Lady
Carla Fontaine
“Son, I want you to take ’er into the woods and finish her off,” Dad commanded in a low voice, not even looking up.
“Shoot her? You want me to shoot her?” Clint’s own voice rose in disbelief. He glanced toward the side of the porch where his father sat.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need your help with this. I’ve had ‘er for seventeen years and I can’t do it. That dog’ll follow me anywhere and not bat an eye.”
Clint thought his dad’s dark face looked set, impassive.
“Why? Why do you want to kill Lady?” Clint fought to keep his voice normal, to hide the anxious gnawing in his gut.
“Well, Big Joe was by the other day and said that lump hanging off ‘er neck looked just like a knot one of his dogs had. Said it was a tumor.”
His words prompted Clint’s recollection of Dad’s fifty-third birthday when he and his siblings had taken Dad to Big Joe’s house where he had picked Lady from a new litter of Blue Heelers. Everyone had sat on the porch afterward, laughing as Lady sniffed her way around her new home, acquainting herself with King, the older, alpha, experienced dog.
Dad had had more patience then. He was kinder as he corrected Lady’s fumblings with the cows. Now his knees were bad, and he didn’t sleep well. His mood swung from understanding, interested, and open to uncommunicative and mean.
Clint’s throat constricted as he recalled the recent words of his twin brother Alan, “Dad said he wasn’t goin’ to no nursin’ home. He was gonna drop in the field one day and it’d all be over.” Alan had teared up as he’d said it. Clint had scoffed, reassuring him, “That ole’ ornery cuss. Even the buzzards’d pass him up.”
He had tried to wipe the scene from his mind but thought, how long would it take to die with a clutch and drop heart attack? When you’re lying on the ground, do you see the dirt you’ve coaxed into life for all these years or the sky that’s brought you the weather that shredded your plans so often? Dad had always said he’d die right here. But does anyone want to go all alone? Maybe the dogs would run over, loving and concerned, whimpering and licking, moving close then backing off, uncertain….Clint had learned young to bury emotions and fears deep inside. They rested there—an ever growing lump that, if triggered, could consume him.
Resisting this and looking for a way out, though he already knew there wasn’t one, Clint asked his father, “D’jew ask Alan?” He frowned, tapping his chew can, pinching tobacco, and tucking it inside his lower lip. It’s only right to ask Alan, he thought. Alan’s the farmer—not me. Everyone knows I’m the Wal-Mart exec. Alan’s all about the cows, the farm. He should be the one.
“Naw. You know your brother. He couldn’t do it.”
What a wuss. ’Course he couldn’t, said Clint to himself.
Both Clint and his twin brother Alan were good with guns. They had learned to hunt when they were young. Now they mostly shot deer, but they would kill an occasional turkey if it was in season and happened across their path. As hunters, they had been taught to kill only what they’d eat. So shooting an animal meant following a badly wounded deer until you could finish him off, or trailing him until he gave out. If they hit the deer, they needed to bring him in, dress him out, and package the meat. That was the deal.
Killing a dog was quite another thing. It meant walking into the woods with the trusting animal close at his heels, convincing it to stand still as he paced away and aimed, and seeing the fear in his eyes as he realizes that the gun is pointing at him.
Clint shifted his long, lanky frame in the lawn chair and eyed the unsuspecting Lady, who was snoring in the grass. Her black and tan coat looked smooth, and she seemed at peace in the sunlight.
Maybe she won’t understand my aiming at her, thought Clint. She’s a cattle dog, not a hunting dog. Blue Heelers don’t accompany a person on a hunt, get excited by the smell of blood, see first-hand the damage of a gun. Blue Heelers train easy and aim to please. Maybe she won’t know until it’s over. Unless, I miss. Unless I graze her head and don’t get a clean shot into the skull.
There was something very different about firing into the face of an animal that has loved and trusted people for so long. This wasn’t like deer hunting. Clint didn’t know the deer he shot. They didn’t limp behind his tall, lumbering dad every trip between the house and the barn. Plus, he had heard the eager, excited barks as the dogs stood on their hind legs and snapped their jaws to welcome Dad home from even the shortest excursion. He knew the way they cast quick glances at Dad’s face, reading if he was pleased or angry. Were they herding the cows correctly? Was it good that they caught the groundhog? Always Dad’s weathered features served as their barometer—much as it had for him and his brother throughout their lives.
Damn, I don’t know if I can do this, thought Clint. But if I don’t, Dad’ll have to. I can just picture it: the old geezer and his loyal dog both limping into the woods. They won’t go far ’cause Dad can’t get around so good anymore. Dad’s eyes aren’t good either—even with glasses. And he’d probably bring the wrong pair….
When the boys had been young whippersnappers, as Dad had often called them, he had scolded them for joining in with the other kids who laughed at Mark Mueller, the new boy who’d worn the same clothes day after day and who had masking tape on the nose piece of his glasses, which had feebly held the two lenses together. Dad’s low voice had cut them deeply, “Now how would you feel if that’s all your mom and pop could afford and everyone laughed at you? Shame on you. I expect more from my sons.” Both brothers had lowered their eyes, and Clint remembered the familiar clinching of his stomach. Even bad grades had never induced this level of contempt from their dad. Clint’s lined brow furrowed at the recollection and his current dilemma.
He won’t even ask Alan, figured Clint. What’d I expect? Everyone knows Alan’s the one who’ll truly give you the shirt off his back and I’m the one who gets things done. Clint had also learned early to talk tough. Their hunting buddies had scoffed at Alan a few years back when he had recounted his attempt to rescue an armadillo who’d fallen into a dry well. Rather than manning his deer stand, Alan had spent hours devising makeshift ladders that, as far as they knew, had never been successful in aiding the escape of the animal. Their friends just shook their heads and laughed. Who would have thought these two were brothers, let alone twins? If Clint had messed around trying to help an armadillo, he was smart enough never to admit it. Alan hadn’t learned that game.
Clint squinted into the sun, examining the knot that was hanging loosely, grotesquely, off Lady’s neck. So that’s the offensive cancer, he thought. Dammit, I don’t want to do it. It’s not fair.
“She don’t seem to be in no pain,” Clint half muttered, knowing that farm dogs don’t usually let on unless they’re pretty badly cut and bleeding from a run-in with a woodchuck or badger. When the other animal got the better in those exchanges, the wounded dog will usually drag himself into the shed, bed down in the hay, and whimper. This rarely happens, though. The dogs are good at keeping varmints out of the yard and away from the garden, the honeybees, and the cows. In her younger days, Lady had had quite the reputation. She was the best on the farm and would take on anything—not just coyotes, but black bears that ventured too close to Dad’s bee stands. It hadn’t mattered how big or how dangerous, Lady would do her job.
Some folks might call that dumb, but I think it’s loyalty, thought Clint. Heaven knows where it comes from. Dad doesn’t give the dogs much loving—they’re working dogs, after all. But at least when they’re big enough for him to see them, Dad’ll reach down and pull blood-fattened ticks off of their eyelid or ear.
Clint knew that Dad kept records and gave his dogs rabies shots every year. It was the extras they didn’t get, like treats. The one-gallon container of dog treats his sister had bought a year ago was still almost full, collecting dust and attracting mice. But around here, thought Clint, you don’t get treats. You get what you need to survive.
Life on a farm wasn’t easy. A person was supposed to harden off to death. It happened to the stillborn calves or those that caught pneumonia from a January ice storm. It happened to mother cows giving birth or having to be put down after they broke their ankle from falling into a hole in the pasture. When Dad could, he separated the hurt animals, nursed them back. Sometimes it worked and sometimes he lost them. A person learns not to take it personal or to show that it hurts, or he’d end up making his living some other way. Dad had never walked away from the hard calls, until now.
Lady adores Dad and she’d follow him anywhere—even into the woods. We all know that, Clint thought. But he can’t pull the trigger. And neither can I.
“Huh?” Dad raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side.
“I said, she don’t look like she’s hurtin’ none. She still eatin’?”
“Seems to be eatin’ okay, but she don’t hear too good no more. Mac woke me up the other night ‘cause the coyotes were comin’ in close, and when I got the light on, Lady was sleepin’ out by the shed. I don’t reckon she even knew the coyotes were there. Mac was carryin’ on like crazy, though.” Dad studied his thumbnail as he dug at the dirt in it with his pocketknife. The porch swing was barely moving.
“She still drinkin’ okay?” Clint cast a quick glance toward where his dad sat, head bent, engrossed in his digging. A chunk of his still-thick silver hair fell down across his forehead.
“Yeah, seems to be.” Another answer Clint had been hoping for. He spit tobacco into a glass, the thick juice sliding heavily down the side and settling on the bottom.
“Well, why don’t we just let her be? She don’t seem to be in pain.” Clint proposed, pressing his chapped lips together and this time looking more fully at his father’s intent face.
For a long moment, Dad considered. He paused in the scraping of his nails and looked toward Lady. Her head was resting, the knot hidden. “No-o” he answered in two syllables.
“Well, why don’t we just see what happens?” Clint worked to keep his tone even—not too hopeful or too weak.
“Well, reckon we could. I just don’t want your sister worryin’ when she comes home and sees that big knot on the side of ‘er neck.”
I can’t believe this, thought Clint. He’s just worried ‘cause Vicky was the one who gave him shit about dusting the dogs with pesticide for tomato plants. Cheapskate. He used Sevin dust so he didn’t have to spend the fifteen bucks every month on flea repellent for each dog. It probably is his fault that Lady has a tumor. Now he’s worried ‘cause he doesn’t want Vicky pokin’ around, asking questions, makin’ him feel uncomfortable and guilty. And I’m the one who gets put in this shitty position ‘cause he’s worried about little Miss Smarty Pants. Thanks a lot. I handle enough crap in my life. I can look a Wal-Mart supplier in the eye, knowing I’ve squeezed his profit margin down to next to nothing, the whole time pretending I’m doing him a favor. It’s not easy, but I do it. It’s how I make my living. But this isn’t fair. How can he even ask me? I wouldn’t ask him to do it. All ‘cause he doesn’t want Vicky upset and thinkin’ he caused the cancer.
Deep down Clint’s stomach burned with acid. I’m just the one who makes things happen, he thought.
Feeling the familiar weight settle into his chest, Clint continued his strategy, pretending he was at Wal-Mart talking down a supplier.
“Now, I’ll do it, Dad, but Vicky’ll be more upset if Lady’s gone when she comes home.”
“You know your sister. It’s hard to say with that one. Now that she’s moved away and got those Yankee ideas, she’s more critical of us.”
Maybe, thought Clint. But why had Dad spent money on that new suit and flown out to the fancy school on the coast for her graduation? He hates to fly.
“I’ll do it if you want me to, but maybe we should just let her be—long as she ain’t in no pain and all. ’Member Blue?”
They’d lost a Blue Heeler just a few years back. They say that dogs know when it’s their time to go and will take themselves off into the woods to die alone. That had been the way with Blue. Dad had noticed him just hanging out on the gravel drive. He wasn’t running or coming to the porch when the front door opened, and he didn’t follow the truck to the cows. Blue had stared toward the house, head lowered, looking somehow ashamed. When Dad had checked on him later, it was too late. Blue had taken himself into the woods, laid down, and died. Dad had walked the perimeter of the farm until he found him sometime after dark. Though he’d been around only five years, he had been a good dog. To keep the buzzards from feasting on him, Dad had buried Blue out by the bed of lilies that lined the side of the horse barn. There was no marker. There didn’t need to be. Everyone knew where Blue lay and thought of him every summer when the bright pink lilies drew their attention toward the galvanized aluminum building.
Blue was gone, and now it was Lady’s turn. Even as Clint tried to read his dad’s face, he noticed the flowers in the distance. He held his breath, waiting for the answer.
“Okay, Son. I s’pose we can just see how it goes.” Dad finished cleaning, examined both hands, and snapped his pocketknife shut. “Ya’ got time to help me fix that fence that washed out down at the bend in the river?”
Clint hopped up, relieved the discussion was over, and averted his gaze as Dad struggled and grunted, grabbing the chain of the porch swing to lift himself upright.
When the fence was fixed and Clint was preparing to leave, he spoke out of the truck window. “Let me know if you decide you want me to do it.” Clint’s voice was strong now, seemingly ready.
“Right, Son. Careful drivin’ home. ’Member the cops hang out ’round the other side of Huntsville.”
Clint backed out and then gunned it to get over the cattle guard in the dirt road. A loud pop emitted from the truck. Clint looked toward the house. Mac sprang up, alert. Dad dropped the dog’s water bowl he’d been filling. Even Lady’s head shot up at the sound, and then, realizing the cause, popping her jaws, she settled back into the tender grass.
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