Irish Red

by Jim Kjelgaard

  “Is he healthy?”

  “Healthy as an ox, and just as dumb.”

  “It’s wasteful to shoot a dog like that,” John Price said. “There are always uses for one. Let’s watch him run.”

  The three stepped inside the kennel run, and Mike wagged his tail a little harder while he stayed where he was. When Curley Jordan approached, Mike raised an appreciative nose to snuffle his hand. Curley unsnapped the chain, and Mike trotted to the end of his run. He stood watchfully, but bounded after a pebble when Joe Williams tossed one.

  “See that?” the trainer said. “No size, no form.”

  “Well, crate him up tomorrow morning, Curley. I’ll tell you where to send him.”

  The three stepped out of Mike’s run and went to the next one. Joe Williams opened the door leading to the young English setter’s run, spoke and the well-disciplined puppy stepped out. At another command, he came to heel. They went away.

  Mike pointed a slim muzzle at the sky and moaned his heartbreak. Once more he turned hopefully to Sean. His brother, however, refused even to turn around. Mike coaxed with little whines, scraped enthusiastically at the dirt floor of his pen, and even retrieved the stick and rattled that against the wire. Sean paid no attention.

  A jerky-tailed sparrow alighted on top of the kennel building, then flew down to the floor of Mike’s run. Mike wagged a friendly tail. The sparrow was not the playmate he would have chosen but he would try anything to relieve the monotony of being penned up with nothing to do. He took an anticipatory step toward the sparrow, that flicked its tail and looked at him with bright, beady eyes. When Mike took another forward step, the sparrow flew.

  Thoroughly disgusted, Mike threw himself prone. He laid his head on his front paws and rolled liquid eyes. Obviously this fenced run was no place to be. It was too small, too confining, and there wasn’t any fun here.

  Suddenly Mike raised his head. When the three men left, they had forgotten to chain him. He could get out.

  But the time was not now. Whenever he got out of his cage at home Danny or Ross had usually caught him and put him back. He had even been brought back to this run several times. If he could escape again, he would do so when no one was around.

  Mike bided his time, pinning all his faith on what he had observed to be the habits of human beings. They were usually around by day but never at night, when they shut themselves in their houses. Obviously, if Mike escaped at night, he would be much better off.

  The kennel man made his rounds and Mike gulped a few mouthfuls of the food put in his dish. He ate just enough to stay his rising hunger, for the food had no more taste than before. The kennel man left. Mike heard the kennel’s main door slam shut and the metallic sound of the key turning in the lock.

  The sun faded and the first shades of twilight made a pleasant summer haze around the buildings. Lights glowed in the big house and in the various tenant houses. Mike waited, watching the lights and testing the various air currents with his nose. There wasn’t any hurry.

  One by one, as the night chill made itself felt, the dogs left their yards for the warm kennels. Mike entered his, snuffling at the cedar shavings and taking a big drink of cold water. He lay down on the shavings, not at all an unpleasant bed, and slept for a while. A couple of hours later he padded back into the yard.

  Most of the tenant houses, whose occupants started their day early in the morning, were already dark. Only a few lights glowed in the big house when Mike executed his escape plan.

  It was simple. All Irish setters are possessed of a restless intelligence, but Mike’s was tuned to a higher pitch than most. Since he’d been able to wriggle he had investigated every possible thing that came his way. It was this bump of curiosity, plus a willingness to try anything, that had taught Mike how to climb a fence.

  He reared, stretching his front feet as far as they would go and feeling for two apertures in the fence. When he found them, he hooked his front paws over them and brought his rear feet up. Mike balanced his back paws on two more strands of fencing and felt for another hold with one exploring front paw. He brought the other one up beside it, then advanced his rear paws again.

  When he could reach it, he grasped the top of the six-foot fence with his front feet and brought his rear ones up until his body was bent almost double. Then he kicked upward and outward, so he would clear the fence, and launched his agile self into space. Almost as supple as a cat, Mike twisted in mid-air and relaxed his legs. He struck lightly, easing the fall on limber muscles, and panted happily.

  Now that he was again at liberty, he was overflowing with curiosity about this big estate. Even though he thought of Danny and Ross, and the cabin in the clearing, there was no need to go there right away. First there were things to be done.

  A few clouds scudded across the clear sky, darkening the moon and stars. Mike padded happily on, knowing very well that it was going to rain but not caring. He had weathered storms before.

  Mike went first to the horse barn. It was locked for the night, but he had no special wish to enter. He sifted the air currents drifting out of the barn, and after a few minutes had verified the number of horses in the barn and their arrangement in the stalls. He repeated his investigations at the cattle barns.

  Dense blackness reigned now, and a drape of angry black clouds spread clear across the sky. Thunder rumbled and ragged lightning flashed. Mike paid no attention. It was a warm night and rain could not hurt him.

  Suddenly Mike realized that he was hungry. Throughout the day he had merely nibbled at the food set before him, and had not eaten nearly the prodigious amounts to which he was accustomed. He sat down, trying in his own way to puzzle out where food might be found. Having never foraged for himself, he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about it. His food had always been placed before him.

  Restlessly Mike prowled back to the barns and investigated them thoroughly. He found nothing he could eat save a little calf meal that had been spilled out of a bag. Mike licked it up, and found the flavor not at all unpleasant. It was much better than the crumbly stuff offered to him in the kennel, but there was not nearly enough for a satisfying meal.

  When a rabbit flashed out of the shadows ahead of him, Mike gave enthusiastic chase, but not with the idea of translating the rabbit into a meal. He chased it because he had always chased whatever fled from him, and he liked to see things run. When the rabbit lost itself somewhere in the tall grass outside the pastures, Mike abandoned the chase.

  He made no effort to trail because he was not a trailing dog. The instinct to follow tracks left by anything except his master was only a dying ember within him, a function which he could not bring back to life because men who wanted his ancestors to hunt game birds only had made every possible effort to destroy other impulses.

  Mike was very hungry now, but he still did not know which way to turn. He bit the tops off some young clover shoots and ate them. They had no pleasant taste nor did they seem to do anything to satisfy his hunger. Then Mike had a sudden happy inspiration.

  Food had always come from human beings, and they would be in the houses. The only light that glowed was in two upper windows of the big house, but that made no difference. At full gallop Mike set off toward the house.

  He ran up on the spacious front verandah and sniffed at the dark door. The scent of the people inside was very plain, but he could hear no one moving about or see any sign of people. Mike pawed tentatively at the unyielding screen door, but it was a massive thing, much stronger than the flimsy door on the cabin. It could not be wriggled or jarred. Mike pawed industriously, but succeeded only in leaving some long scratches. He sat down on the porch, looked plaintively at the screen door, and cocked his head from one side to the other. Then he scooted from the porch and ran around to the back door.

  He was some distance away when a most enticing odor made him drool. Mike ran around the corner of the house, got the full impact of the odor, and licked his chops. A few light drops of rain spattered around him a
s he sat down on his haunches and looked up at three galvanized iron pails set on a concrete block about two feet off the ground.

  They were garbage pails, and Mike’s nose told him that the one nearest him held the remains of the big ham that had been served to the house’s guests. But his nose did not tell him how to get it.

  Mike reared, front feet on the cement block and nose extended as far as his stretched head and neck would permit as he snuffled more closely at the tantalizing odor. He got down for further study. The next time he moved, he mounted the block and reared with his front paws against the garbage can’s rim. Eagerly he prodded the can with his nose, and when the lid moved a bit he pushed harder.

  The can tilted, then tipped, and Mike leaped wildly backward as it fell against the next can. That, in turn, fell against the third. With a prodigious tinny clatter, all three cans rolled from the cement block. The lids clattered off.

  Frightened, but not too frightened to rush in and snatch the greasy packet of ham leavings, Mike raced farther into the darkness as soon as he had it. He halted behind an apple tree and peered around it at the big house.

  Upstairs, lights winked on. Two windows were flung open and querulous voices called in the night. The kitchen light went on, the opening door framed a rectangle of light. Two men with electric torches came out, put the tumbled garbage cans back on their block, and went into the house. After fifteen minutes, all was quiet. ,

  Mike tore his paper-wrapped plunder open and ate the large amount of fat and discarded scraps it contained. While rain splashed gently about him, he gnawed the last shreds from a big ham bone. It was a very good and filling meal, and after he had eaten it Mike felt sleepy. He found a warm dry bed, a comfortable niche beneath some irregularly piled lumber, and slept.

  It was daylight when he awakened. The rain had stopped, but ominous clouds still scudded across the sky. Mike yawned, and looked out to see men beginning their work around stables and barns. Cautiously Mike emerged from beneath his lumber pile.

  For a moment he stood beside it, wagging a placating tail and flattening his ears as he looked at the men. One saw him, and came slowly toward him. He was smiling, and seemed friendly enough, but Mike knew only two people with whom he would permit personal familiarity. The only time he had ever voluntarily let anyone except Danny and Ross handle him, he had ended up in a place he did not like at all. Mike had no intention of repeating that mistake, so when the approaching man would have grabbed his collar, he ducked.

  Mike glided away from the lumber pile toward the horse barns, careful to maintain a safe distance between the men and himself. Presently he was confronted by Joe Williams.

  The trainer made soothing noises with his mouth. Mike wagged his tail and flattened his ears, appreciating the show even while he remained wary of it. The trainer tried to coax him forward, but Mike would not go an inch nearer. The trainer’s voice became noticeably less soothing and more angry. Mike backed away, and gave a great leap that carried him to one side when his would-be captor made a sudden dash. The trainer went away, Mike watching him warily.

  He would be wise, he decided, if he left too. There were far too many people around here with sugar in their voices and evil in their hearts. Mike glided around a corner of the horse barn just as Joe Williams reappeared with a long-handled net in his hands. Mike levelled out in the easy, effortless run of the Irish setter, raced across the meadow, and slowed to a walk only when there was sufficient distance between the men at the barns and himself.

  He paced easily across the meadow, stopping now and then to snuffle at mouse runs or places where rabbits had crouched in the tall grass. Presently he came to the edge of a beautiful green field and looked interestedly across it.

  The field, carefully landscaped and seeded, was marked by flags and a varying contour of earth. Almost at the other end, a woman, a man, and two boys were busy at something. Much nearer, four men and four boys were equally intent. Having never seen a golf course, Mike could not understand what the people were doing. He was curious.

  As he started across the green grass, his interest was attracted by a neat stone building at one side of the course. Mike sniffed hungrily at the entrancing odors that floated out of it. He had eaten a lot last night, but his puppy system needed more. Mike trotted toward the house.

  He smelled glowing charcoal, and a man inside the building, but best of all was the odor of freshly ground beef. He came to an open door and looked in.

  The man was in another room, and a rounded heap of fresh beef was on a table near the glowing charcoal. Mike walked in, reared against the table, and gulped great mouthfuls of the raw beef. It was delicious, the best meat he had ever eaten, but before he could finish it, a hurled coffee pot skidded across the table, followed by a stream of excited Latin phrases.

  Mike beat a hasty retreat, knowing when he wasn’t wanted and not caring to argue the point. Anyway, he had eaten almost all he wanted and perhaps the golfers would welcome him. Mike joined the four men and four boys, and took a spectator’s seat far enough away so nobody could lay hands on him. He watched one of the men carefully place a ball on a tee, then swing with a club.

  Struck squarely, the ball sailed like a bird down the fairway. Tongue lolling, intrigued by this wonderful new game which seemed designed especially for him, Mike sailed after it. He pounced on the white ball before it stopped rolling, and snatched it up in his teeth.

  Tail happily erect, ears flying, Mike raced back toward the men. He dropped the ball between his fore paws and crouched, barking at the top of his voice while he invited a game of tag. However, instead of entering into the spirit of the game, the man who had driven the ball was yelling things at the top of his voice. Suddenly he hurled a club straight at the barking puppy.

  Mike left, again not stopping to argue. All he’d wanted was a game, and he had been most uncivilly received. Obviously, nobody here really wanted him around; all they’d offered him so for was capture or bodily harm. Mike wandered disconsolately back to the barns, and went up to sniff noses with Sheilah. After briefly greeting her son, Sheilah stared wistfully at the trail leading to the cabin in the beech woods. Two men tried to corner Mike, but he slipped between them and escaped.

  In the middle of the afternoon the rain started again. A thoroughly soaked and weary pup, Mike sought his nest beneath the lumber pile and tried to sleep. For a while he succeeded, but with the coming of night hunger again drove him forth. The rain had stopped.

  Remembering the garbage cans, Mike went straight to the kitchen door. The tantalizing odor of meat, invitingly set out on the cement block instead of tucked in a garbage can, tickled his nostrils. Mike drooled in anticipation of the feast to come, then discovered that he was not the only one seeking it.

  A big cat, a scarred veteran who ran wild in the woods most of the time, had also located the bonanza and was creeping toward it. Happy mischief lighted Mike’s eyes, and he dashed at the cat. For a moment the big Tom stood his ground, then broke and dashed away toward the cement block with Mike in yapping pursuit. Mike halted abruptly.

  He was just in time to avoid a cleverly laid net spread on the ground. The cat tripped it, and net and captive jumped sharply into the air. For a moment Mike looked at the enraged cat, then stared warily at the meat. It was still there, but this place concealed a great many surprises---all of them unpleasant. Mike remembered the one place where he had always received a loving welcome and the two men who had always given it.

  It was high time he returned to Danny and Ross.

  7. Lost Dog

  The growth that overhung the trail to the clearing was still rain-soaked, and a miniature shower spattered down upon whatever touched them. A cold wind, forerunner of the autumn to come, had sprung up in the wake of the momentarily slackened rain.

  Birds stirred little, contented to hug the shelter of leafy branches or evergreen thickets. Rabbits huddled deeply in their burrows, waiting for the weather to soften before they resumed hopping about their everla
sting trails. Only the hungriest of hunters were afoot. Even the deer, that normally ventured abroad no matter what the weather might be, were staying in their thickets and wind-proof retreats. Almost the only sign of life was the red puppy going up the trail.

  Mike was cold, wet, and hungry, but he had been all of those before and still managed to remain cheerful. Now his very spirits were crushed and his mood was in perfect tune with the black day. Since he’d left the clearing nothing had gone right, and he felt terribly in need of Danny’s and Boss’s sympathetic understanding.

  Never had he felt so completely lost, but now he had definitely turned his back on the Haggin estate. It had nothing to offer that could be compared to the numberless attractions of the beech woods. If he could help it, Mike was never going back there again.

  When he neared the clearing, he began to run. The dark clouds overhead rumbled and lightning flashed. The storm had merely taken a recess.

  Mike reached the clearing, and a whimpering little sob of relief escaped him now that he trod again on familiar and friendly ground. He broke into his undulating run, leaped up the cabin’s steps, and stopped short. Something was definitely and terribly wrong.

  He remembered the cabin as a warm and friendly place. Now, even though it had not been vacated for long, it had acquired that empty look which all unlived-in buildings have. One window was broken and the open door swung as wind blasts buffeted it.

  Mike sat down, lifting one nervous front paw and then the other as he looked dejectedly at the place he had come so far to find. He knew even before he entered that Danny and Ross were not in the cabin, and for that reason he was a little afraid to enter. Finally he bolstered his courage and went to the door.

  Stopping half in and half out, he looked at the cabin’s deserted interior. Of all the familiar things that had been there, only a few newspapers and bits of trash remained. They were strewn helter-skelter across the floor, and a couple of brown mice prowled busily about. When Mike went all the way into the cabin, the mice scurried toward their hidden holes.