Christopher? I thought. Then I realized that must be the photographer's name.
"We'll take Keeper back home with us," she said, and Emily's face lit up. I suppose mine did, too. It was what I really wanted, to be back in the farmhouse with my family, now that I knew Wispy was safe and well cared for.
"That's my name—Keeper," I whispered to my sister.
"Mine's Sal," she whispered back, giggling with embarrassment.
"But when Christopher needs him for a special assignment with two dogs, he can borrow him," Emily's mother went on.
The photographer had come to stand beside her and was listening. "And on weekends," he added, "when Sal and I aren't working, we'll come out to the country to get some fresh air and so that the dogs can play together, since they appear to be such good friends."
Wispy (I will never bring myself to call her Sal) looked at me in delight. She nuzzled my neck affectionately, and I licked her ear.
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Stay!: Keeper's Story
Chapter 17
IT DOES SOUND LIKE A SATISFYING ENDING, doesn't it? The long-lost brother and sister are reunited. The little girl keeps her much-loved pet. The deserving mother meets an attractive and well-to-do man. Plans are made for the future. People smile. Tails wag.
But those with a literary bent and a keen eye for plot (and I must count myself among them, expanding now as I am from the world of poetry into the broader, more demanding realm of narrative) will have perceived an unresolved thread.
As we prepared to leave the photographer's apartment, Wispy (I will never call her Sal) whined, and the photographer reached for her leash, which was hanging from a hook in the kitchen.
"She needs to go out," he said. "I'll walk you down to your car."
"Keeper?" Emily asked, looking at me, "do you want to go out, too?"
Going out, I should explain, is a euphemism for taking care of bodily functions.
I wagged my tail and looked eager.
"Well," Emily's mother suggested, "why don't we walk the dogs before we start back? It's a long drive."
So for the first time in many months, I found myself walking the streets of my old neighborhood at the end of a leash. The difference was that now it was my beloved Emily at the other end instead of a minimally talented, unemployed actor from Madison, Wisconsin.
I yearned again for the power of speech. I wanted to tell Emily of my beginnings; I wanted to show her my birthplace, to confide in her that Wispy (I will never call her Sal) was not just a look-alike mongrel with a bent tail but in fact my full-blooded sister, companion of my heart.
How I wished, turning a familiar corner, that I could point out sadly the spot where I had so often sat with Jack, cajoling passersby to drop coins into his cupped hands so that we could survive another day.
"Is this a good restaurant?" I heard Emily's mother ask the photographer casually, pausing as we passed the carved door of Toujours Cuisine. He nodded.
"Not bad," he told her. "When you have more time someday, we can go there for dinner."
"When we don't have the dogs along." She laughed.
Ah, if only she knew! Wispy (I will never call her Sal) glanced at me and we smiled. The memories of French food!
"Selle d'agneau roti," I murmured to my sister.
"Ragouts de veau," she replied knowingly.
What a pleasant afternoon it was, combining as it did the smells and sounds of the city, the contentment of good human company, the rapture of my sister by my side, and the happy memories of earlier days.
Then something evil intruded. Nose, ears, eyes came into play in the correct order. I smelled Scar first: the acrid, unwashed scent of enemy. Then my ears perceived his low, menacing growl. I stood still, on full alert.
Finally I spotted him. Across the street, next to a newspaper rack, I saw his flattened, hostile face, his grime-streaked neckless body, the thick legs and ugly tail stump. He had not changed. And I could tell, from the look and smell of him, and from his throaty growl, that he recognized me. His desire to destroy me had obviously been rekindled.
Emily's mother and the photographer were still reading the menu displayed in front of the restaurant. Emily, my leash loose in her relaxed hand, had leaned down and was patting Wispy (never Sal), talking to her in a quiet, loving voice. No one but I had noticed the threat.
My original promise, my pledge to defeat Scar someday, surfaced in my memory. I had, over the intervening months, written better verse because I had matured as a poet. But this one, recalled now, still seemed my most valiant, most heroic effort. I repeated it to myself now. I vow this, Scar, with all my might!
Someday I'll beat you in a fight!
We were separated by the width of the street, and he was watching me malevolently. I was no longer a cringing, intimidated puppy pleading for breakfast. I was no longer an adolescent itching for a nighttime brawl. Now I was a splendid full-grown dog with teeth (I exposed them to him) like carved granite, an unwavering growl (I gave him only a low hint of its magnitude), and a massive, fully muscled body ornamented at its end with a tail of unequaled grandeur.
Demanding homage, and willing to battle for it, I pulled my leash loose from Emilys grasp and inched forward, waiting for the right moment. Then the unthinkable happened. Oblivious to traffic or to onlookers, the hideous dog gathered himself and charged, exploding from his stance and thundering across the street with his teeth bared.
But he was charging for Emily.
Stay!: Keeper's Story
With no other thought than to save my beloved human child, I leapt toward Scar and intercepted him, grabbing his throat with my teeth tight around his repulsive flesh. He snarled in hatred and we locked in mortal combat, aware that only one of us would emerge alive. From what seemed a far distance, I heard Emily and her mother both scream.
Then I heard the roaring sound of a truck approaching at full speed; there was the sudden screech of brakes, a thud, and I felt Scar torn from my grip and saw him disappear under the massive wheels. I felt no pain, but had an awareness that I, too, was hit and caught by the huge undercarriage of the vehicle. The noise was terrible: ripping, rattling sounds, human shouts, and a piercing shriek that may even have been my own. I no longer knew. By then everything was chaotic and confused; a second later, it simply turned to black silence and oblivion.
I surfaced to consciousness and pain several times in the next few days, then drifted again into merciful sleep. When, finally, I was more alert and able to keep my eyes open, I could see that I was once again in the familiar office of the veterinarian. They had me housed in a comfortable pen, with a bowl of water near my head and a clean blanket folded beneath my bruised, aching body.