The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 2

by Donald Harington

  She encountered along the trail many creatures, edible and inedible, none of whom could understand her attempts to communicate with them: a porcupine, a green turtle, an armadillo, a family of raccoons, and a possum. In the dark she could see clearly enough to tell what an ugly creature the possum was, but she knew from experience that possums were good folk, and friendly, and she was sorry she didn’t know their language. Overhead were flying squirrels whose sounds were too mild to frighten her but noisy enough to be distracting. There was also an occasional owl, whose hoot stopped her in her tracks and reversed her ears.

  After a long time the logging trail met up with a larger trail, a dirt road, and she came to a habitation. She and the other dog caught wind of each other at the same instant. The other loudly announced her name: “Arphrowf!”

  “Hreapha!” she answered.

  Soon they met, and took turns sniffing each other’s identities. Arphrowf wanted to know where in tarnation she thought she was a-heading, this time of night. Hreapha explained that she’d been up on the mountain with her master, but had decided to revolt against him and to disaffiliate herself from his activities. Good gracious to Betsy, said Arphrowf, you don’t mean to tell me. I never in all my born days heard tell of nobody a-quittin out like that. Hreapha explained, He wasn’t a very nice man. I had all I could take.

  Say, said Arphrowf, does he by any chance drive a old beat-up Chevy pick-up? I reckon I’ve seen that feller go past here a hundrit times lately. And wasn’t that you a-settin in the back end? Amidst all kinds of passels and totes and plunder? Where’s he a-haulin all that freight?

  Hreapha sat for a spell (she needed the rest) and told her new friend all about how her former master had taken possession of an old farmstead up on the mountaintop and was apparently stocking it up with enough food and supplies to last forever, including enough hard liquor to enable a flight over the moon or an early death, whichever came first. She asked Arphrowf if she’d ever been up there to that old abandoned house. Her new friend said, I caint say as how I have. I think I know where it is, though. It’s just too fur and snaky for me to want to mess with. Hreapha observed that she hadn’t seen any snakes yet. Then she asked, You wouldn’t happen to have any surplus food lying around loose, would you? Arphrowf apologized: I done et in the forepart of the evening and they won’t be a-layin out my breffust till the sun comes up. But you’re shore welcome to stay and share it with me.

  I guess I’d better be getting on, Hreapha declared.

  Don’t be rushing off. Stay more and we’ll visit till they lay out the chow.

  I thank you, Hreapha said. I reckon I’ll see you again sometime. “Hreapha!”

  “Arphrowf!” her friend bade her goodbye.

  Hreapha possessed an unerring sense that told her which way to go to meet up with her in-habit in what remained of the tiny village where she’d lived recently and where she still had a friend or two. While this sense depended upon a collaboration between her ineffable internal compass and her memory of the complex of odors she had sniffed the many, many times she had been in the pickup on this road, it was primarily a knowledge of that part of herself she had left behind at home, which her mother had told her was called her in-habit: an invisible, unsmellable presence, a second self beyond the senses. So now she headed down the dirt road that would lead there sooner or later. Hreapha was a little sad to be leaving Arphrowf, who was a good old friendly country girl, and she had ever-so-briefly considered the possibility of hanging around and seeing if Arphrowf’s people might want to have her, or at least feed her. But she believed her chances for a meal or a new master might be better in or near the village. Home is home, after all, where your in-habit remains and never wants to leave. There was even the possibility that after her former master had completely moved out of his house, she could move back into it, and continue to enjoy living there, in her old familiar home, the only real home she’d ever known, and if she didn’t have a master, if nobody took possession of the house after he had left it, she could just count on a friend or two to help her forage for food. Possibly, even if somebody did take possession of that house, they might adopt her! She really did have a bright future, and her steps quickened as she trotted along the road. Almost as if in celebration, she came to a spring trickling out of the roadside bank, with a small pool where it fell, and she quenched her thirst at length before trotting onward.

  It was a long way to the village, and she passed very few houses along the road, most of them vacant, and the few inhabited ones domains of her kindred, who continued sleeping or perfunctorily called their names to her as she trotted past. She knew none of them, and only occasionally called her name back to them.

  The only difficulty she had on the long road was an abrupt encounter with a striped skunk. She recognized it instantly and knew that if she antagonized it she’d carry its foul squirtings on her face for days and days. In her own language she tried to assure the skunk that she meant no harm and simply wanted to go her own way, but the skunk spoke a complex foreign language and began circling her with its tail raised and then, at the instant she sensed the animal was about to fire its fetid spray, Hreapha took off, running as hard as her legs would carry her. Thus she escaped the full brunt of the foul vapors, but not entirely their all-encompassing effect. Further along the road she had to stop and burrow her nose into the dirt and hold it there for a long time until the worst of the hideous smell had gone.

  She still carried the awful stink when she finally arrived on the outskirts of the village sometime after daybreak, at one of the very few houses still occupied, where lived a very good friend of hers, a big shaggy fellow named Yowrfrowr. He was always thrilled to see her, especially because his only companions other than his mistress were the countless cats who filled the front yard. Yowrfrowr was a jovial and gentle fellow, but he had little affection for or tolerance of his yard mates, who were now eyeing Hreapha with mean and unwelcoming looks.

  “Yowrfrowr!” he greeted her, but then he backed away from her and said, Ew pee-you, that kitty must’ve had a pole down its back!

  Sorry, she said. I guess I didn’t jump out of its way fast enough.

  They’re a botheration and a pestilence this time of spring, Yowrfrowr observed. A body can’t take a little constitutional without the danger of being squirted by one of their fulsome atomizers.

  Hreapha didn’t always understand Yowrfrowr’s language, which she assumed could be the result of the fact that he was purebred, not of mixed ancestry as she was. He was well-behaved and kind, as well as extremely good-looking, and she thought she liked him more than any other dog of her acquaintance, although he did constantly hint at his sexual attraction toward her.

  You wouldn’t happen to have any of your breakfast left over, would you? She asked.

  Didn’t that bastard give you enough to eat? Yowrfrowr demanded.

  He doesn’t know I’m in town, she said. But even if he did, I wouldn’t want him to feed me. I’ve forsaken him.

  Yowrfrowr’s big soulful eyes grew enormous. You what?

  I just decided I don’t want to live with him anymore. So I ran away.

  High time! Yowrfrowr exclaimed. Though I must say I’ve never heard of such apostasy before. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  But I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday breakfast, Hreapha said, and I’ve been walking for miles and miles.

  Yowrfrowr tilted his head and looked at her sideways. Miles and miles? It’s less than a mile from here to his house.

  He has another house. He’s moving. Way off to some godforsaken run-down homestead on the mountaintop far north of here.

  No wonder you left him. He has no right to take you away from this town…and from me. Yowrfrowr winked at her.

  So? She reminded him of her request. I’d really appreciate a bite or two.

  Sweetheart, I’d give you all my breakfast if I still had any. Truth is, I’ve cleaned the dish, at least those morsels which I could beat the blasted feline
s to. But tell you what: I could go over there and scratch on the door and whine piteously and maybe she’d come out and give me some more.

  Which, bless his heart, he proceeded to do. You hide behind that bush, he told her, and then he scratched at the door and whined for a while. As the door opened, he said “Yowrfrowr!” eagerly. The old woman stood there looking down at him. Yowrfrowr had once explained to Hreapha that his mistress was the oldest woman in town, was the grandmother of some of the others who still lived nearby, and was also, despite her age, the most beautiful creature on earth. Her only grave flaw, her hamartia, was her fondness for worthless felines.

  The woman said to him, “What’s bothering you, Xenophon?” The woman never called him Yowrfrowr. Usually she just called him “Fun” for short, or sometimes “Funny.”

  He rose up on his hind legs, holding his forepaws in a begging gesture, smiling broadly all the while. Hreapha thought he was indeed funny, perhaps ludicrous. The cats averted their faces in disgust.

  When that failed to convey his message he went to his empty food bowl and nudged it with his nose toward the old woman’s feet. “You want more food?” she said. “Good heavens, boy, I gave you as much as you always get. You don’t want to get fat.” She scratched him behind the ears and closed the door.

  Well, you tried, Hreapha told him. Thank you.

  I know where there’s a dead pigeon, he declared. If one of those mewly pussies hasn’t found it first.

  Thanks, but I’ll be running along, she said.

  His soulful eyes looked heartbroken. Aw, dearest, don’t depart, he whined with theatrical emphasis. Stay more and let’s frolic.

  I know what ‘frolic’ means to you, you old goat. “Hreapha!” She turned tail.

  “Yowrfrowr!” he called after her mournfully.

  As she went on, she reflected that there might come a time when she’d gladly eat that dead pigeon. But if worst came to worst, she could catch and kill one of the chickens at home, although that would surely outrage him if he knew it was her, not to mention violating her principles about not killing anything but fleas. She trotted down into the main street of the village, which was deserted. She had explored it many times and never found any sign of recent activity or life in it. There wasn’t much left to it: a few empty houses, one of them big; a couple of stores, a big one and a little one, both long abandoned. She had explored the pile of hewn stones that Yowrfrowr told her had once been a bank where people kept their money, and a huge cellar which had been the foundation of a gristmill.

  The derelict village wasn’t her destination. That was another half mile or so beyond it, up the main road that led out of it. She passed one other occupied house, and spoke only briefly with Ouruff, who wasn’t very sociable because she was preoccupied with the rearing of a litter of puppies and didn’t have time for Hreapha. They were practically next-door neighbors, although the house where Hreapha had lived was another quarter-mile beyond Ouruff’s house. She didn’t want to ask Ouruff for food, because she knew that Ouruff was still nursing and needed to eat everything she could lay her paws on. How’s the pups? Hreapha asked politely as she moseyed on past. Jist a-feelin hunkydory, Ouruff said. Stay more and take a look-see.

  Got to be getting on, Hreapha declared. “Hreapha!”

  She arrived at home. Or what used to be home. Although her in-habit was clearly there, and glad to see her, the pickup wasn’t there. She hadn’t expected it to be, didn’t want it to be. She went at once to her food dish, just an old green plastic bowl that he hadn’t washed in ages. It was empty, of course. What had she expected? Well, she knew how absent-minded he was, and half-hoped that he might have put food out for her, just from force of habit. She looked around for the chickens, who were ordinarily free-ranging and had the run of the place and even left their droppings in Hreapha’s favorite spots. But they were all gone! Hreapha visited their coop but they weren’t there either. Had he also taken the chickens to the other place?

  She sighed, and suddenly remembered that the back yard was a cemetery for a great number of bones that she had interred in the course of time, and she had but to remember the best and biggest one, and she could dig it up and gnaw happily on it. She had dug up the back yard not just to bury bones but also to make herself a den, to keep warm in cold weather and keep cool in hot weather, and a number of pits she had dug simply out of boredom. But most of the holes had been for the burial of bones, which he had generously thrown to her after gnawing most of the meat off himself.

  The disinterred bone might not provide much substance for her stomach but the very act of chewing on it kept her from feeling hungry, and it also controlled tartar and prevented build-up and gum disease.

  Hreapha spent the rest of the morning digging up and gnawing bones. There was still some water, rather stale, in her water bowl. Everything around her had her stamp on it; these were her things and smelled like her and therefore belonged to her, and she was happy among her possessions. Eschewing her doghouse with its stinky blanket, she climbed down into one of her holes and curled up and took a long nap.

  As usual, her sleep was full of dreams. She knew that the purpose of dreams, sometimes disturbing and sometimes blissful but always mysterious and puzzling, was to help her make some sense out of her life, and to know what to do day by day. Sometimes she dreamed of being chased by people, other dogs, and monsters. Sometimes she dreamed of chasing people, other dogs, or monsters. Sometimes she had dreams of being able to fly like a bird. Sometimes she had weird dreams: once she was required to put on a dress and a hat to cover her nakedness. Most often though, she dreamed of houses: big houses, little houses, henhouses, doghouses. Doors. Attics. Porches. Windows. Kitchens. Roofs. Bedrooms. None of the houses were actually places she had ever seen or lived in. Always the houses in her dreams were dilapidated, even the doghouses, and had been abandoned, were not being used, although each of them was inhabited by at least one in-habit. And they were not necessarily empty. They were cluttered, and it was somehow her responsibility to move the clutter.

  Whatever she dreamed during her long nap this afternoon, she woke up from it having come to a most disturbing decision. She looked over the rim of the hole in which she had slept and noticed that there was no sign of him or the pickup. Much as she liked this house, which was her home, she was going to abandon it. She was going to reverse her direction and hike all the way back up to that mountaintop, to that other house where her master was moving. For the life of her, she could not understand why she decided to do this. But she knew she must do it. Something in her dreams had persuaded her.

  She gnawed on one more bone and did not bother to bury the remains of it. She took a long drink of the unfresh water. She considered stopping to tell Yowrfrowr where she was going, but she did not. She summoned up her in-habit and said to it, I’m sorry but you’ve outgrown this place. Let’s go.

  Chapter five

  He decided to take the chickens first, as a warm-up for the much harder task of carrying the davenport. He’d already had plenty of exercise chasing them down and catching them and putting them into the two crates. The crates were the real McCoy, the same kind that Tyson used to coop and ship all their birds in, made of wood that could rail in twelve to fifteen four-pound hens, and he’d helped himself to a couple of them several weeks before when he was still driving the cruiser and a Tyson truck had stopped along the highway. But the crates were big and he had to use both hands to lift and carry each one of them, and it was real tricky. In fact it was a son of a bitch. He’d toted so many boxes and sacks on this same path so many times that he knew almost every step by heart and could do it in the dark, although part of it amounted practically to no-hands mountain-climbing, getting his boot up into this crack and then raising the other boot above it to that crack. Christ almighty. For the pure hell of it, he’d tried to calculate just how far he’d gone already, moving everything into the Madewell place. It was just under a mile from where he had to leave the pickup to the front door of
the old house. That meant that it was practically a two-mile round trip. Multiply that by the number of sacks and boxes and bags he’d carried, and it came to the equivalent of walking all the way to Little Rock and back. But any fool walking to Little Rock would stick to the nice smooth road, and his route had been steep down and steep up, reminding him of the old joke that if you was to iron Newton County out flat it would cover the whole state of Texas.

  And he’d never had to carry anything as big as a chicken crate. That was one hell of a hefty job, and it lathered him with sweat not from the heat but the nervousness of it. And then there was the damn birds a-cackling the whole time and even pecking his goddamn fingers. He sure did relish fried chicken and he had to have his scrambled eggs two or three mornings a week, but he just didn’t know if it was worth all the trouble.

  On the trickiest part of the trail, that goddamn ledge against the bluff that was just barely wide enough to stand on, he had to turn sideways and hold the crate sideways and move sideways a step at a time, bit by slow bit. That ledge was such tough going that even Bitch had shied away from it. He hated to remember Bitch now. He truly wished he’d been nicer to her.

  His thoughts lost on the damned dog, he took a misstep, lost his balance, lost his hold on the crate, tripped, and the whole fucking crate went flying off the bluff and it was kind of a miracle he didn’t go flying after it. It landed in a treetop down below, the tree boughs breaking the fall so the crate and birds weren’t smashed into the ground. But the impact tore open the crate’s door and the birds flew out. Some of them landed on branches of the tree, others fell to the ground, a couple of them lay motionless as if dead, but all the damn chickens were out there loose. He wasn’t going to try to climb down there and recover them, and he knew he couldn’t get that crate out of the tree. The hell with it. Their wings was clipped, and they might come home to roost, ha ha. He figured they’d find their way on up to the house, those that didn’t get eaten by foxes or bobcats or whatever was waiting for them out there in the woods.