A Man of His Own

by Susan Wilson

  They came, and you might have thought I was a mother sending her baby into war, the way I failed to hold back my tears, the way I clung to that dog’s neck so hard, he had to wriggle loose. Because I was so upset, he became upset and acted as if the two youngsters sent to collect him were a danger to me. He growled and snapped, until finally I had to order him into the wood and chicken-wire crate. And then he looked at me like I was punishing him. I’ll never forget that look of confusion in those beautiful eyes. He didn’t whine, though, as you might expect. Despite his confusion and upset, Pax never whined.

  “He’s a nice dog, ma’am.” This boy in his grown-up’s military uniform shut the cage door, locking it with a twist of the wing nut. “He’ll be a good soldier.”

  My mouth went dry for a moment before a metallic taste of bile flooded it. Panic has a flavor. “Wait. I can’t do this.” I reached for the cage, but the kid gently blocked my hand.

  “But, ma’am, you have done it. You can’t back down now.” No longer a boy, but a soldier, a man with orders and the authority to carry them out.

  “One more minute.”

  He dropped his hand, but I could feel his eyes on me as I knelt in front of the door. “I won’t open it, I promise, but could you step away, please?”

  He did, far enough away that I was confident he couldn’t overhear my whisper. I spoke so low that I was sure only Pax could hear me and that he’d understand these last sorrowful words. “I love you, you big silly boy. Come back to me. Come back with Rick.”

  * * *

  They drove off, my dog in the bed of that military truck. In my hand was his simple leather collar, which had been replaced by his new military-issue one. I coiled the leather around my hand and went into my profoundly empty apartment. That night, as I lay sleepless in my marriage bed, I found myself listening for the sound of Pax’s toenails on the bare floor, patrolling the place one last time before settling into his bed. Outside, a dog down the street barked. No other dog answered.

  When Rick left for war, I was one among thousands of women enduring a wartime separation. I busied myself and found purpose in the factory. When Pax left, I had only the small comfort of a handful of other dog owners and had lost a good deal of what had kept me busy before. No evening walks, no rushing home at lunchtime, no use for the few scraps of leftovers I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I picked up Pax’s scattered toys and gnawed bones and his leash and put them all in his basket in the corner of our bedroom, there for when he came back. I kept his collar in my dresser drawer, in safekeeping for when he’d need it again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pvt. Keller Nicholson can’t believe his luck. His application to join the K-9 Corps was accepted and here he is at the Dog Training and Reception Center in Front Royal, Virginia. He might have exaggerated his experience with dogs, confidently claiming that he’d owned several, when the truth was the only dogs he had ever lived with were the beagle Aunt Biddie owned, which kept him warm as he slept on the lumpy couch on the screened-in porch that served as his room when he lived with her, and Laddy, the dog the groundskeeper at Meadowbrook kept tied to a doghouse.

  When the chance to become a handler arose, it wasn’t the thought of either of those dogs that crossed Keller’s mind and set him on this course. It was the fleeting sight of that dog with the couple on the station platform in Boston. The way the man knelt to say good-bye, the genuine affection, and the way the dog guided the woman through the commotion. The people are vague figures in his memory, but the dog stands out. He’d like a dog like that.

  The former remount facility has only just been converted to its new purpose, training dogs to perform the services of scout, sentry, messenger, or casualty dogs. The din is deafening as the four-legged recruits voice their opinions in barks, bays, and howls.

  * * *

  The civilian dog trainer has given the six new human recruits to the K-9 Corps an overview of their training program. “From now on, you and you alone are responsible for the care and well-being of the dog that will be assigned to you. We’ll teach you how to groom him, feed him, train him, and work with him. No one else handles your dog. No one else is allowed to so much as pet him. He must look to you for everything that he needs—from food to praise. This way, we build a team of two. Your life and his depend on his unquestioning allegiance to you.”

  Keller feels a little thrill pass through him, a tickle of excitement, not unlike those long-ago Christmas mornings when his parents were still alive. He follows along as the five other soldiers are paired with their charges. A boxer for the big Indianan; a farm collie for the kid from St. Louis; a nondescript brown dog for another, an Airedale for the fourth. The fifth recruit is paired with a stunning Irish setter. Keller thinks that he would be happy with any of these dogs, each one meeting and greeting the man who would become its partner with sniffs and a general willingness to be friends.

  The other new handlers are left behind as the trainer and Keller continue on down the line, passing all sorts of dogs.

  “Nicholson, I got one I’d like you to try. But he’s a tough one. No one’s been able to handle him since he arrived, and if you don’t make a go of it with him, he’s going back.”

  The trainer leads Keller away from the rows of doghouses to a rectangle of high chain link with a doghouse in one corner and a very sullen-looking animal sitting in the exact middle of the confined space. At their approach, the dog’s head lowers and his eyes narrow and fill with an unmistakable hostility. He looks to be mostly Shepherd, but some other influence is evident, his jaw a little wider than a true German shepherd’s, his muzzle maybe more boxy.

  “Why’s he in a cage?”

  “He’s a biter.”

  “Isn’t that sort of what we want in a war dog?”

  “We want a discerning biter.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Pax.”

  “Funny name for a vicious dog. My high school English teacher would call it ‘ironic.’” Keller squats in front of the enclosure. “Here, Pax.”

  A low rumble emanates from the dog’s throat, like distant thunder on a summer’s day. The dog makes no move otherwise; his eyes are fixed on Keller. Even with the sturdy kennel door between him and the dog, he begins to feel an instinctive urge to back away slowly. Pushing the feeling down, Keller instead makes a little kissy sound as he snaps his fingers softly, poking them through the diamond-shaped chain links. Despite the fearsome behavior, this is a beautiful animal. He’s the color of tarnished silver and his muzzle is etched in the same black as the saddle over his shoulders. His ears are like capital letter A’s. Inside one of them is a tattoo, marking him as the army’s own. He uses his ears like radar to judge the sounds coming from the parade ground; but his predator eyes remain fixed on Keller’s own. The dog’s rumble deepens into a growl. He sounds more lion than dog. The black-rimmed lips curl back and the dog’s teeth are exposed in a wolfish grin.

  The civilian dog trainer puts a hand on Keller’s shoulder. “I feel I should tell you that two other handlers have tried him.”

  “How far did they get?”

  “Not far. He scared the bejesus out of both of them.”

  Keller meets the dog’s stare with his own. He sees it, and he knows it: the hollow eyes of the disconnected, the abandoned. The anger of being powerless. Being ripped from the known and thrust into the unknown. He sees it. He knows it. You can survive only by keeping all others at bay. The other boys at Meadowbrook had eyes like these, wary and suspicious. Trust was a concept completely removed from their short lives. Fed, watered, clothed, educated, but not cared for. Even among themselves, the bully hierarchy defined respect and demanded tribute, but friendship was rare.

  “You don’t have to try him. It’s just too bad to have to send back an animal with such potential.”

  “Look, give me a chance. A couple of days. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Okay. You got it.” The trainer claps Keller o
n the back. “I take it you’ve worked with dogs before?”

  Keller shrugs. “Nah. I just, well, I just think he needs a fair chance.”

  What Keller can’t say, and really doesn’t fully understand, is that there is something in this dog that recollects his own journey. Not since the day when he was five and his parents were killed when the Portland-to-Boston train collided with their stalled car, not since the day his aunts had abandoned him to reform school, not since the day his great-uncle Clayton Britt took him out and put him to work on the boat, has Keller felt connected to any living creature. Until now. Reflected in the dog’s dark eyes, Keller sees himself.

  * * *

  Keller sits outside of the dog’s kennel, a half-empty bowl of dog food beside him, the dog’s intended dinner. He’s been stationed here, alternately sitting with his back against the links or facing the dog, or most of the day. He’s kept up a patter of conversation, as if the dog might actually be listening. He hasn’t told him anything important, just nattered on about sports or how hot it is or about the way the guys in his barracks remind him of being in his old dormitory at Meadowbrook, except that there are no bars on the windows. “You got bars, don’t you?” Keller holds another chunk of meat in his fingers and thrusts them through the links as if he’s trying to feed the bears at a zoo. This one drops a bare three inches from Keller. “Bars are pretty awful. If you don’t want to be behind bars, you should be nice. At least nice to me.” As he talks, he’s been tossing bits of meat into the kennel, hoping to entice the dog to move toward him. It’s as if the dog has some invisible force field around himself; he’s only snatched the bits of meat that have landed within reach, and he hasn’t looked the least bit grateful.

  The dog, in a sphinxlike position, doesn’t move, but his eyes go to the latest chunk of meat sitting beyond his force field, then back to Keller’s face. He doesn’t lick his lips, but he does pant. It is unmercifully hot, and Keller’s uniform blouse is darkened with sweat. Without the mitigating sea breezes of his coastal upbringing, he really feels the heat and humidity. This Southern summer heat is oppressive for a boy from the more temperate clime of New England.

  The only concession the dog makes to Keller’s presence is allowing him to refill the water bowl with the hose aimed at it from the safety beyond the kennel. Anytime Keller has slipped open the latch, the dog has growled and retreated behind the doghouse, not like a dog in fear, but a dog who refuses to be near a human.

  “I know that it’s hard to trust a stranger. Hell, I don’t trust people I know.” Keller laughs, and for the first time the dog inches toward the piece of meat. “Your people, for some patriotic reason, decided that you needed to serve your country, and I believe that you will. But first you have to serve me.”

  The dog creeps another inch.

  All Keller wants for today is that the dog not growl when he opens the kennel door. He’s tried six times in the last six hours and he’s almost ready to call it quits. His five fellow handlers have all had their first training session and he can see them out on the parade ground playing with their dogs. All he needs to say is “Give me another dog,” and he can be out there with a canine companion who is willing to be his partner, instead of trying to be a lion tamer.

  “Okay, Pax. Last time. I won’t deny you your dinner, but it would be nice if you were a bit grateful for it.” Keller flips the U-shaped latch. At the sound, the dog leaps to his feet, head low, ears back. “No, you’re right. Why should you be grateful for something when you never asked to be in this situation. That’s like me being grateful to Clayton Britt every time he put creamed cod on the table. He had to feed me, and I guess I have to feed you.” With that, Keller swings the gate open and steps in, bowl of horse meat held out as a potential barrier should the dog actually attack.

  Pax doesn’t. He sits. He watches closely as Keller lowers the tin bowl. The bowl sits right at Keller’s feet. In order to get his dinner, the dog must approach the man. Neither one moves. Then Keller moves the bowl closer to the dog with his foot. The dog steps a foot closer to the bowl.

  “So, that’s how it’s going to be?” Keller pushes the bowl halfway to the dog. The dog moves to halve the distance between himself and the tempting bowl of food. “Come on, Pax, come get your dinner. I sure want mine.”

  The dog isn’t growling, and Keller takes this as a success. It’s enough for today. He pushes the bowl directly under the dog’s chin. By now, the sun-warmed meat is attracting flies and a bluebottle buzzes around the dog food in the bowl. Without even taking his eyes off Keller’s face, the dog snaps and the fly disappears.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pax was bewildered. Boxed, freighted, handled by strangers, then brought to this place of dogs to endure the relentless cacophony of the displaced. He had no idea what was happening, or why. All the dog knew was that he had no clear mandate, no orders. Francesca had clung to him and then ordered him into a crate. She’d asked and he’d willingly entered the crate, turned around, and watched quietly as a stranger fastened the door closed. The crate was lifted into the back of a truck and Pax couldn’t see over the tailgate. Couldn’t see that Francesca wasn’t following. The rumble of the heavy engine obscured any sound that she might have been making, calling him back.

  The crate went from truck to train, and back to a truck. The air was different here, warmer and filled with the scent of other dogs and men. Pax stood in his confinement and barked out a greeting. He was taken out of his crate and he wriggled with anticipation, so many men. Surely Rick was here; surely Francesca would appear to take his leash in her hand. A veterinarian examined him, patted him on the head, and handed the leash to yet another stranger. And then another stranger attached him to a doghouse and left him there with a full bowl. But neither Rick nor Francesca appeared.

  During the long night, the cooler air dragging thousands of new scents to him, Pax lay awake and grieving. He understood it now: He’d been sent away. The only people he trusted had turned him out of the nest as if he were a weanling puppy being chased off by a newly pregnant mother.

  The only recourse for his battered spirit was to resist. A growl, a show of teeth, a bite, and these unfamiliar men knew enough to back away. He would not capitulate. He would not wag his tail for that bowl of food; nor would he eat it if anyone watched. He would not submit to being touched and he snapped at the hand of the first person to try to touch him. Even without the sense of abandonment, Pax’s nature wasn’t open to strangers. He’d tolerated Rick’s pals, always polite, but always aloof. Francesca had been the only other human to penetrate that singular devotion. Rick was gone and now she had sent him away, and these strangers thought that they could lay hands on him and make him do their will. Not once in his short life had Pax ever bitten anyone until he bit the arm of the second man to think he could dominate the unhappy dog. That’s when they put him in this isolated kennel.

  This third man came and simply waited for him. He sat beside the enclosure, talking quietly. He tossed bits of meat to him, but Pax disdained touching any that didn’t fall close by. Wounded in spirit, the dog would not be seen accepting his gifts. He growled when the man stood and defiantly opened the gate to the kennel. Pax showed his teeth and the man gave him the win when he stepped back out of the enclosure. The man came back and did it again, and again Pax growled to warn him away. The man knew that he had the upper hand, however, because he still held the food bowl in his hands. The bits that had landed beside Pax were not enough to satisfy his hunger. The man sat back down, and the two considered each other, the wires of the cage separating them.

  Pax lay still on the hard ground and studied this man sitting purposefully in front of him. Their eyes flicked over each other’s forms, the dog reading the man’s youth easily; the man comprehending the dog’s simmering rage. The dog locked eyes with the man and recognized that he, too, was a solitary creature, not given to connection. When the man didn’t look away, the dog knew that they were equals. The man, like the dog,
would not submit. When he came into the enclosure one more time, the bowl held out like an offering, a thin suggestion of caution came from his skin, and Pax admired that. The man wasn’t afraid of the dog, but he respected him. Pax let him push the bowl to him, although he didn’t eat until this patient man walked away.

  The next day, it was just the same. A bowl of breakfast, fresh and still smelling like food and not carrion. The heat that reflected off his coat drove him to pant, his jaws wide, tasting the scent of the man’s sweat, a scent that was working its way into the dog’s thoughts. It told the story of what he’d eaten, and that he’d had beer the night before. Pax breathed in deeply; the familiar odor reminded him of Rick, who always poured a little beer into a saucer for him. He loved the grainy taste, like eating some kinds of good grass. Rick had been gone for a long time. The scent of the beer on this persistent man’s skin made Pax long for the companionship of those hot summer nights when Rick would come home after a game and tell Pax all about it.

  Pax had protected Francesca, and acknowledged her as his responsibility, but while Rick was there, his heart was always his. Man and dog. A dignified and purposeful relationship of equals. But Rick was gone and Pax had no way of knowing if he’d ever come back. So much time had passed, and with it the expectation of reunion, that Pax had thrown his heart into Francesca’s care. Taking care of her and being loved by her. And then she, too, was gone. Like his mother so many years ago, vanished.

  Here was this new man, cautious and patient, not reaching out to touch, respectful and smelling delicately of last night’s beer. As long as the dog had been isolated in this hot, humid, strange kennel, he hadn’t slept deeply enough to be rested. Like his wolf antecedents, he was on a perpetual high alert, ready to defend himself, a captive. But an unlikely relaxation came over him on the third day of this man’s unwanted companionship. Pax fell into a deep sleep, his body shaded by the doghouse, his sense of being threatened gone for the short time he slept.