Canis Major
Page 72
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Back under the canopy of the forest, Mike sat on a downed pine tree and composed two letters, allowing the words to rush over him in a crystalline waterfall of images and sounds. It can’t be this easy, he thought. But it was that easy. Scribbling down what came to him naturally, Mike entered a state of bliss he had never experienced before. Then again, he had never written from a place of such joy. Usually, it was English assignments or history reports that forced Mike to don his literary cap and hang up his one of fanciful reverie. But this time was different. He was writing and actually enjoying it! How is this even possible? he wondered, jotting away. Feeling free and unencumbered, he began to sing.
"Rusty killed Lola, L-O-L-A LOLA,
La-La-La-La- LOOOLLLAAA!!
Boys will be dogs and dogs will be boys
Gonna kill Rusty Whitford with my brand new toy
Cause he killed Lola,
L-O-L-A Lola.”
He let loose a wild sentence of giggles and gibberish. Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped. In one swift, fluid motion, O’Brien clutched the sketch pad to his chest (cardboard side in, so as to not sully the composition) and ducked behind the toadstool-covered log. He rolled over onto his side and pressed his back against the festering wood. He didn’t dare peek over the top—not now. With everything so close to completion, he couldn’t risk getting caught by some wandering kid or redneck possum trapper.
He—it—came closer. Mike heard feet brushing through the thick pine needle duff as clearly as he felt the spongy surface of the log pushing against his back, refusing to compress any further. Fearing his options were exhausted, he began to pray.
Please don’t let it see me. I know you want me to succeed, so please make me invisible—just for one second.
The thing stopped moving and began to sniff. Listening to the sounds of its breathing, Mike slowly smiled. The fear melted out of him like sweat from his grimy back. He sat up and said blithely to his would-be nemesis, "Hey boy! Where’ve you been?"
Tommy barked, and Mike raised a finger to his lips. Smelling peanut butter underneath his fingernail, his belly gurgled. "Shhhh! Quiet now. We’ve got to be quiet." Then, pointing over his shoulder: "We’re too close to houses. People will hear you."
Tommy (formerly Freddy Donovan) lowered his head and pointed his muzzle at the black, nylon circle he had placed on the log while O’Brien had cowered behind it. Mike picked up the ring and read the metal tag attached to it.
"Good dog!" he praised. Bending over, he kissed the Doberman squarely on the lips and said, "You’re so smart, arent’chu? Aren’tchu?" From there on, he spoke in the inane baby talk all dog owners unfailingly revert to when they want to drive the praise home. "Yu so smart, my wittle Tommy-poo. Yes yu R!! Yu R the smartest doggie in the whole wide wurld! Yu knew zactly where to find Lola’s collar, yes yu did! Yes yu did!!"
Mike leapt over the log and, side by side, he and Tommy walked into the forest depths. Mike walked low—almost in a crouch—and continued whispering baby talk into the dog’s ear. It was pure babble—googoo and gaga types of sounds—but Tommy pretended to listen. In truth, Tommy had no idea what the human was saying when he spoke regular English. It wasn’t the words that were important anyway, but rather the silence between the words. That was where the music was made and where the plans were drawn. He knew what he had to do. He knew his duty to his master.
They all did.
Tommy loved the dirty kid. He loved him like a brother.