?” He shakes his head. “I’m bettin’ Ms. Hunter will never let me and Dill near her stable again. And Sheriff Hawks will probably lock us up the minute he sees us.”

  Good-bye to Cub’s career in law enforcement. Good-bye to my riding lessons and the horse shows.

  “I don’t see you doing jail time,” Lyon says in his old, calming tone, as if he is reading my emotions, something he hasn’t done in months.

  G.D. shakes his head to confirm no way.

  “Bob Kryer and the farmers mostly want the dog gone,” Lyon continues. “And they calmed some when I told them Dill and I would pay them to replace their lost animals, including Fred Barley’s steer.”

  For a second, my stomach clenches again as I picture all my savings going to drippy Mr. Kryer and the farmers. Good-bye to my dream of having my own horse. Good-bye to my stable money.

  Lyon closes his eyes, rubs them. “I spoke to the sheriff and Ms. Hunter, told them of my plans before I did anything with Dead End.” Lyon chews on the toothpick for a moment. “Sheriff Hawks is spitting mad about the killings, but he’s a dog lover.”

  “Knew I liked that man,” G.D. mutters.

  “And you know Tucker Hunter has a huge heart,” Lyon says, opening his eyes and looking right at me. “In the end, everyone agreed to try my idea of putting Dead End in a home somewhere far away from sheep and farms, rather than having him put to sleep.”

  Still wet and sniffling, more zombie than girl, my anger cools to smoldering as I think about Dead End leaving to go searching for Mom, but finding a pack instead. Does this make him a bad dog? Or only a sad dog?

  “I gave everyone my word that Dead End would not set a paw within ten miles of this county ever again—and I meant it,” Lyon continues, looking hard at me. “But Dill, that’s not the end of this mess. You’ve got to talk with Sheriff Hawks. You’ll have some community service to do to atone for your part in this disaster. And Ms. Hunter wants to talk to you, too. She’s hurt that you weren’t honest with her.”

  I squirm, as uncomfortable as a horse in a bur blanket.

  Lyon’s stare drills into me. “But I doubt that either of you will be out of work. And I think Tucker Hunter still wants you to ride her horses, Dill. Even in that regional show coming up. But you’ve got explaining to do first.”

  Mucking out a thousand stalls with a teaspoon would be better than facing Sheriff Hawks and Ms. Hunter head-on, but it’s clear that no one is giving me a choice in this. I suck in a deep, shaky breath. “Will the farmers…?” I swallow hard. “Will they stop going to your store?”

  Lyon pushes his hand back through his hair. The toothpick shifts on his lips. Again, he looks smack into my eyes. “I don’t know, Dill. If the killings stop, they might not hold this mess against me.”

  I focus on my feet. “I’m sorry,” I squeak. For more than you know, I don’t add.

  Lyon moves closer to me, and places his hands on my shoulders. “Dill, we’ll get through this.” He blinks. “We’ve still got each other.” But then he raises his eyebrows, gives the backpack a once-over. “Unless you’re leaving.”

  “To go off wanderin’,” G.D. says in a soft, low tone. He stares at the table, shaking his head in his disapproving way.

  And then Cub grunts his own disapproval.

  Unable to speak from all the feelings wading in my throat, I shake my head no.

  “Good.” Lyon’s grip tightens on my shoulders. “Then tomorrow we’ll start putting things right. We’ll start by going to Fairfax to visit Dead End, maybe even take him with us to visit your mother’s grave.”

  Even though this plan turns me rigid at first, I nod because knowing I’ll see that dog again relaxes me some. The time has come for me and Dead End to deal with everything wrapped around Mom being gone. The hurt let out of the smashed jar didn’t suffocate me after all. In fact, the crying made me feel lighter, but also stronger somehow. Sure, the pain might still stomp me like an oversized boot, but it won’t kill me. I know that now.

  Cub jabs his elbow in my side as if trying to knock a reaction out of me. “Everything will be great after all, Dill.”

  Possibly. Because Dead End can no longer run off to search for Mom. Because they are together again, in Fairfax. In that way, Lyon has helped our dog to find her. And in a way that I’m not sure I totally understand, Dead End has helped me to find her. So now, even though losing Dead End and Mom rips my heart in two places, visiting them both, with Lyon and maybe even G.D. and Cub, feels like the thread that could mend the tears. Once that happens, perhaps I can face life head-on after all.

  “There’s one more thing.” Lyon glances at G.D. and winks.

  G.D. smiles. Then Lyon turns and stomps back across the kitchen, through the family room. He opens the door to the garage and disappears.

  Cub turns his questioning self to G.D., who, still smiling, focuses on his old hands, folded on the table. Cub raises his eyebrows at me. “What now?”

  Wiping at my eyes again, I barely get out a shrug when the garage door opens and closes again and Lyon steps back into the family room.

  Cub turns to him. “Jeez!”

  I gasp. “Lyon! It’s a, a…”

  “A puppy.” A slow, tired smile shifts across my father’s face as he offers me the squirming and grunting ball of black fluff.

  “A puppy,” Cub repeats in a breathy voice that sounds both stunned and amazed at the same time.

  “Straight from St. Bernard’s Animal Shelter,” Lyon adds, his smile becoming real for the first time in a long while. I can almost picture him reaching for his guitar, clearing his throat the way he does before he busts out into a song.

  “He’s … He’s…” I can’t get the words out.

  “Cute!” Cub announces, laughing.

  “He’s a fresh start,” Lyon points out.

  G.D. bobs his head in agreement.

  Cub grins all over. “You saved a puppy, Sir!”

  Lyon strokes the wriggling, tiny dog. “If you raise the little guy right, Dill, we’ll have a pet that won’t take off or threaten other a
nimals.”

  Even though Lyon holds the puppy out to me, I only stare at the squirming, grunting lump of fluff.

  Cub moves to my side, nudges me. So I take the pup, and pull him to my chest. He smells something like warm milk. When he gives me a small grunt and a whimper and licks my chin, my heart goes softer than ice cream in July heat.

  Cub strokes the pup’s face with one finger. “Guess you couldn’t leave now even if you wanted to, Dill. I mean, you got to stick around and raise this pup. Right?”

  I can’t help but crack a half smile at the hope in his tone. What would I do without old Cub by my side, talking sense and helping me face things head-on? And for that matter, could I really be happy without Lyon and G.D. around me day by day? I can almost hear Mom whispering in my ear, Of course not. Now more than ever, you need them as much as they need you.

  So I give the pup a pet, tipping my face down to kiss his forehead. And then I let G.D.’s knapsack slip off my shoulder. It hits the floor with a thud. “Yeah,” I say, looking up to meet my father’s smile. I guess I will stick around.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I wish to acknowledge, with heartfelt thanks, my agent, Steven Chudney, of the Chudney Agency. I am deeply grateful for his support and guidance, but most of all, for his believing in this novel.

  I am also most grateful for my editor, Liz Szabla, who asked all the right questions and offered incredible insights and enthusiasm. I feel so fortunate to have worked with such talent.

  Additional gratitude, given with lots of love, goes to the following wonderful people: to my husband, Bill, and my stepdaughters, Jessica and Alex. Their patience and support as I worked on the final stages of this novel made it possible. And to my mother, Judy Chapman, my sister, Carey Kopf, and her husband, Rich, for their faith in this dream. And special thanks to Emily, Andrew, and Derek for their inspiration.

  Many thanks, too, to my writing group companions and friends, Barbara Ford, Joan Williams, Don Hinkle, Diana Simon, and Kathy Wilford. Their valuable perspectives helped shape this story.