A Dog's Way Home (5 page)

T
hree weeks, two days, and one hour after I lost Tam, we got a phone call.

Me and Mama had just got home from getting my cast off. Meemaw met us on the front porch, the phone held out in front of her.

“It's someone calling about Tam,” she whispered.

I about fainted right there. I had prayed and prayed every night for this day, and my prayers were finally being answered.

Mama grabbed the phone. Meemaw pulled me into the house behind Mama.

“Yes, we had a dog named Tam,” Mama said. “Did you find him?”

I was about to burst. Someone had found Tam! I squeezed my eyes shut.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!

A grin split Meemaw's face. My brain galloped as fast as it could up to my room to pack Tam's things, and then down to the car and across the mountains, as fast and as far as we needed to bring Tam home.

“You found it where?” Mama asked.

I tugged at her arm. “Where is he, Mama?”

Mama shook her head and turned her back to us. “Yes, we might want it back. Could you give me your number, please? I need to talk to my husband. He's up in that area right now.”

The floor felt like it was slipping under me. What was she talking about?

Mama scratched down a phone number on a piece of paper. “We'll get back in touch with you,” she said, and hung up the phone.

The disappointment in her eyes told me clear as anything that my prayers had not been answered.

Meemaw gripped my shoulder. “Tell us, Holly,” she said to Mama.

Mama sat on the couch. She pulled me down next to her, smoothed the hair from my face.

I pushed her hand away. “Tell me, Mama.”

Mama took a shaky breath. “That was Mr. J. T. Fryar,” she said. “He and his son were deer hunting a couple of
days ago up near the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia.”

I sucked in a breath. Virginia. “Was it near where we crashed?”

Mama shrugged. “He said they were by White Rock Creek and his son spotted something shiny on a tan box out in the middle of the creek. So his son waded out into the creek to see what it was.”

My throat filled with a sick feeling. “What was it?” I asked.

“Tam's crate, honey,” Mama said.

“And what was the shiny thing?” Meemaw asked.

Mama blinked back tears. “Tam's tags. His collar was hung up in the door of the crate.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Pictures flashed in my mind: water filling the crate, Tam clawing frantically at the crate door, him sliding into the water, his collar trapping him—

“Was there any sign of the dog?” Meemaw asked. “Any sign at all?”

I shook my head, trying to clear the terrible pictures from my head.

“No,” Mama said. “He said he and his son looked around for tracks, even whistled, but…” Her voice trailed off.

None of us said a word when Mama finished her story. The only sound was the trees outside creaking and moaning in the wind.

Mama took my hand and squeezed it. “I'm so sorry, Abby.”

I just shook my head, over and over.

“I'll call your father. He and the band just finished a gig up in Virginia. If you want, he can run up there and get the crate and Tam's collar. Do you want him to do that?”

Pure hopelessness filled every cell, every pore of my body. There was the crate and the collar, but there was no Tam.

I looked from Mama to Meemaw. Meemaw nodded just the tiniest bit.

I sighed. “I reckon so, Mama.”

 

Two days later, Daddy pulled up in the driveway in his old VW van. In the back, surrounded by guitars and fiddles and banjos, sat Tam's crate.

Daddy and Mama stood off to the side and watched as I ran my hand over it. Mr. J. T. Fryar was right: It sure was beat-up. The sides were bashed in and claw marks made tracks in the floor of the crate. The wire door was twisted, like a giant hand had wrenched it to one side.

I turned away. I couldn't stand the thought of what it had been like for Tam.

Daddy pulled something out of his coat pocket. “I thought you'd want this,” he said, handing me Tam's purple collar.

Mama slipped an arm around me and pulled me to her. “I'm sorry, Abby. I know how much you loved him.”

I twisted away from her. “He might still be alive.”

A look passed between Mama and Daddy.

“He could've gotten out of the crate,” I said. “Just because they didn't find him, that doesn't mean—”

“Now, Abby,” Daddy said, “I think it's best if you face the fact that Tam's gone. He's not coming back.”

“No!” I said. I glared at both of them standing there, tears wet on their faces. I gritted my teeth. I would not cry.

“You can give up on him,” I hollered. “But I won't!”

“Abby.” Daddy reached out for me.

I had to get away from them and their tears and that awful, putrid crate. I tore off down the driveway, slipping and sliding on the snow and ice.

The blood pounded in my ears, saying over and over,
Tam's gone, Tam's gone.
I ran as hard as I could away from those awful words.

Finally I couldn't run anymore. I bent over, gasping for air, hugging all the pieces of me threatening to fly away. Without the hope of Tam coming home, how would I stay together?

“Abby?”

I straightened up and blinked. There stood Olivia, a bundle of bright yellow coat, little black boots, and fuzzy
hat on her head. She looked for all the world like one of our baby chicks.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” she said.

For the first time, I realized I'd run to her house.

I looked at her there, her eyes all filled up with worry and the world spinning around me a million miles an hour and my breath coming all ragged like a trapped bird trying to escape and I sat down right there in the middle of the road on the hard packed snow and said, “Tam.”

 

“Let me think on this a minute,” Olivia's granddaddy said as he built up the fire in the fireplace. “They found your little dog's crate and they found his collar. But they didn't find the dog?”

I nodded. “They said they didn't see any sign of him.”

Olivia stared into the fireplace and fished the little marshmallows out of her hot chocolate with her tongue. “And you say his collar was hung up in the crate door?”

I nodded again.

“He must have slipped out of the collar, then,” she said.

“That's the way I figure it too,” her granddaddy said.

“So he might still be alive?” I asked.

“Well…” Olivia looked sideways at her granddaddy. “I can't say for sure, Abby, but logically speaking—”

“You need to talk with your meemaw,” Mr. Singer said.

We both looked at him like he'd said we needed to talk with the president of the United States.

“She has the Sight,” he said, nodding.

“The Sight?” Olivia asked. “What does that mean?”

A little seed of hope bloomed in my chest. “It means she can see things other folks can't.” Picking up a head of steam, I said, “Meemaw and her mother and
her
mother all had the Sight. Meemaw says folks would come from all over looking for the answer to their heart's desire.”

“But would that work for an animal?” Olivia asked.

I jumped up, nearly knocking my hot chocolate to the floor. “I don't know, but there's one way to find out!”

I flew out that cabin door and up the road before Olivia had time to blink.

I found Meemaw in the kitchen taking a tray of perfect-smelling cookies out of the oven.

“Why, Abby, where in the world have you been? We've been worried sick and—”

“Meemaw, I need you to do something for me.”

She frowned. “What is it, darlin'?”

I took a deep breath. “I need you to use the Sight to see Tam.”

Her eyes widened. Then she glanced around the kitchen. In a low voice, she said, “You know your mama don't like talk about the Sight. Besides, I don't know if it would work with a dog.”

I grabbed her soft hands in mine. “Please, Meemaw.
You always said people came with questions about the people they loved the most. The things they most desired. If, for me, that's Tam, then why couldn't it work?”

She studied me for a long moment. Then she untied her apron and hung it on its hook. “Let's go up to your room.”

We closed the door behind us. She shook her head. “I don't know about this,” she said. “It might help if I had something of his, though.”

I looked around the room. Then I remembered. “Here, Meemaw.” I pulled Tam's collar out of my pocket.

She sat down in the old rocking chair Grandpa Bill made for her when Daddy was born. She closed her eyes and held Tam's collar against her chest.

I held my breath and watched her face. Snow ticked against the windowpanes.

Just when I was beginning to think it wasn't going to work, a little “Oh my!” escaped her mouth.

And like shadows slipping across our pond, alarm, fear, sadness, determination, and love flowed one to another across her face.

She pressed the collar closer. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

I couldn't help myself, I said, “Meemaw! What is it? Do you see Tam?”

Her eyes opened and found my face. Her blue, blue eyes fixed like a laser beam on me. “Abby, Tam's—”

The bedroom door opened. “Oh, Abby, here you are. I was so worried, and…” Mama looked from me to Meemaw and back again.

Her face went still. “What's going on in here, Agnes?”

I waved Mama away. “What did you see, Meemaw? Is Tam alive or not?”

Meemaw looked from me to Mama. She bit her lower lip, then said in almost a whisper, “Yes, Abby. I believe he is. He's trying to find his way home to you.”

I yipped and about knocked Mama down, I hugged her so hard. “See, Mama! I told you! We have to leave now, Mama. We have to go find him!”

But Mama didn't look at me. Instead, she wrapped one arm around me and pulled me against her side, all the while shooting dagger eyes at Meemaw.

“Mama…,” I said, trying to squirm out from under her arm.

In a cold, firm voice she used on telephone salesmen, Mama said, “I don't mean any disrespect, Agnes. But I won't have you filling my daughter's head with nonsense and false hopes. She's been through enough.”

“The child asked for my help, Holly,” Meemaw said gently.

Meemaw and Mama stared long and hard at each other. Finally, Mama said, “Abby, I need you to take that pail of veggies out to the llamas.”

I purely could not believe what I was hearing. “But
Mama…
”

She ran her hand over the top of my head. “Go on now, Abby. I need to talk with your grandmother.”

I stormed out of the house, letting the screen door bang behind me. Which I just happen to know drives Mama crazy. “‘I won't have you filling up her head with nonsense and false hope,'” I said in Mama's Ice Queen voice.

I stomped into the barn. Six long-necked, big-eared, wonderfully fuzzy llamas stopped chewing and looked at me.

“Since when is hope and believing in miracles
nonsense
?” I said. Six pairs of huge brown eyes blinked back at me. Sterling, Boo, Patches, Jet, Pearl, and Bambi shifted nervously.

I took a bunch of deep breaths to calm myself down. Llamas are a lot like shelties: They're real sensitive. And if a llama's afraid or mad, it has the unfortunate habit of spitting.

I waited for my head to clear, then offered each of the llamas carrots. Their soft, split lips scooped the goodies off my palm like velvet spoons. I stroked the wiry hair on their necks until one or two of them started to hum. Llamas hum when they feel safe and content—kind of like how a cat purrs.

I leaned my pounding head against Pearl's neck and
buried my fingers in her thick fleece. Her hum came deep and low. It worked its way through my skin and into my broken heart.

“Come home to me, Tam,” I whispered. “Come home.”

T
am traveled always south, staying miles from the road. And like a gangly shadow, the coyote followed close behind.

At first it worried the dog, having this wild, unpredictable creature at his heels. She did not smell of the usual scents that mark a dog as belonging to someone: the touch of hands, foods cooked in a warm kitchen, rugs slept upon at night. This coyote smelled of leaves and wind and fresh blood.

Still, Tam watched with great curiosity as the coyote hunted the fields for mice and voles and dug the burrows of rabbits. Although there was nothing of the hunter in him, he did understand food.

At moonrise, while Tam slept, the coyote left his side. She slipped silently through the night, listening and sniffing. After she had eaten her fill, she carried a fresh kill…rabbit, squirrel, groundhog…back to Tam. She covered it with dirt and leaves and then stretched out next to him and slept.

In truth, the little coyote had been lonely when she came across Tam's scent that night. When she was five months old, a car on the Parkway had hit her mother. At first, the young coyotes stayed close to the den they had shared all their lives; eventually, though, her brothers drifted away. For weeks, she stayed close to the den and waited for her brothers to return. As the days and nights passed, her howls of calling became howls of loneliness. The night air grew crisp, and the days grew shorter. The coyote struck out from the den and all she had known.

For a time, she searched for the scents of her brothers, and called their names at night. As days turned to weeks, she lost the specific memory of her family. She knew only that she was alone, and the desire not to be alone drove her.

In this way, she followed Tam along the narrow deer trails, day after day, always heading south. It didn't matter to her which direction they traveled, as long as they were together. Oh, there was still the puppy in the coyote. Often she would circle wide around Tam, just out of sight, and wait hidden from him. As Tam passed, the coyote
pounced from behind tree or bush. When Tam stopped to rest, she nipped and bowed in an invitation to play. Tam rebuffed her every time. He was a dog on his way home.

Tam and the coyote worked their way steadily south, descending into the flats of the Otter Creek drainage. The hunting was good, the weather cool and fine. Tam felt stronger than he had since the accident.

 

After crisscrossing Otter Creek for several miles, they arrived at the banks of the James River. This was no narrow, tumbling creek. Tam had grown used to crossing those. The James River was wide and slow. And deep. Tam had never seen anything like it.

The coyote trotted along the riverbank, investigating odd pieces of garbage. She rolled with delight on a dead fish. She stood, shook herself, and trotted back over to Tam, nipping him playfully on the ear.

Tam growled the annoying creature away. He did not feel like playing. The way south, the way he must go, was across the river, and Tam saw no way to cross. He'd grown accustomed to hopping stone by stone across smaller creeks and streams or crossing a fallen tree. But this river was far too wide for even the tallest hemlock to span.

After an hour of searching for a place to cross, Tam collapsed in the shade, tired and disappointed. He sighed and watched, brown eyes full of misery, as the river lumbered
past. A hawk circled lazily above a small spit of land in the middle of the river; a squirrel chattered in the branches above Tam. The coyote stretched out beside her friend as close as she dared and closed her eyes.

And three miles to the west, a raven called from the top of the James River Bridge, arching easily across the river.

 

Late afternoon. Tam rose. The need to go south was stronger than ever. He whined. It was time, time to see his girl. Time to hear her call, “Tam! Come on, Tam!”

The coyote woke and followed the dog's gaze across the river. She shook herself and then waded into the water.

The coyote was a natural, fearless swimmer. Her mother had taught her and her brothers early and well. She paddled easily in the deep water, back high, tail streaming behind like a rudder. She scrabbled back up to shore and called to Tam.

Tam whined and took one tentative step toward the river. He raised his nose to the wind. Surely the coyote was wrong. Surely there must be another way to cross.

The coyote called to him again and then waded out in the river. She swam out and circled back.

Tam took two steps closer to the water's edge, whimpering. There is no more pitiful a thing in this wide world than a dog torn between what he needs and what he fears.

The coyote struck out for a small spit of land in the middle of the river.

Whining, crouching to a belly crawl, Tam crept into the water.

Tam was not a natural swimmer. His back and hips sank below the surface. He strained to keep his head above the swirl and slap of water. His long, thick coat billowed around him. Still, it was not as bad as he'd feared.

Until the current caught him.

Tam thrashed with all his might to keep his head just above the surface. His front paws beat against the current. He cried out. Where were the rescuing arms of his girl? Where was his safe home?

The coyote had just pulled herself onto the shore of the small island when she heard Tam's cry. The coyote sat on the shore, head cocked to one side. Why was her friend not coming to the island? The coyote yipped. Perhaps he didn't see her.

The current quickened. The placid river became a turbulent concoction of water and rocks. The current caught Tam like a piece of discarded paper, swirling and plunging his body downstream. Water rushed up his nose, bringing back a flood of memories from that day weeks and many miles ago. Again and again, the roiling water grabbed him in a fierce hold, dashing him against rocks and boulders. But no matter how the river tried to deceive him, Tam
stayed true to his southern journey.

His shoulder clipped a rock, spinning him downward. Water filled his lungs. Grayness closed over him. He could no longer tell the murky river depths from the sky. His legs became heavy, all but useless.

The coyote watched with growing alarm as the current swept Tam away from the island. She raced along the shore, trying to keep her friend in sight. Tam's head disappeared beneath the water. She yipped and called to her friend. She launched herself and struck out for the fast-moving current.

A feeling of utter hopelessness gripped the dog. He was tired, so very tired. He no longer knew the way home.

Then he remembered, almost as if the girl were nearby, calling to him: “Tam! Come here, Tam!” The sheltie drove his forelegs with more strength than he ever imagined having. Somewhere, his girl was calling and he must go to her.

As Tam's head broke the surface he was aware of two things: air and the coyote.

The coyote paddled hard against Tam, turning him upstream. She knew how to angle her body toward the calm water close to shore. She and her brothers had made a game of it in the long, hot days of summer.

Calling on all her skill and strength, she used her body to brace Tam and steered them slowly to shore. Just as
she felt she could swim no farther, the current calmed to stillness. Their paws touched the sandy bottom. They had made it across, together.

Tam had barely the strength to pull himself clear of the water's edge. His small body was battered and bruised. The weight of the water in his coat was almost too much to bear. He staggered, then dragged himself to a patch of dying sunlight. He vomited water and then collapsed.

The coyote whined and pawed at her friend. She licked the side of his mouth, something she knew he hated. Even his growling and snapping was better than this. But Tam didn't move. He didn't open his eyes.

When the last of the afternoon sun slipped behind the ridge, a sharp wind arose. Tam trembled in the cold.

With a whimper and a sigh, the coyote coiled her body around his. She did not move when tempting mice rustled in the dry grass along the riverbank. Her ears barely twitched when a fox, then a deer, came down to the water to drink. When cold wind blew across the high mountains all the way from Canada, she wrapped her body tighter around her friend, her true heart beating in time with his.