The Savage(28)
Sam would be the closest the grandfather could get to an animal. Placing his life’s blood in the hound. Taking him on hunts and dog shows from state to state. Letting him ride in the cab, seated on the front seat next to him. Filling his family’s freezer with coon meat and his coffee can with cash from the selling of pelts but also studding him to breed with bitches for pups to sell.
Within two or three years Sam developed a golf-ball-sized tumor below his throat. And the grandfather’s father told him, “Eventually he won’t be able to eat, breathe, nor maneuver. Know what’ll need to be done. Your dog, you’ll be the one to take to it when the time comes.”
Most hound dogs’ joints begin to give out after eight years, Sam had another five good ones. The lump had gotten near the size of a grapefruit. Claude would’ve liked to have had it removed, but back then it was unheard of, as money was spent on family and bills. He knew what he’d have to do. His father’s words ringing ever so loud in his mind’s eye every time Sam had troubles eating, and even breathing as he lay on his side in the straw-floored pen of the barn. Freckles of tan over his coat like ticks, having problems rising. He’d sit up with what sounded similar to a bronchitis fit of coughing.
In the hospital bed that day, Claude spoke of Sam as though he were royalty. Telling Van Dorn, No dog needs to suffer, to be left without a choice. His cataract eyes juiced with moisture. His voice cracked and he said it was the hardest decision he’d ever made. Unleashing Sam for a long walk, Claude had his whistle around his neck, .22 in the bend of his right arm. How he shook when Sam’d struck up a trail and off he went. His bark sounding clotted and broken. Every so often stopping to hack. Buckling Claude’s heart. Knowing what had to be done. He was the one who had to do it. When he got to the tree where Sam’d run the coon, the grandfather looked above. Saw the marble of gray and black fur. Tiny robber mask around the eyes that peeked from a limb above. Its tail fringed and ringed. The grandfather lifted the .22 and shot the coon from the tree. Sam stood proud, looking down upon his final treeing as the whistle was blown once. Sam raised his head in the opposite direction. Perked his ears and hooked his tail. Ready for a double blow from the whistle that was replaced by a .22 shell discharged from the rifle that pierced the rear of Sam’s skull. Dropped his shape to the earth next to the coon.
NOW
Bearing the .45 down on the dog with its snarls of wanting, Van Dorn now understood why Claude had told him of Sam. Of needing him to understand how hard it was to put his best friend down, so he’d not suffer.
Even with the threat of being chased, possibly mauled, something within Van Dorn would not allow him to pull the trigger. Unlike he’d done when his life was threatened by the men before, something within the madness of this hound’s retina said it was not Dorn’s scent that made him growl.
As Van Dorn lowered the pistol, the hound sat upon its dead brethren. Reacted by resting its melon-sized dome between its paws. The hound’s eyes bored up at Van Dorn, not wanting him to splay its savagery, its way of surviving, onto the walls of the earthy pit.
Rolling to his side, maybe the hound sensed his emotional weakness. Knowing animals could smell one’s fear. Holding the pistol out, Van Dorn looked at it. All he had to do was spend a cartridge on the hound and move on.
Moments passed. Van Dorn sat with his leg outstretched. Heard the whine of the dog. Reached down at his ankle. Felt the swell of pain. Noticed a shimmer of something metallic and golden among the leaves next to his leg. Reached and pulled a chain with a locket in its center. Thought it odd to find a piece of jewelry lying out in the middle of the woods. Wondered where it came from. Slid it into his pocket. The dog whined again. Dorn wondered where the pack had come from. They couldn’t have belonged to the men who came into Toby and Ann’s lair of murder or they’d have been waiting on him when he ran from the property. He thought that when he’d crossed over Rothrock Mill Road, it was a coincidence. The dogs were a mob of wild creatures, on the hunt for food, and he just happened to cut into their supper time. Dorn studied the opening. Whoever dug the pit would check it, for what, Van Dorn could only guess; food, and to keep trespassers away, or possibly both. Then he thought of the toy in the pit, the locket he’d discovered. Maybe the owners of these things were like Toby and Ann, eaters of all tissue devoid of husk or shell.
Looking down on the beast, he couldn’t shoot the hound nor leave it to rot and agonize or be eaten. He decided to offer the animal a choice. Salvage its life.
Glancing about the forest of foliage, Dorn searched for something vined, ropy, and something of length. And it dawned on him all at once, touching his belt, then the leather that ran over his shoulder, crossed his torso with the hem of brass casings for the .30-30 that he no longer carried. Limped to the edge. Peered down upon the feral hound once again. It lay as it had moments ago, unmoving, eyeing Van Dorn. If the dog stood, he could noose the belt around its neck. Then he’d have to tug it up by its head, hoping not to break nor damage the tendons or vocals of its throat or, even worse, strangle it. Even then, getting his belt from its nape could enrage the brute. Cause it to go into hysterics. Test his hand, leave Dorn no other choice than to end its life.
As he unbuckled the strap of leather from his waist, his skinner fell to the ground. Van Dorn ran the belt back through the buckle, creating a small snare to lasso around the spiked fur of the dog. Took the other end of the belt that he’d hold, mended and knotted it to the belt of bullets he’d pulled off. Thumbing the cartridges from their loops. Tested his tying skill’s strength, seeing now that he’d more than enough length, he could only hope he’d not hang the dog before it placed its footing back on solid ground.