by Barbara Dana
Later that afternoon, I sat with my dog in the yard, bundled up against the cold and all the while marveling at the wonder of my new friend, his shaggy love, his brown kisses, his broad head and tremendous webbed paws. My first order of the afternoon was to pick a name. I thought at some length about what would suit him, but without success. All at once he stood up and headed for the pond, where the woods begin, and—splash!—into the deep! Newfoundlands love water. They were originally used on ships in the sea in the North and are excellent swimmers. It must be in their blood from long ago. If there was a wreck, the sailors would hold onto them and the dogs would pull the sailors ashore. They were true lifesavers.
Carlo!
The name appeared in my brain without warning. In Jane Eyre I had encountered the name of one of the character’s dogs. It was Rivers’s pointer who was named Carlo. I had taken an instant liking to the name, finding it steady, relaxed and quite Italian, exotic in an ordinary way. The blessedness of opposites! The name was not entirely suggestive of a pointer, but for a Newfoundland it was perfect! “Carlo!”
My shaggy companion looked up from his occupations in the pool, fixing his gaze upon his mistress. “Carlo! Come here!” He ran—a shambling gait—to my side. Such notice paid, such eagerness to be my friend! “Let me look at you.” I leaned back, my arms out straight, his huge head between my narrow hands. I wondered at his enormous size and only a few short months on the Earth! “How can you be so large?” My answer was the lap of a wet tongue on my cheek.
Inside, Mother and I discussed Carlo’s sleeping arrangements. Mother favored the washroom. That practical spot was located adjacent to the kitchen and apart from the rest of the house, which pleased Mother in both aspects. It would be warm and also away from any rugs that might prove to be places upon which to collect hair.
“He does not want to be warm,” I stated, a trifle pompously. “He is from the North.”
Mother maintained her point of view. “There are no rugs in the washroom,” she said. “That will make it cooler.” She patted Carlo on the head. She didn’t need to bend.
“I would like him to sleep with me,” I said. “He’s very young and just away from his mother and all his brothers and his sisters. He will be lonesome.”
“He will get used to it.”
I had to think of something. “He may cry at night and wake Father.”
Mother responded, “Oh, that won’t do.”
I knew that would get her.
“That dog is not sleeping in our room!” Vinnie had just joined us in the kitchen. “He is too big, he has too much hair and he drools. I’ll bet he snores as well!”
“You’re a fine one to talk!”
“I do not snore,” Vinnie argued.
“You snore,” I told her, “and that is the fact of it. I’m afraid you will have to take my word on the matter, as you will never hear what noises you do or do not make while you are sleeping. That must be left for others to judge.”
Vinnie did not appreciate my declaration. “I don’t care whether I snore or not,” she said. “He’s not sleeping in our room.”
Carlo lay flat, chin on the floor, watching me. I had to find another solution. It was this: Carlo would sleep in the hall outside our bedroom door. If he cried I would get up and be of company to him until he was comforted. Vinnie didn’t care for this idea either, but Mother accepted it, saying that when Carlo grew accustomed to his surroundings she felt it best he sleep in the washroom. Austin and Father had less dramatic views when presented with the question. Austin said he didn’t care where Carlo slept. In uncharacteristic conduct Father left the entire matter to the women in the family to decide.
That evening Carlo and I walked together down North Pleasant Street—away from town. No need to beckon, no cause to cajole, just the walking, my feet keeping a gentle pace and the sun setting to the left in all its purple glory and my own dear Carlo padding along at my side. After we made the turn to go back to the house, I found myself telling Carlo what I had never told another living soul, not even Ben. “I will be a Poet,” I told him. Carlo slowed down, looking up, listening it seemed, striving for the sense behind the words he did not know. “I shall write verses like music and when we are both no longer on the Earth they may be of some small help. What do you think of that?”
Carlo stopped to examine a bush. Ears rounded forward, he sniffed, inferring a history I could only imagine.
Carlo’s First Night.
Yours truly is climbing the stairs with a lamp in one hand, the warmest of shawls about her shoulders and a gigantic puppy padding behind on silent paws and up, up, up the stairs, all amber and curious. We reach the top and turn to enter the bedroom. Vinnie is inside, sweetly on the bed, doing a bit of sewing, darning I believe. “He’s not coming in here,” she says.
“I want to show him where I live.”
“He’s seen it,” says Vinnie. “Now get him out!”
I put down the lamp, take an extra spread from the closet shelf and move to the hall. Carlo follows, watching my every move. I fold the spread, laying it down by the side of the door, against the wall. “Your bed,” I say, trying to make it sound as appetizing as a thing could be. Carlo stares. “Nice bed.” I kneel down, patting the spread with the utmost enthusiasm. “Come!” Carlo walks slowly onto the spread and stands. “Good dog!” Carlo stares. “Lie down!” Carlo doesn’t move. His look suggests his owner may have lost her mind. He watches as I go back to get another spread, lay it beside the first one in the hall, lie down on the second folded spread and pat the first spread once more. “Lie down.” He obliges. “Good dog!” I feel the comfort of his warm body, his softness, his trust. Oh, the glory of it! I gather the second spread about my shoulders and fall into a dreamless sleep.
I am awakened by a pain in my shoulder. Once awake I realize I am cold. I have heard it said that heat rises. If ever I had been uncertain of the fact, that night brought it to my attention. Not even the heavenly closeness of Carlo’s body can bring sufficient warmth to our drafty spot upon the floor. I hate to leave him, but leave him I must, returning to the bed.
Vinnie is snoring to the extreme. I shove her several times in hopes of securing a quick piece of quiet during which to fall into that holy space of dreams. Finding that space at last, I sleep, but am awakened by a great crash with screaming and yelping and such a Hurrah as has not been heard in Amherst in fifty years! I leap up to see what disaster has befallen, only to find Carlo and Vinnie in a heap on the floor of the hall and Father in his doorway and Mother in her nightgown in utter dismay! It seems Carlo had shifted his spot from the spread to just in front of the door when Vinnie awoke—rested after all that snoring—opened the bedroom door and stepped into the darkened hallway, directly on top of the sleeping Carlo! He yelped—she tripped—he jumped—she screamed—he yelped again as Father opened his door to check on the commotion. “What’s going on here?” he said, or words to that effect. It was quickly determined that Carlo would henceforth sleep in the washroom.
After breakfast Carlo and I went for our morning walk. The air was cold, the fog low, my companion hills barely visible as they rested, holding their plans for spring. My gloves were no help to my fingers, and my nose—a melting icicle—spoke of the dampness in my bones. Carlo was in his glory as he padded steadfastly ahead to greet the Day.
When we returned home Vinnie was dusting. She darted about the parlor with a rag—and Mother with her hair tied up in a handkerchief to put off the dust, a paltry scene for such a Large Morning.
Fingels Cave and the Knowledge of My Destiny
Life was new! Everywhere was Carlo, and Carlo was in everything! I exaggerate. Carlo was not “in everything.” There were occasions upon which Carlo was not in the sleigh. He was not pleased about this, I know, as he had to be instructed many times not to follow us. I can picture him by the gate, surrounded by snow, a sorry figure, eyes not believing what they saw, amber fluff in all the white, getting smaller and smaller as we pulled
away.
It was the winter of Fingels Cave. Abby had heard about the spot and simply would not rest until we found it. It was a large cave to the south of Amherst, near the dinosaur bones and said to be haunted. We found it on the coldest day of the year. Father was not pleased with the excursion, but we had a grand time—Cousin John, Emmons and Bowdoin, Abby and myself off to explore the World! As it turned out the cave was not haunted. That was our opinion, at any rate, with the exception of Abby, who insisted that ghosts lurked within, as she had heard their hollow voices mourning the loss of onions. Some great onion famine no doubt, not as yet recorded in the annals of Time.
Valentine’s Week came soon. This year, being eighteen and alluring to be sure, I received many Valentines. I especially liked the little book Picciola, from Cousin John. I was no sooner caught up in the glory of so many fine attentions than without warning on came a most unpleasant bout of stomach distress. I was lifeless with pain, sleeping the days away, with Carlo wanting to play and I unable to lift my head from the pillow. I find that colds make one carnal, but I can’t say the same for disorders of the stomach. I wonder if the carnal nature of colds with all the time languishing between the sheets is a reason for Father’s dislike of same. He and Mother never could tolerate anything carnal. Well, I suppose they must have—at least three times! One wonders how that ever came about!
Once well, I again thrilled to Ben’s visits. The night of his first visit after my illness was particularly cold, and the wind blowing the snow in great swirls about the house. Father and Austin were not at home. Vinnie was otherwise engaged, thank goodness. Ben has come to see me! He sits in the large chair by the piano, Carlo at his feet. I pour the wine. Mother enters with a tray of black cake and all her anxious fussing. “Are you warm enough?” “Oh, dear!” “The wine will help.” “Have some black cake.”
Carlo lifts his nose. He sniffs. Then straightway up to stand at attention, staring at the tray.
“Sit, Carlo,” I tell him.
Carlo sits, eyes locked on the cake.
“He’s drooling!” says Mother.
Ben smiles. “I’d say he fancies a bit of that cake.”
I set down my wineglass, hurrying to catch the drool with my handkerchief before it reaches the rug. No luck to be had in the matter.
“He might be better off in the washroom,” says Mother, setting down the tray.
“He’s no bother,” says Ben.
“Not a bit,” I add in haste, dabbing at the rug.
“He’s making quite a mess, Emily,” says Mother.
“I can handle it!” Not entirely true, but important to state, as anything less and Carlo would be banished to the outer regions! I stand. “All clean!”
Mother returns to the kitchen. I sit. Ben picks up a piece of cake. Carlo is now staring at Ben, who is about to bite into the luscious dessert. Ben bites, chews—and then? He breaks off a piece of moist black cake for you-know-who! “May I give him a taste?” Ben asks.
“To be sure,” I say, and—Snap! The cake is gone! I can honestly say I have never seen so fervent a response to anything on the part of man, woman, child or beast!
Ben and I talked much that cold night. And to think he had come calling despite the chill, a thrilling event to my mind and heart! I wondered if I loved him in a carnal way. I thought not, but could not be sure. Most precious to me of all was his tender attention to my verses, his belief in my ability to set down words that lived! I shall thank him forever for that and for bringing me to my Self !
Miss Lyon died that spring. All her prescriptions for life surrendered to Death, democratic Death, and in March she was gone. No manner of calisthenics, right thinking, religious determination, proper diet or intellectual stockpile could save her from the intention of the Hooded One. Miss Lyon’s death was an awful shock, and there had been more recent deaths to dull the spirit—Jacob Holt and Olivia Coleman. There was another loss to bear, harder, I am ashamed to say, than all the rest. Ben would be leaving Amherst.
“How does one hold the blossoms when everywhere there are thorns?”
I put the question to Austin, at home now and busy with his studies at the College. It was one of our famous Night Talks, Carlo at our feet and deep in his sleep.
“I don’t know,” said Austin. He looked comfortable in his slippers, but not in his skin. I know that feeling, as if something were terribly wrong with one and not knowing what. I stroked Carlo’s amber softness. “Do you think if we gave our hearts to Christ, the thorns would disappear?”
“Perhaps.” Austin was clearly of a brooding spirit. I wished to shake him by the collar, demanding his presence, as I so often wished to do with Father.
“You are no help!” I exclaimed.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Something! Not just ‘perhaps’! What is that—‘perhaps’?” I was quite beside myself. Chaos was building in my world. My Life had been so simple—not always pleasant—but clear. Now Ben had come into my life, calling the knowledge of my Destiny from deep within those hidden regions of the brain, reminding me of a future unknown to my daily mind, to support me as none other had done. And soon he would be gone. I could not bear it! I watched my beloved brother as he sat brooding in the light of the fire, wishing with the fire of my Soul to share with him my longing to be a Poet, to receive that same encouragement bestowed upon me by my Friend. I disliked reserving parts of myself—the most important parts!—from my soulmate brother.
Austin shifted uneasily in his chair.
I must not mention the subject of my poems again. My verses must not be trapped beneath the boulders of my brother’s indifference.
“I hate growing up!” I said with surprising force. Carlo woke all at once—the sudden jerk of his head, eyes blurred, nose dry, ready. He watched me, seeking clues. “I cannot do it!” I said. “I don’t know how!”
“What do you mean?” Austin seemed distant. It scared me.
“Things were simpler when we were children!”
“What things?”
“All things!”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You used to!”
“I understand you in general,” said Austin. “I just don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think you understand me in any way! And I don’t understand myself!”
“I can’t help you with that.” Austin can be so cold. I had never noticed it before. I expect all of us can be unfeeling. I thought my beloved brother was exempt from such human failings, but why should he have been the only one?
Abby Slips Away
It amazes me how quickly I change. Ben read my poem about Father’s shoes and said that it held “depth beneath the humor” and carried “layers of experience in the briefest stroke of the pen.” No wonder I felt quick joy at those remarks! His plan to leave Amherst at summer’s wane seemed distant to me then, and I, filled with the thrill of his assessment of my work, about to burst with a sense of Possibility. I am truly a mixed bag.
In that same week Lyman took us maple-sugaring. He had enjoyed the task as a boy and wanted to share the fun. A group of us went—Abby and I, Vinnie, Emmons, Thurston and Cousin John—off to meet the Maples!—And Carlo at my side and the sharp air and the breeze, the tiny frogs peeping their springtime report from the swamp, the grass at the sides of the spring, the bits of ice and the snow in mounds of lingering winter. All was right with the world that day, blue sky and Whiskers, Carlo and girl friends and laughter and all the while my Destiny at my back—the wind in my sails!
The next day Abby and I came out the front door in the midst of an important conversation and me without a shawl or a thought of winter! I watched as Carlo frolicked—if such a thing can be said of so awkward a creature—in the little pond at the edge of the woods. I breathed deeply, eyes closed, chin to the sky. “Oh, Abby, don’t you think the world is grand?”
“Fine enough for me,” said Abby. Despite her fascination with Fingels Ca
ve, she has always possessed a practical bent.
It was a good day. I would see Ben that night. He had stopped by that very morning, leaving his card in the brass bowl on the narrow table in the hall. “Emily. Will call this evening. Ben.” The words were thrilling, especially as I had just written a new poem and simply had to show him. It was a Valentine—a love poem to Carlo!
Abby and I moved toward our favorite Elm, just yards from the house. We were making a kind of escape. We had been seated in the parlor, discussing the important matter of whether Tempe had kissed Gould at the mill, when Snugglepoops took a notion to attack our ankles. Charging with military severity, he pounced, grabbing fiercely, needle claws deep, only to be followed by teeth! When shooed with flailing limbs and shouts of dismay, the “Captain of the Infantry” retreated to base camp beneath the piano, gathering force for the next round. I complained bitterly to Vinnie, who offered not one bit of sympathy as in Vinnie’s mind whatever the cats do is second only to the Holy Grail.
Abby reached the tree and I not far behind. The buds had begun to show themselves, their intention strong within. Abby sat on the new grass. “So what do you think?” she said.
“About what?” I had forgotten the question.
“Did she kiss him?”