Night Howl

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Yes, but afterward, we learn that they had brain tumors or they had been doing little things people ignored. . . they checked King for a tumor?”

  “Yes, the head was X-rayed.”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I don’t have any suggestions for you, and you saw what my office looks like.”

  “Yeah.” Sid stood up. “I appreciate your giving me these few minutes, though.”

  “That’s okay. I’m sorry I can’t give you anything more. I know how you must feel.”

  “Perhaps, if something else comes to mind . . .”

  “I’ll give you a call. That’s a promise.” Dr. Fox extended his hand and Sid shook it. Outside in the lobby, he paused by the German shepherd. The owner was an elderly woman dressed in a long black overcoat. She looked fragile and afraid, with eyes sadder than the eyes of the dog that had quills in its mouth.

  “Went where he shouldn’t have, huh?” Sid asked.

  “It’s not like him,” she said. “He’s always right by me. Stays close to home. He’s a good dog. But it’s those dogs down the street that come up all the time,” she added, her voice filled with vehemence, her pale, slim face becoming animated. “I tell those people they should keep their dogs leashed, but it’s too much trouble to put up with the barking.”

  “You should report them.”

  “Oh, I have. The police come up; they warn them, and then they’re at it again.” She looked at her dog. The animal sat patiently and stared up at Sid. The dog’s eyes were watery. Sid thought he looked remorseful, like a child who had been caught doing wrong and hoped to escape serious punishment by playing up his regret. “He’s a good dog,” the old lady said, stroking the animal’s head and neck. “It’s those others.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Sid said. He started to pet the dog and then stopped. “Good luck,” he said and left the office.

  She talks about him as though he were a child, he thought as he started for home. Then he thought, but so many people do. And the pet food industry and all the related pet industries cater to that, encourage that. He thought about the television commercials in which animals were shown having opinions about brands of food. People clothed their animals, bought health insurance for them, and even buried them in special pet cemeteries. No, the old lady isn’t hard to understand, he thought. But how much of this stuff is true and how much of it is superimposed? Are animals really capable of the deep feelings and emotions we ascribe to them?

  What was his relationship to King? He had liked the dog, had been impressed with him, especially after he had gone through obedience training. Sometimes when he sat there in the living room looking at Sid or at the kids, Sid thought he looked as though he were thinking. There were times when he seemed sad and times when he seemed happy. Yet was it possible to ascribe what had happened simply to a case of a bad mood?

  People, who are far more intelligent than dogs, have been known to do impulsive and foolish things . . . things that hurt others and things that hurt themselves. Why was it so hard for him to accept that the dog might have done that, too?

  Because it’s precisely his lower level of mentality that makes him predictable, Sid thought. Someone once said, some philosopher, “To think is to be sad.” The deeper one thinks, the more one philosophizes, the more unhappy one can become about this life.

  Intelligent people are unpredictable because they see more choices and take more original routes. The dog, a lower form of life and intelligence, can’t be as moody. He wasn’t happy being chained, but it would be a stretch of the imagination to expect that to make him suicidal or conniving.

  None of this satisfied Sid. All that he had learned and thought about only deepened the mystery. Maybe Clara was right; maybe he should simply let it be: admit defeat and forget. It wasn’t in his character to do so, but it wasn’t in his character to be self-destructive, either.

  He sat in the car for a moment after he pulled into the driveway; he stared at the empy doghouse. It would be best to get that out of here now, he thought. It was a shame to destroy it; it was a well-built doghouse. Maybe he could put an ad in the paper and try to sell it. It was worth a few bucks. There were people on the lookout for things like this. He should have put an ad on Dr. Fox’s bulletin board in the office lobby. He’d just give the doctor’s office a call and ask them to do it. He was sure they would.

  There was certainly no chance, no chance in the immediate future, that he would get another dog, even though the doctor at the emergency room in the hospital had made that suggestion.

  “Best way to overcome what could be a lifetime paranoia,” he said. “Get him a puppy and let him start anew.”

  “Not a chance,” Sid said. Maybe he’d been too quick to make up his mind.

  Then he thought about the old lady and the dog with the quills in its mouth. Too much trouble, he thought. They’re not worth it. I’d rather take my chance with the burglars.

  He got out of the car, but before he reached the house, Clara was at the door. She looked white with fear.

  “Oh Sid,” she said, her voice thin and raspy, like someone talking in her sleep. “Thank God you’re home.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Bobby went to school, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “So? What is it?”

  “It’s King,” she said.

  “King?”

  “I heard him.”

  “He’s dead, Clara,” Sid said.

  But Clara went on as though he weren’t even there. “So I came to the door and looked out and he was there.” She turned slowly. “In the doghouse, just like always.”

  3

  “I’VE TRACKED ALL sorts of animals in my life,” Qwen said, “but I never seen nothin’ like this.”

  Kevin Longfellow looked at the trapper. He didn’t like the idea of going into town to find one of the locals to help in this search, but Dr. Bronstein was right when he said, “We’re not trappers and hunters. We’re scientists. We’re not going to know the first thing about what to do out there. It’s been nearly three days and those woods are deep.” Kevin was a little wary of Mike Qwen, but everyone they talked to said he was the best. They said he knew the land so well he could read it better than one of those air traffic controllers could read radar. He knew just where every property line began and ended; he knew where the forest had thinned and thickened. He was a remnant of a bygone age, someone who lived off the land, a professional trapper and hunter.

  As such, he was suspicious of technology; he distrusted a modern age that substituted so many devices and machines for human effort. He wasn’t eager to work for them, but, if he succeeded, they offered half again as much money as he could make in a year. It didn’t seem like much to do, so he relented and agreed to lead a search party.

  “What the hell are you people doin’ up there any-way?” he asked when Kevin drove him up to the institute to start the search.

  “It’s medical research. We’re trying to find better ways to treat people who are sick.”

  “Why so secretive?”

  “Everyone’s out to steal everyone else’s research. It’s part of the game. There’s more industrial and research espionage going on than espionage between countries.”

  “There was a big demonstration in New York City against experiments with animals,” Qwen said. “I seen it on the television at Old Mill Tavern.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Kevin said, “but if we didn’t use animals, a lot of sick people would be a lot sicker today.”

  “I don’t care one way or the other about it,” Qwen said. “As long as you don’t disturb what’s goin’ on out there,” he added, indicating the forest. Kevin grunted. He was thirty and he didn’t think Qwen was all that much older, even though he had a seasoned look about him. They were about the same height—five eleven or so—and Kevin imagined they were about the same weight, too, although Qwen’s weight was firmer and better arranged. His skin was almond-colored and his sandpaper beard made him look as hard as
a tree.

  Kevin wore an army fatigue jacket and a pair of khaki pants with laced boots. Qwen wore only a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of moccasins. He said he liked to travel light. He had a long hunting knife in his belt, a pack of chewing tobacco in his shirt pocket, and a whistle dangling from his belt buckle. The whistle was “so you guys will know where I am when I want you to know. I’ve been on search parties before and lots of times the searchers get lost before we find what we’re lookin’ for.”

  “There’s not going to be that many of us,” Kevin said. “I’ve got two assistants who’ll take the flanks.”

  “That’s it? I thought this was damn important.”

  “It is, but that’s all I have to bring. From what they tell me, you should be able to do it all by yourself,” he said. Qwen laughed. He recognized that Kevin wasn’t all that happy about this or about him.

  “You ever go into deep woods before?”

  “Not like this,” Kevin said.

  “What about him?”

  “He was domestic from birth. Nothing wild about him.”

  “It comes more natural to him. He don’t need no lessons, but if he’s as domesticated as you say, he ain’t going to be hard to find,” Qwen said.

  That was before they actually began. Now, he stood by the wild blueberry bush and shook his head.

  “What bothers you?” Kevin asked him. As far as he could see, there was nothing, no hint, no tracks, nothing. Qwen squatted and Kevin squatted behind him.

  “Most any animal would go right between the bushes. They don’t consider that if they go right between these bushes, they’ll probably break a branch or two and leave a sign, especially an animal bein’ chased or an animal runnin’ away from somethin’.”

  “So? He didn’t break a branch.”

  “More ‘n that. He didn’t want to. Lookee here,” Qwen said, pointing to the earth. “He crawled through the opening. He took care about it. This is an animal on its stomach pullin’ itself along.” Kevin nodded, but Qwen didn’t look away. He had the eyes of a hunter and his prey was not only somewhere out in the wilderness; it was in the mind of the man beside him. “What is he?”

  “I told you. Just a German shepherd, but one in whom we’ve invested a great deal of work and research. It would be very costly for us to lose him now.”

  Qwen stood up and took a chunk of chewing tobacco out of his pouch. “This isn’t all,” he said. “He started northwest and then went due north. He went northeast and back to due north. Then he turned back there and went southwest. Now he’s come back to due south.”

  “He’s confused.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or he’s zigzaggin’ to throw off pursuit. Could he be doin’ that?” Qwen asked. There was some laughter in his eyes.

  Kevin bit his lower lip. “You’d better blow that whistle. Those guys are going too far ahead.”

  Qwen just looked at him. Then he took the whistle out and blew it. “He’s movin’ pretty fast,” Qwen said. “He’s not the lost animal you described searchin’ for food and shelter. I’d say he’s got a sense of direction and purpose.”

  “So?”

  “So if we go on much farther, we’re goin’ to have to consider livin’ off the land—huntin’ for our own food and water. I think we’re talkin’ about days. We’ve been goin’ three and a half hours; it’s goin’ to take us nearly that much to go back and it’ll be close to dark by then.”

  “What do you suggest? You’re the leader as far as this is concerned.”

  “Damned if I ever seen anything like you guys—bunch o’ doctors and technicians rushin’ out here to look for an escaped dog. What I suggest is we go back. You and I get some supplies together and we come back out in the mornin’. This ain’t what you said it would be. I’m goin’ to have to earn that money.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “You said he wears a collar and you got a leash and he’ll come to you when we finally find him?”

  “Maybe,” Kevin confessed.

  “I’ll need to think about some trappin’ gear, too. I know you want to keep this quiet, Doc, and for now I’ll go along with this worry about spies and all, but we’re goin’ to have to do it right. This is a real challenge. This animal knows we’re comin’. Maybe you’ll tell me a little more as we go along, huh?”

  “Maybe,” Kevin said. He smiled. Despite his initial feelings, he felt he could come to like this man. There was a refreshing forthrightness about him. Perhaps the simplicity of the natural world gave him more insight, even about people. He felt he could trust him and he knew that before it was all over, he would probably end up telling him everything, as wild and incredible as the story might sound. “We’ll do what you say,” Kevin said. “Take us back.”

  Ken Strasser paused at the kitchen sink and looked out the window at the barn. Maybe his old eyes were playing tricks on him, but he thought he saw something slip in through the partially opened door. He expected there would be all sorts of small wildlife in there by now: snakes, field mice, rabbits, and skunks. Maybe a raccoon and a possum would go in and out, but he didn’t expect to see anything that big make its way inside. This looked big—as big as a large dog. A damn stray, he thought. A damn stray.

  He debated whether or not to let the animal stay the night and then thought, if I give him an inch, the animal won’t go. He’d seen it too many times before. When Ethel was alive, it was different. She took pity on anything. Every time he reached for the rifle to shoot a pesky skunk or drive off a coon, she pleaded for mercy. He always gave in, and even if he did shoot, he made sure to shoot too high or too low. It was because of Ethel that he hadn’t gone deer hunting since he was eighteen. He stopped when they started courting, and after they were married, there was no chance. Of course, he could have resumed it after she died, but somehow that wouldn’t have seemed right. He couldn’t do anything she wouldn’t have wanted him to do.

  He even kept the house cleaner than she had kept it. The moment he finished a meal, he was up and about clearing off the table, scraping off the dishes, wiping and washing everywhere. God forbid there was a crumb on the floor. Charley would come and laugh at him, but he knew that his son was quietly pleased.

  “Mom always said you could eat off her floor.”

  “You could. What can I do . . . she left me with bad habits.”

  “Bad habits.” They both laughed about it. His son was fifty-one years old, and in some ways he looked older than his father. Didn’t have the same good life, Ken thought. You can’t compare the women. I was blessed with Ethel, he was cursed with Paula. Why his son had married such a woman, he’d never know. A home-cooked meal was always an ordeal, and to think, they lived in a six-room apartment and she needed a maid twice a week. No wonder Charley came here twice a week to eat and spend time.

  Well, in a way Ken was happy about that. At least he had his son’s company regularly. How many people his age could say the same thing? Oh, they had their share of arguments, most of them about whether or not he should keep the farm. It was a big house for one man, but it didn’t seem right to even think about selling it. It was the only home he had ever known; it had been in the family back to his great-great grandfather. He hoped Charley would take it when he was gone; he had even hoped Charley and Paula and the girls would move in with him, but Paula hadn’t gone for that. She wouldn’t go for it after he died, either; she thought the place was too old and unattractive. The condo was more like it. Condo, he thought. Sounded like some kind of Latin music, not a home; and how could you say that you owned an apartment? It didn’t make sense. Right through the wall was another family who supposedly owned their apartment. There wasn’t any land to speak of, and privacy was nonexistent as far as he was concerned. Bees in a hive, he thought. Bees in a hive.

  Charley tried to make it sound like something. “We got a pool and a tennis court and a health club, all on the grounds.”

  “Hell, you coulda had your own right here. We got nearly eighty acres. A p
ool woulda fit in right nice over near the stone wall, and with the slate ground behind the house . . . you could probably lay out a helluva tennis court.”

  “Paula thinks this is the boondocks, Pop. She likes people around her.”

  “Citified.”

  “It’s the way most people are nowadays. They feel more secure.”

  “Never felt insecure out here. You don’t have people running about muggin’ one another. A rapist would freeze to death waitin’ for a woman.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right about that.”

  “Look, I ain’t one to interfere. Your mother wasn’t that way and I sure as hell ain’t. Do what makes you happy. Seems a shame though, all this bein’ unused.”

  “It’s too much for you, Pop.”

  “Well... I ain’t doin’ anything with the land . . . just the small garden is all. I think about gettin’ a cow or two, just for the helluva it.”

  “Pop!”

  “But I don’t give it a second thought,” he said. Charley smiled and nodded. “I’m eigthy-one years old, boy.”

  “I know, Pop.”

  “Ten years without your mother.”

  “I know.”

  “Been the saddest ten years of my life. Worse trick she ever played on me—dyin’ before me.”

  “Just like her to upstage you, Pop.”

  The old man nodded. Deep in the back of his mind, rooted forever in his thoughts, was the permanent image of Ethel Marie Houseman, the anchor of his existence, her light brown hair brushed down softly over her bare shoulders, her eighteen-year-old body turned toward him, her arms out. It was right here in this house, with the moonlight tearing through the curtains and the peepers serenading them into the wee hours.

  How many times during the past ten years while he moved through this house did he stop to think about her? How many times did he stop to talk to her? He wasn’t alone as long as he was here. Give up this house and living in it? He might as well give it all up.

  His attention came back to the barn. Night was falling quickly. Whatever it was, it had come to settle in for the evening. He was sure of it. If he was going to do anything, he would have to do it quickly. Best to drive it off, he thought; best to send it packin’. Sorry, Ethel, but I don’t need no wild thing on the grounds. Got enough to worry about with the garden and all.