Shelter Me
Chapter One
For much of this tale you will know as Freddie, a name given to me by those who neither knew nor understood me. I have no idea what it means in the language from which it originates; in truth it sounds like nonsense to me, but I came to love it because of Her. She calls my nonsense name it in this sing-songy voice, chanting variations of it such as “Freddie-Fred” or “Fredward” and when I wag my tail and trot to her She smiles and laughs and rubs my ears and neck. Her caress reminds of my mother’s tongue, warm and sweet. She is warm and sweet, unlike any human I’d ever known. I came to find out her name-- Cindy, which means “moon” in her language. This name is perfect for Her. She is bright and clear, illuminating as moonlight, but a complete mystery when first we met.
My true name is Barhahroo, which in my language means “Bringer of Great Sound”. It is a strong and noble name given to me by my mother a few hours after I was born. Mother later told me she could tell by my strident mewls for milk I would be one of the greatest sound bringers of all time. And great I was-- and still am-- if I do say so myself. Mother said this was a special gift because combined with speed, endurance and the way the Hounds of the Great Land saw more with our noses than almost all other canines, my voice made me useful to humans to hunt the Great Game. She said it time and again: there was no greater calling for a hound than serving our people and running down the weakest of the herd to keep the Great Game great.
I’ll admit once I met the first people I served, I did not see the honor or higher calling in it. They were loud, slow, and truth be told, not very intelligent… at least not in so far as I could tell. They often smelled of something acrid, like a forest fire, but far more pungent and insidious. And when they smelled of fermented grains, the louder and stupider and crueler they became. Often when they smelled this way, they would corale us in some kind of moving pen and travel deeper into the forest. I remember the wind rushing past, every intricate smell flooding my nostrils: velvety soft earth, moldering leaves, pine trumpeting over the base of acorns and oak. Glorious. Truly glorious.
And then they would set us free.
I would run and sniff and choose a different path than my my mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. There were so many in our pack, there was no way the Great Game could escape us.
Sooner or later a member of my pack would sound the alarm, they’d found one or maybe even a whole herd. I would take off in the direction of call, baying as I went. The great sound is different than a bark or growl. It was a siren song, drawing the slow, awkward humans in my directions. Their awkward two-legged gait would get them to us eventually, but not with any quickness.
Not for for me and my pack. We would flank our quarry, snapping at its spindly legs. If we could break one of those gracile limbs, the Great Game was doomed. Taking out a leg meant a sure kill, but it also left us susceptible to a hoof to the mouth or chest. It was best to give it room and let the humans end it with one of their thunder-sticks.
If we kept a safe distance and allowed the Great Game an escape route, the quarry would lift its stubby, tan tail lined with white fur and flee which thrilled me to no end. I loved to chase, I loved running it down until it could run no more, mud and bits of bark and leaves splattering my fur, the scent of its fear effervescent in my nostrils. That scent only excited me more.
My haunches, always strong, propelled me forward with enormous bounds. My claws made sure purchase along the soft ground. If my quarry cut left or right, trying to out maneuver me, I could adjust my trajectory in a split second, my pack at my side . The Great Game was agile and fleet of foot, but so were we. We, however, could run forever. My body never ached, my lungs took in air and turned it into pure flight and fight. The Great Game would always tire before we did. Once it could flee no more, we would surround it, some of the pack growling and snarling. I would plant my feet, arch my neck, lifting my mouth skyward and cry out with the Great Sound.
Once the humans ambled up to the trapped creature, it took mere seconds to end its life. Oh how my mouth would water, the metallic scent of its blood, the grass fermenting in its stomach. If we were and patient, one of the humans would string up the carcass. They would slice open our quarry to empty the blood and throw us bits of entrails. The organ meat was always rich and tasted bit like the fence of our pen smelled. If I got lucky I would get a section of intestines. The intestines almost always contained a stray sweet berry or two.
Oh the hunt--it was my second, but greatest love. My first love was my mother, who died needlessly not long before I met Cindy. My Moon proved to be my third great love, though she seems to hold no interest in hunting whatsoever. I forgive her this shortcoming because she forgives mine which are many, at least in her world.
Her world… that was another challenge and adventure altogether. More dangerous and prickly than a male Great Game with a full rack and the rank scent of rage wafting from him in waves. It was completely foreign and unpleasant.
Or so I thought.
At first.
***
“That’s the closest he’s ever gotten to anyone.” The lady from the shelter raised her eyebrows and nodded.
Freddie brushed past me again. He wouldn’t a stop or even take the dog biscuit from my hand. I reached out to pet him, but he wasn’t having that either.
“Why is he so skittish?”
“He was a working dog. A hunting dog.”
The lady crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “He was either turned out because he wasn’t up to snuff or they just abandoned him after the hunt if he didn’t make it back to the truck before they left.”
A knot formed in my gut. “That’s terrible.”
“It is. We get hounds like Freddie all the time. No collar, no chip, no way to locate an owner and no owner ever come to claim them.”
The knot twisted harder, a knife piercing my heart. I couldn’t imagine. Who was I kidding, yes I could. I knew first hand there were so many ignorant, useless, shitty people in the world just using up perfectly good organs.
God, I was in a bad mood. But it was my day off and all I wanted to was binge watch something on Hulu and Netflix in my lovely living room with hardwood floors and walls the color of buttercream. We just got the house. I loved our new home. Granted it as a townhouse, but was an end unit. I had so many windows there was no need to turn the lights on for most of the day. The new house was light and peace and quiet and beauty. After suffering seven years in that disgusting, tiny apartment that hadn’t been renovated since nineteen seventy something, we’d finally put 2007 behind us. Eight grueling years later.
I didn’t want a dog. Dogs are messy and smelly a lot of work, and this one would be more than most.
My new home was beautiful and clean and I wanted it to stay that way.
“What do you think?” I turned to my husband, Mica, who leaned against the wall. “You are the one who wants a dog.”
“I don’t know.” He reached for Freddie who shied away.
The knife in my heart twisted, the poor thing’s ribcage showed beneath his thin, dull coat. I could see every vertebrae, a ridge of rolling hills from his neck to his tail which didn’t wag. He would sneak glances at us, wild-eyed and panting, completing circuit after circuit around the shelter’s meet and greet room.
But. I. Don’t. Want. A. Dog.
I tried to tamp down my knee-jerk need to take in broken things and make them whole.
Mica had been broken once. He seemed pretty whole now: a good job, a nice house, me and our son. What more could he need?
“You said I could get a dog when we got a house.” This had become his mantra over the past two weeks.
“We just got settled in. Let’s wait a bit.”
“So we’re never getting a dog then?”
“Fine if we get a dog we have to get one from a rescue or a shelter.”
“Nah, nah, nah. I want a pit from a breeder.”
“Oh no we aren’t. It’s a rescued dog or no dog.”
“Fine, but I want a puppy.”
“Sure.” I grinned. “We can go to the animal shelter this weekend.”
I knew the Loudoun County Animal Shelter worked tirelessly to place puppies with local rescue groups who were better equipped to adopt out cute, little fuzzy bundles of joy--and round the clock care. Plus the rescue groups charged a premium for the puppies which only made sense. Fully vaccinated and neutered or spayed. That cost money and the adoption fee reflected the group’s investment. Then there was the application, the home visit to ensure our house and yard were adequate for their precious cargo. Mica would have no patience for all that mess. And at the local shelter there would only be adult dogs to look at. I’d already checked the selection of adoptable dogs on the shelter website.
We’d go looking at dogs this weekend, he wouldn’t find what he wanted and this conversation would be moot. At least for a little while.
The plan was perfect. Everything went so smoothly. We took a look at a supposedly very sweet pitbull whose mouth and bite radius scared the bejesus out of me. Her named was Ruby and she was sweet. She could also jump a seven-foot fence which was why she was surrendered. Ruby wasn’t a good fit. Mica patted Ruby on the head as the shelter worker returned Ruby to her pen.
We were leaving.
Case closed.
The swell of victory blossomed in my chest as I happened to glance right. And apparently Mica had too.
From the opening that lead to an outside run, in stepped Freddie. Skin and bones, but the quintessential hound dog. Tan head and long, velvety, floppy ears, droopy sad eyes, a white body with a black “saddle”. A white patch with lemon ticking kissed his big black nose and his neck and lead up to his panting mouth, salt-water taffy tongue nearly extended to ground. Blue ticking freckled his rangy legs and haunches.
He eyed us up for a moment, then indicated his disinterest by taking a quick slurp of water and heading back outside.
Mica jerked his head in the direction of Freddie’s pen. “That’s a beautiful dog.”
“He would be with a little more weight on him.” I read his description in the frame attached to his pen. “He’s about two years old. I thought you wanted a puppy.”
“I do, but he really is a nice looking dog. He looks like a purebred.”
“What does that matter?”
“C’mon, it’d be funny. We could say we got a purebred at the shelter--” he paused to read the description too. “A purebred American Foxhound.”
And so I that’s how I wound up in the meet and greet room with one of the most pitiable creatures I’d ever seen. For some reason his aloof nature drew me to him. I would get him to allow me pet him come hell or high water.
“Is he housebroken?” Mica asked the shelter lady-- I had to stop calling her “the shelter lady”.
I got a look at her nametag, Janine. Shelter Lady’s name was Janine.
“No,” Janine said, “to be honest, he’s going to be project.”
I didn’t want a dog much less a project. It was though the damn dog would smell my weakness. He swiped past me a couple more times and made another figure eight around the room.
Then, he walked up to me and stopped.
Espresso brown eyes, almost black with their hound droop. I reached for him ever so slowly. Just an inch every few seconds. As my hand neared his black licorice nose, he did the unimaginable. He pressed it to my fingers. Wet and cool, my fingertips grazing his velvet drape ears. Then, he took off again.
“Whoa.” Janine’s eyes grew wide. “That’s never happened.”
Shut up, Janine. I cut my gaze at the pathetic dog.
Fucking Freddie, I shook my head. We were getting a dog.
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