The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate (20 page)

“Do you think Dr. Pritzker would—”

“No. You've got to face facts. You can't save every living thing, even though I know you want to.”

The dog gave us another half wag, and this time I could swear I saw a flicker of yearning in its mournful gaze. It had clearly been a domesticated dog at some point—not feral at all. A feral dog would have melted away into the undergrowth at our first approach; it would never have let itself be seen, much less given us a pitiful half wag of its tail. Anger washed over me. Who was the heartless master who had betrayed it, driving it away, abandoning it to cruel fate, expecting it to fend for itself?

The answer came to me in a flash. I wondered how I'd been so stupid to miss it before. “I know what it is!” I whispered hoarsely. The answer seemed both obvious and a near miracle.

“Shhh, you'll scare it away.”

“I've got it now. It's one of Maisie's pups. Can't you see, Travis? It looks a lot like what you'd get if you mixed a terrier with a coyote.”

Travis gaped at me. “No, no, it can't be. Mr. Holloway drowned them.”

“I know, but we never saw the sack, remember? This one must have gotten out somehow, or maybe it ran away before he drowned the others. It's probably been living on fish guts from the dock and garbage from the dump.” A less happy thought suddenly occurred to me: “And stolen chickens.” Oh, dear, that could be a problem. “But,” I went on with excitement, “it's a genuine coydog: half coyote, half dog.”

“Gosh.” Travis raised his voice and chirruped, “Here, doggy.”

Looking vaguely startled, the creature backed into the bush and disappeared.

I spoke sternly to my brother. “No naming it, no taking it to the doctor, no bringing it home. After Bandit, we agreed: no more wild animals.”

“But he's not really wild, he's only half wild. The other half is tame.”

“Father would have a fit. He'd shoot it, you know he would. And you mustn't try to touch it. It's probably carrying worse diseases than Armand. You promise?”

“All right,” he said dully.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

We were mainly silent on the way home, each lost in our own thoughts. I pointed out a couple of true stars along with the planet Saturn in an attempt to take our minds off the coydog. It didn't work too well.

 

CHAPTER 16

THE SCRUFFIEST DOG IN THE WORLD

The shepherd-dog comes to the house every day for some meat, and as soon as it is given him, he skulks away as if ashamed of himself. On these occasions the house-dogs are very tyrannical, and the least of them will attack and pursue [him].

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I woke well before sunrise and tiptoed down to the kitchen. I was busy in the pantry tearing scraps of meat from the turkey carcass and wrapping them in wax paper when Travis crept in, scaring half the wits out of me.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered.

“No, what are
you
doing here?”

“I suspect the same thing
you
are. Hurry, there's not much time. Viola will be here in a minute.” I glanced out the back window, and sure enough, I saw Viola striding in the dim light from her quarters to the chicken pen. Her day began well before everyone else's: There were eggs to be gathered, the stove to be lit, massive meals to be cooked.

“She's coming,” I whispered, and we crept out the front door, easing it shut behind us. We bolted down the drive and, once we'd rounded the bend in the road and were safe from view, slowed to a walk. The predawn air was cool, and neither of us had thought to bring a coat. We could see our breath, a welcome signal of cooler weather to come. The smells of autumn filled the air. Matilda, the neighbors' bloodhound, gave her early morning cry as she did every sunrise, a peculiar strangled yodel you could hear all over town. Instead of a steam whistle or community clock, Fentress had dozens of roosters and Matilda to signal the dawn.

The gin was still dark as we crept past it and down the bank to the dam, mindful of the water moccasin. There was no dog in view.

“Oh no,” said Travis. “What are we going to do?”

A terrible thought occurred to me: Maybe the dog had died in the night.

As if reading my mind, Travis said, “Do you … do you think it died?”

Maybe we were a day too late, which suddenly struck me as a terrible thing. Maybe in dire straits it had gone after the moccasin and been bitten. Maybe its bloated corpse lay caught in the snarl of half-submerged tree limbs downstream at the bridge. Maybe—

“Look! There it is!”

I followed his pointing finger, and sure enough, a little brown face poked out of the tangle of vines and undergrowth twenty feet away on the far side of one of the dam's concrete abutments and regarded us with … hope?

I felt a sudden surge of gratitude that we—and the dog—had been given another chance.

“Whatever you do,” I said, “don't touch it.”

“Never.” Travis unwrapped the turkey and spoke kindly. “Good doggy. Here's some breakfast for you.”

The dog drooled and licked its chops but would not approach.

“Throw it,” I said.

He pitched it underhand, but the dog, no doubt reminded of rocks and bottles thrown its way, flinched and yelped. A moment later it wheeled and staggered off.

Travis cried, “Oh no! Doggy, come back. It's food.”

“It'll be okay. Pitch it over there, and he'll find it.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“It's a dog—sort of—so it lives by its nose. It'll smell that turkey and be back for it the minute we leave.”

He tossed it over and made a pretty good job of it, most of the scraps landing within a few feet of where it had disappeared. We sat in silence for a minute as the sun warmed the horizon, but the dog did not return.

We walked through the front door as Viola was beating the gong in the front hall for breakfast. After the din died down, we followed her into the kitchen to wash our hands, where she said, “You feeding something?”

“No,” I said before Travis could open his mouth, which of course he did, saying, “How did you know?”

“'Cos I planned to get another dinner off that turkey, but now it's only good for soup.”

“Well,” I said, “soup is good.”

“Tchah,” she said in exasperation and flapped a dish towel at us. “You-all scoot. I got work to do.”

On our way home from school, we approached the gin from the other side of the dam to see if we could spot the dog. No luck. But to our dismay, we found the uneaten turkey meat where we'd left it, swarming with ants. So that was the end of that.

*   *   *

E
XCEPT THAT IT WASN'T.
I could not put the pitiful creature out of my mind. It preyed on my conscience with its mournful brown eyes and cringing expression epitomizing every dog ever used and abused by man, the “evolved and enlightened” species, the supposedly superior being.

I sneaked back to the gin at dusk three days later and sat quietly scanning the underbrush. A few minutes later, my patience was rewarded by the sound of an approaching animal. The dog lived! It was not too late. Hardly daring to breathe, I listened to the cracking of twigs until out of the bushes stepped … Travis. We stared at each other.

“Have you seen it?” I said.

“No. But the turkey's gone, so that's a good sign, right?”

“Maybe. Or maybe a fox got it, or a coyote, or the ants hauled it off.”

Travis frowned. “Ants couldn't have carried off all that meat.”

“They can carry up to fifty times their own body weight, making them one of the strongest animals on Earth. You'd think they'd get more respect for it, but they don't.”

“What should we do?”

I sighed. “I think we should go home.”

He said, “I had a dream about that dog last night.”

“Me too, but I'm all out of ideas.”

As we turned to go, I caught a small movement along the inlet from the corner of my eye. I turned in time to see the very tip of a pointy nose withdrawn into a hollow in the embankment, partially hidden by an ancient, lightning-blasted pecan tree. Right at the site of Bandit's den.

“Travis,” I hissed, “look over there. I think it's in Bandit's den below the dead pecan.”

“Really?” He lit up like the sun.

“Maybe it was never Bandit's den at all. Maybe it's always been the coydog's den. Stay here and be quiet. I'm going to look for food. Don't move a muscle, don't make a sound.”

He nodded, his face the picture of perfect happiness. I flew to the gin, where Mr. O'Flanagan was getting ready to lock up, chucking Polly under his chin (or chucking him where his chin would be if parrots had chins).

“Mr. O'Flanagan, can I please have some of your crackers?”

“Sure, darlin', take as many as you like.”

I thanked him, scooped the contents of the bowl into my pinafore, and ran. He called out behind me, “Goodness, darlin', do they not feed you properly at home?”

It occurred to me for the first time that he probably found me a most peculiar child.

I slowed down to a stealthy creep as I approached the bank. No need to sound like a charging elephant. We'd probably frightened the thing enough for one day.

I showed the crackers to Travis, who looked dubious. “Will it eat those?”

“At this point I'm pretty sure it'll eat anything.” I scouted the lay of the land. “Here, you hold on to the tree, and I'll hold on to you.”

I crabbed partway down the bank, clutching Travis's hand tightly, then took careful aim with a cracker and landed it close to the hollow. I repeated the process, pitching each subsequent cracker a couple of feet farther away, making a trail I hoped would draw it out. Travis hauled me up the bank, and we sat down to wait.

A muzzle emerged, the scuffed nose twitching so furiously I could almost read the dog's mind: Was it edible? Was it a trap? And even if it was a trap, might it not be worth the risk for a mouthful of food?

It stepped halfway out, sniffing all the time. Travis and I sat frozen in place.

It lunged feebly at the cracker and bolted it down, then immediately withdrew into its den. We sat patiently while the beast decided whether the cracker had been worth it or not. Evidently so, as it emerged a minute later all the way out of its hole. In this way, we got our first close look at the poor creature, both repugnant and heartbreaking. The round scars and scabs across its hide looked to be birdshot. Was this the chicken thief that Mr. Gates had been buying shotgun shells for? It stared warily at us; I rated its mood as somewhat anxious but no longer completely terrified by our presence. It limped to the next cracker and wolfed it down, then the next cracker and the next, glancing at us all the while. When it had finished, it investigated the scrub for more without luck.

Slowly, we rose to go, careful to make no sudden moves. The dog watched us but did not bolt for its den. Travis spoke to it in the encouraging sing-songy tones in which one addresses a pet or the very young or the very stupid: “Good doggy, there's a good doggy.”

He was rewarded this time with a full-fledged wag, this way, then that, just like a real dog.

*   *   *

T
HE FIRST PERSON
to figure out that Travis was still feeding an animal was, of course, Viola, the person in charge of the pantry. Travis and I knew the dog couldn't subsist on crackers for long, and if we actually wanted to improve its health, we'd have to snag it some meat. But this was not easy since Viola spent most of her time in the kitchen and we had to slip past her to get to the pantry. She always knew exactly how much meat and milk and bread, and how many eggs, she had on hand at any given moment, what with having to stay at least one meal ahead of three adults, seven growing children, a transplanted cousin, herself, and two hired help.

Travis and I debated the issue. I said, “I think the easiest thing to do is to ask for another half sandwich in your lunch pail. Then you can stop at the gin on the way home from school and feed him. Since you're taking food to school, it probably won't occur to her that you're feeding a dog.”

“Gosh, Callie, you're so smart. And sneaky.”

“Why, thank you.”

We approached her during one of her rare moments of leisure between meals, sitting with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

Before I could even open my mouth, she squinted at us and said, “What do you want? What kind of critter you feeding now?”

“
What?
” I said, stunned at her prescience.

“How did you know?” burst out Travis, before I could muster a denial.

“Whenever I see
you
”—she pointed at me—“and
you
”—she pointed at Travis—“together in this kitchen, I know you're up to something. I know every crumb what's in this house, so don't think you can pull a fast one on
me
, you hear?”

We both stared at her. Maybe I wasn't so terribly smart or sneaky after all. Or maybe I was. I thought furiously about what tools were at hand, what pressures could be brought to bear.

“Okay,” I said, “you caught us. It's for a starving cat at the gin.”

Travis gaped at me, and I prayed he wouldn't give the game away.

Viola's face softened as I hoped it would. “A cat, huh?” She glanced at Idabelle, her dear companion, asleep in her basket.

“An awfully thin cat.”

I looked at Idabelle.

She said, “Why don't it go after all them rats they got at the gin? Your daddy's always complaining about them rats.”

“It's too weak to hunt. If we don't feed it soon, it's going to starve to death.”

“Yeah,” said Travis, “starve to death from, you know, not enough food. For a
cat
. To
eat
.”