Dog Gone (3 page)

“Skeeter's settin' us up, Dill,” Cub finally says low. “He knows you'll beat his sorry butt at the regional show. He'd kill to have you scratched from it and both of us fired.”

“He can't prove we took anything of his.” I head for the empty stall where Cub and I last left the wheelbarrow and pitchforks.

“He needs a crop where the sun don't shine,” Cub mutters, sounding like his big brothers, Timmy and Jimmy, the twins who get into more trouble than a pair of tomcats.

Before I can say anything else about Skeeter, the door at the front of the barn slides open. I turn halfway around to face it and almost head-butt Cub. Short and stocky Mr. Bob Kryer, who Mom and I labeled a bulldog, storms inside, almost plows over Jerry Smoothers.

“Jerry!” Mr. Kryer sounds rushed and tense. His voice, thick and wet from his stuffed nose, echoes over the stalls. The man sneezes, sniffs, and drips his way through most summers because he farms hay even though he's allergic to it. “Where's Tucker? There's a big problem over on Barley Lane. Dogs attacked Jim Wilson's sheep this morning. The sheriff asked me to warn everyone with animals.”

“What? Attacked? How?” For once, Jerry Smoothers sounds stunned instead of angry.

Before Mr. Kryer can answer, the office door near Cub and me opens. “Hey, Dill. Hey, Cub,” Ms. Tucker Hunter says in a cheerful, sort of singing tone, smiling at us. Tall and plain and as sleek as one of her show horses in her riding breeches and boots, she steps into the aisle and turns to the men. “Hey, Bob, Jerry.” As usual, her tone is friendly, but holds authority. She takes long strides toward the men, her red ponytail, as long and as thick as a horse's tail, swings against her back. “You gentlemen look much too serious.”

“Dogs attacked Jim Wilson's sheep early this morning, Tucker.” Mr. Kryer wipes his knuckles under his thick nose, then pulls out a cotton handkerchief and blows into it.

Ms. Hunter goes stiff and straight.

“Those poor sheep,” Jerry says to no one in particular.

Cub grabs hold of my arm. “Dead End was out until nine this morning,” he whispers.

Mr. Kryer sniffs, focusing on Ms. Hunter. “According to Jim, those dogs chased and cornered a sheep. Then one of those mutts went for the sheep's throat. Killed it.”

The word
killed
plows into me like a freight train and makes me gasp. Cub glares at me in a warning to shush.

One of Ms. Hunter's hands goes to her chest, over her heart, while her other hand goes to the cell phone at her waist. I'm guessing she's wanting to call someone, anyone, about this killing. She loves animals as much as Cub and I do, as much as Mom had.

“Dogs.” Jerry whistles high and long, the way he does when a horse does something crazy and unexpected.

“The sheriff's on a rampage,” Mr. Kryer adds. “Says he's seen dogs come together in a pack and start to kill like wolves. He says once they taste blood, it's almost impossible to stop them. People's animals, whether pets or sources of income, are in danger.”

“Did Jim see any of these dogs?” Leave it to Ms. Hunter to ask the very question that is rattling around in my head.

“Thought he saw a black lab.”

“Pete Crowley has a black lab,” Jerry Smoothers snarls.

Cub makes a choking sound. He adores that dog, takes care of Blackie whenever the Crowleys put their mobile home on the road. Mr. Pete Crowley even offered Cub one of Blackie's pups once, but Cub's father said the Bayers already had too many bellies to fill. When Cub suggested getting rid of a few of his brothers to make room, he almost got grounded for life.

As Ms. Hunter and the men walk away from us, Mr. Kryer keeps shaking his head and sniffing. “Jim said the dog that went for the sheep's throat looked familiar.” The group turns a corner. Mr. Bob Kryer lowers his voice, but I can still make out his snuffled words. “A blond husky. And he thought he saw that mutt again a half hour ago. Thought it might be the MacGregor's dog, but it took off before he could get a good eyeful of it.” Mr. Kryer sneezes again. “I told Jim to make sure he recognizes the dog before he accuses anyone. Lyon, Dill, and her grandfather have enough heartache these days.”

“Blond husky!” Cub practically spits into my ear as the voices fade. “That could be Dead End!”

“I don't care if Mr. Wilson saw a
pink
husky,” I snap. “Dead End's locked in the barn. You rigged the door shut yourself. Remember?”

Cub's face goes red.

“Come on.” I start toward the sliding door. “Let's go check on him.”

“What about mucking out the stalls?”

“We'll come back here as soon as we make sure Dead End is in the barn.” Being a good dog, I hope.

*   *   *

I bust into the old barn so fast that I near trip over Dead End's rawhide bone. But the hollowness of this place without Mom's animals stops me. Seymour, the one-eyed goat adopted by Mom three years ago when no one else wanted him, should be trotting over to me to nibble on my clothes. Double and Trouble, the brother and sister cats that Mom called her rambunctious teenagers, should be wrestling and chasing each other. The lop-eared rabbits, Romeo and Juliet, should be butting at the hutch door, looking to come out.

“Dead End? Here boy!” I clap. He always comes running, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, when Mom, Lyon, G.D., or I clap.

“He's gone, Dill.” Cub examines the frayed twine that had secured the door shut, but now hangs loose and useless off the handle.

Hay rustles. Annie, one of the tan hens, darts out from behind the stacked bales. Clucking as if someone is chasing her with an ax, the chicken shoots for the doorway, moving faster than her stumpy legs should be able to go.

Cub watches her. “Old Annie wouldn't be in here if Dead End was around.”

I look up into the rafters and cobwebs as if Dead End could have grown wings and flown up there. Dan, the rooster, struts across a beam. He clucks with concern, jerking his rust-colored head, his bead eye accusing me of hiding the truth about Dead End from Lyon.

I turn to the hay bales, begin pulling. “Maybe Dead End squeezed himself back here. He wedges himself behind our washing machine at the first crack of a thunderstorm.”

Cub snorts his doubt. Outside, Annie keeps cackling. Above me, wings flutter as Dan drops from the rafters. The second he lands, he shoots for the door, a feathered gentleman in a clucking frenzy. I never understood why Mom loved these spastic birds.

Cub pushes the barn door farther open with his foot, exposing fresh claw marks and a new hole in the dirt floor. “Dill, he's gone.”

My stomach curdles. The hot, stuffy air gets thicker and hard to breathe as my fingers uncurl from the twine of a hay bale. I wipe sweat from my face. Hay dust scratches.

Cub kicks at the claw marks. “Jeez. This means…”

“Don't say it!” My hands clench. That chicken clucking is about pecking through my nerves. If Cub says even one word about sheep, I'll slam him. “G.D.'s probably got the pooch.” I turn, head for the ranch. After G.D. arrived and started caring for Mom, he and Dead End and Mom became almost inseparable. Until three months ago.

As I reach the garden, the door hinges at the back of the house screech. Lyon hasn't fixed much around our ranch home in the last year, since we found out Mom was sick.

“There's my girl!” G.D. steps onto the porch, adjusts his cowboy hat.

“Hey, G.D.” I toss him a grin that feels fake. “Did you bring Dead End inside?”

“Nope. These dang legs have been giving me too much trouble to do much of anything this morning.” He massages his left thigh. “Why?”

“No reason,” I squeak.

G.D. taps down the steps, as fragile as a rusted tin man. The rings jingle beneath his white T-shirt. “How about some help in the garden, Dill?” His grin trembles as he gives his thigh a pat. “I won't be able to get to the low weeds without you today.”

I glance at my bike lying next to Cub's, where we'd dropped them on the gravel driveway. Then I look back at the neat rows of green that promise enough vegetables to feed even Cub's family. Swallowing a watermelon whole would be easier than saying
no
to helping G.D. with Mom's garden. When she could no longer stand the sun, thanks to hospital treatments called
radiation
and
chemotherapy,
G.D. dug into that garden as if it was his own. Because he knew she watched him from a window.
I'd do anything for your mama,
he'd told me.

“Sure, I'll help.” But I don't sound convincing. “As long as I get back to the stable before it gets too late. To muck out stalls and ride Crossfire.”

G.D. shakes his head, continues toward me. “You're working too hard, girl. Cooking meals, cleaning, putting in stable time, training. Can't fool me. You're trying to dodge the hurt.”

When I say nothing, focus on my feet, G.D. sighs. “All work and no play can dull a girl, Dill. I can't remember the last time I saw you with all your friends—not just Cub.”

“Summer's hard.” I try to keep my voice steady. “My other friends live miles away. Too far…” I stop, unwilling to say
to get to without Mom driving me
. And I'm in no mood to talk about how no one feels comfortable coming to me these days. Because the ranch has lost its laughter, its warmth.

Cub storms up behind me. “I hate it when you stomp off like that, Dill.”

My chest aches as I watch G.D. continue to struggle across the backyard to get to Cub and me. “He asked me to help him in the garden,” I tell Cub, my voice low. “He's never asked for help with that. He prefers to do the gardening by himself.” In fact, G.D. doesn't ask for help with much of anything. Lyon says this independence comes from years of G.D. traveling around the country on his own.
Solitary as an eagle,
Mom used to say. Or a mountain lion.

“Wish someone at my house
preferred
to do the gardening alone,” Cub mumbles.

G.D. pauses halfway across the lawn, looking past me, at the barn. Searching for Dead End? “Cub,” G.D. calls after finally breaking this stare. “Your brother Danny telephoned. Something about you needing to mow a field.”

“That's
his
job,” Cub growls.

Danny, second from the oldest of the Bayer boys, is always bossing Cub around.

“You can't go.” My tone begs. “We've got to find Dead End.”

“I have to mow,” Cub grumbles.

Because his helping on his family's farm is a serious requirement, right up there with attending church services every Sunday. Even though I know this, I still itch to convince him to stay and help me.

“I'm gettin' real sick of all the chores,” Cub adds. “I'm lucky my mom let's me spend as much time as I do here.” Anger makes the edges of his words sharp.

She feels sorry for me,
I don't point out, keeping quiet because Cub doesn't need more lip about me right now. Unlike most of my girlfriends, he doesn't complain much unless he is real bothered and needs to be heard.

As G.D. starts toward us again, I try to think of something comforting to say to Cub. “I'll look for Dead End on the way to the stable,” I finally suggest, returning to my own problem, not being as good of a friend as I want to be. As Cub has been. Because my finding that pooch around here, alone, smack in the middle of farm country, promises to be harder than spotting a flea on a sheepdog.

“My years are showing,” G.D. says between heavy breaths as he approaches us. “Remember how I'd hike for miles? I'd wear out three pairs of boots in one afternoon. Not anymore, though. Old age is no carnival.”

A lump the size of a golfball swells in my throat. I can't take G.D. talking about getting old, fading.

“Don't worry about helping me in the garden, Dill. I'll get Dead End to lend me a paw. That dog is good company.” G.D. chuckles, looking at the barn again.

Before I can agree, G.D. squints at Cub. “Why are you getting as red as an overripe tomato, boy? What's wrong?”

I stop breathing, scared to the bone that Cub will blurt out something about dog packs and sheep. The kid can be too much like his father, the minister, always putting the truth on the table.
Cub's dad lives what he preaches,
Lyon has told me.
Got to respect that
.

“Dead End, Sir.” Cub shuffles from boot to boot. “Seems he took off again.”

“CUB!” Every muscle in my body itches to pound him.

One of G.D.'s bird-claw hands tightens on the cane top. “Again?” He blinks fast, focuses on his dried, cracked cowboy boots, embedded with dirt and dust from every corner of the country. His free hand rubs his thigh as he blinks his eyes, which are getting suddenly moist. He shifts his gaze to me. “Seems that dog is looking for your mama.”

The stabbing ache that goes with her name, the pain I've been trying to keep in the jar deep down inside myself, swells and seeps out from under the sealed lid. It crawls up into my chest, throat, and face. I swallow in gulps, taking in big breaths to keep back tears. “Cub and I will find Dead End, bring him back,” I manage to choke out. “Then everything will be great.”
Everything will be great
happened to be Mom's favorite phrase. Words I used to believe when
she
said them.

“Dill, if that dog is going back to his wandering ways, something will have to be done.” G.D. hesitates. His face sags.

“G.D., no. Dead End is
our dog
!” Mom's dog. She loved him so much that she drove something like three hours each way to take him to Mrs. Sarah Doyle's obedience classes.

And that thought makes me consider: Maybe Mrs. Doyle, Mom's best friend since the puppet corner at the Fairfax County kindergarten, might be able to help again. For the last three months, she has been calling every few days to check on Lyon, G.D., and me. But how would I get our dog to her? I sure can't ask Lyon to take me to Fairfax. Even if he agreed to leave his store for a day to go visit the Doyles, he'd insist on visiting the only part of the world I cannot see. Mom's new place.