A Shiloh Christmas

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  When I settle down on the couch with my blanket and pillow, I feel another why coming on. Why is it humans and animals can’t communicate with each other—some kind of language, I mean? Like, I could ask Shiloh all kinds of questions, and he’d bark once for yes and two for no. That kind of talking. Man, I’d give him the third degree when he got back.

  I dream of Shiloh that night. Dream that I throw open the door and say, “I knew you’d be back!” But when I wake Saturday morning, listening for sounds in the kitchen, I know right off that if Shiloh was there, he’d be panting his dog breath in my face. I turn away and pull my arms up around my head.

  Eat hardly anything for breakfast. Get on my bike and ride back to that woods, calling every ten seconds, and I think I walk all the way through to the other side, ’cause I see houses on up ahead.

  I go home around noon so Mom’ll know where I’ve been, but got no appetite for lunch. I know Shiloh’s been away all night once or twice before, but I try to remember if he ever wasn’t back by the next morning. Get on my bike and check both sides of the road again, calling all the while. Not a sign of Shiloh anywhere.

  When I get home a second time, there’s Christmas music playing on the radio and a fire going in our potbellied stove. Ma’s starting in on the seven different kinds of Christmas cookies she makes each year, keeping them in metal tins in the bottom of our refrigerator till all of them are baked. Then she’ll take them around to friends and neighbors. Dara Lynn and Becky are there at the table, putting almonds in the tops of little round balls of dough, or chocolate sprinkles on cookies of a different kind. I finally eat the lunch Ma put aside for me, but it’s just to stop the ache in my belly.

  If Shiloh don’t never come back, Christmas won’t feel like Christmas. Even if I had me a bedroom all to myself, what’s the joy in it without Shiloh there on top of my feet? Licking my face to wake me up in the morning? Can’t believe he isn’t back by now.

  Becky stops her cookie decorating and comes into the living room to give me a wordless hug, head on my lap, then goes back to the table. Even Dara Lynn keeps her sassiness to herself. Ma gives her an orange in the afternoon, and she peels it open, gives half to me.

  All I can think about at dinner are the bad things that could have happened to my dog. Gettin’ run over, like Judd’s. Tore up again by the German shepherd. What if it really was Shiloh and the black Lab running through Ed Sholt’s yard, scattering the geese, and he took a shotgun to Shiloh like he threatened? Who would blame him? I should have learned from Dr. Collins all the things that can happen to pets when you let ’em run free.

  But Shiloh’s run free ever since I got him. Always used to the great outdoors. And that’s what I tell Dad later when he comes out and stands on the porch beside me in the dark.

  “Same with children, Marty,” he says. “When you’re young, just a baby, we’re watchin’ you all the while, keeping you safe. But comes a time you’re going to go places we can’t go with you, ride in cars with someone else driving, take chances, be silly, make choices. And more’n once your ma’s said to me she wishes she could bubble-wrap her kids, keep ’em safe wherever they go. But we can’t. And that’s no kind of life at all.”

  “But you can talk to your children,” I argue. “You can tell them where it’s safe to play and where it’s not. Dogs don’t understand.” I can feel the corners of my mouth tugging down. I wipe one hand across my cheek.

  “That’s true,” Dad agrees.

  So what am I arguing for? To fence him in? “I helped Judd fence his yard in once,” I say miserably.

  Dad looks down at me. “A dog that’s used to running all over creation would need a pretty big yard,” he says.

  “We could do it, though, with chicken wire. Keep him there till I got home from school each day, and then I could take him out. If Shiloh comes back,” I promise, “I’ll work just like I did for Doc Murphy to earn money to buy those fence posts and chicken wire. I’ll help dig the postholes, like we did for Judd’s dogs, and we can stretch it to go behind the oak trees out back, so he can chase squirrels around ’em, and whenever I’m on my bike, Shiloh can go along, and even when David Howard comes over, we’ll take Shiloh wherever we go. . . .”

  Dad’s shakin’ his head, ever so slight, but he says, “Well, we’ll see, Marty.” And even I realize it don’t make a lot of sense, ’cause I was right there with Shiloh yesterday, and he still disappeared.

  Besides, nothing I promise myself brings him back. Suppertime comes, and if Shiloh was around, he’d be here, begging. Tomorrow’s Sunday. He’s been gone over twenty-four hours now. I imagine making posters about Shiloh. Two dogs missing.

  When Judd stops by, Ma tells him about Shiloh.

  “Well, that’s a heck of a thing!” Judd says. Then, trying to make me feel better, I guess, he says, “But Shiloh knows the way home, Marty. My dog don’t even have a home.”

  That don’t cheer me much.

  “I’ll keep my eye out for him,” he promises, and goes on out to the tent.

  “Do you think we could get up early tomorrow, Dad, and go out in the car looking?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

  “Yes, I think we could do that,” he answers.

  I go outside and whistle for Shiloh one last time before bed. Stand there waiting for the rustle in the bushes, Shiloh coming home. Nothing but the silence of stars, looking down at me.

  Don’t seem like the right way to go about it, but I’m wondering, should I go to church tomorrow? Like maybe if God sees me in church, he’ll bring Shiloh back. Still . . . First off, if God knows everything we’re thinking, he’ll know I pulled on my Sunday pants and my shirt with the stiff collar just in case it would bring my dog back. And God don’t like phony.

  Second, if I pray and ask him to bring Shiloh home, it’s like God took him, maybe. At least, that he knows where Shiloh’s at and has the power to bring him back.

  And third, do I want to pray to a God who took my dog? And if he’s got the power to bring him back, why don’t he just do it? Why do we have to beg?

  I’m in and out of sleep, only barely aware that Dad’s making himself some coffee in the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and making toast.

  Then I feel his hand on my shoulder, nudging me awake. Remembering we’re going to go look for Shiloh.

  “All right,” I say, trying to keep my eyes open. “I’m coming.”

  But I’m back in my dream, my head sinking deep in the pillow. I feel Dad shaking my shoulder again.

  “Marty,” Dad keeps saying. “Get up. Want to show you something.”

  I sit up in a snap and look around for Shiloh. But he’s not here. Still, I haul myself up off the couch and follow Dad over to the window next to our table.

  “Look out there,” he says.

  It’s barely light, and I rub my eyes. Can just make out the trees and shed and chicken coop.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Look over at Judd’s tent.”

  I lean a little closer and stare hard.

  Right outside the zipped-up door flap is a white dog, head on its paws.

  And standing off to the other side . . . is Shiloh.

  thirteen

  CAN’T HARDLY BELIEVE MY EYES.

  “Shiloh!” I shout, and whirl around so fast I’m like to lose my balance, arms going like windmills to keep me upright as I start for the door.

  But Dad reaches out and stops me.

  “Wait!” he says. “Look here a minute. Judd’s got his lantern on now. I want you to see this.”

  “But Shiloh!” I say again.

  “He’s not goin’ anywhere. Don’t ruin this for Judd,” Dad tells me.

  The next sixty seconds is the longest minute I ever spent in my life, just watching that white dog waiting for Judd, and Shiloh out there wagging his tail.

  “Shiloh brought Judd’s dog back, didn’t he?” I say.

  “Sure looks that way,” says Dad, huge smile on his face.

&n
bsp; Bein’ Sunday, Judd don’t have to go to work, but most Sundays he hangs out at a diner over in Middlebourne. He’ll pull on his clothes, splash water on his face at the pump, then drive to a take-out place for coffee.

  “C’mon, c’mon, Judd,” I say, my eyes on Shiloh. Sure don’t want to lose my dog again. Not easy for a man to get dressed inside a tent, I suppose. Ma washes his clothes, but he keeps them out there, and I figure they’re as stiff and frosty as the air when he puts ’em on.

  Now the light goes out and we see the tent flap open. First dog Judd sees is Shiloh. Turns his head and sees the terrier. Then we hear Judd shout.

  He’s crouched there on his hands and knees, staring at that dog, on its feet now looking back at him, tail picking up speed. Then the terrier’s in Judd’s arms, licking him all over his face.

  One second later I’m out on the porch in my pajamas—barefoot, too—and almost before I can call his name, Shiloh’s racing ’cross the yard, lickety-split, piling on top of me, licking me up one side the head, down the other.

  “Oh, Shiloh!” I say, hugging him tight. “Shiloh!”

  “Marty,” I hear Judd call. “Look what I got! He come back to me!”

  “Shiloh brought him!” I shout, and the both of us are showing off our dogs like it’s Christmas morning already. Judd Travers don’t often give a full 100 percent happy kind of smile, but if he ever did, this one’s it.

  “Well, get in here, the four of you,” Dad says, holding the door open wide, and both dogs skitter across the linoleum. “So you got your dog back, Judd! Sure can tell you were missing each other. Come sit down and have some breakfast.”

  I’m already reaching for the sack of dog food. I pour two bowls’ full, and I see Judd’s dog so thin his ribs are showing. His legs tremble a little as he eats, and Judd can’t take his eyes off him.

  “All this time, and he come back to me,” he says. “I’m going to take him around, show him off to some of the fellas in Middlebourne. Maybe buy him a barbecue sandwich at the diner. I’ll put me a blanket in my truck, and he can sleep there all day to stay warm.”

  I can’t wait for Shiloh to finish eating, so I can hug him again.

  Ma comes out in the kitchen in her robe. “Well, for goodness’ sake, look here!” she says, her eyes traveling from Judd’s dog to Shiloh. “When did all this happen?”

  “’Bout five minutes ago,” I tell her. “Shiloh brought Judd’s dog back, and they were waiting outside the tent for Judd to wake up.” I find two pans and give both dogs some fresh water, and they lap it up, drops flying every which way.

  “Well, let me fix some breakfast for you, Judd,” says Ma.

  “No, I’m on my way to Middlebourne, but thank you,” says Judd. “Going to keep my dog company all day.” And when his dog has finished eating, Judd scoops him up in his arms again and off they go together.

  “That’s a happy ending if I ever saw one,” says Dad, taking his bread out of the toaster and buttering it up.

  “Ending to what?” I ask.

  “Oh, to this chapter of Judd’s life, I guess—losing his trailer home and his other dog.” He points to the second piece of toast. “Want it?”

  I reach over, and take the jelly jar, too, and Ma goes off to take a shower. I’m full awake now—awake enough to eat breakfast with Dad, anyway. Feeling pretty good about my dad right then, so I say, “Any chance we can finish the new addition by Christmas?”

  Dad puts down his spoon. “Marty, I know you were really counting on that. But I’ve got to put in the insulation, the electric, the ceiling, the drywall, the heat—and we don’t even have a doorway yet, connecting it to the dining room.”

  That’s a no if I ever heard one. Don’t know what I was hoping he’d say. That he’d take his two-week vacation now and spend it all working on the house, just so I can have a room of my own by Christmas? Hate to admit it, but what’s really going on in my head is that he’s been helping out folks across the creek the past couple Sundays when he could have been working over here.

  “It’s like this, Marty. Our family’s not squeezed into a motel room. You’re the one having to sleep on the couch, I know, and you’ve been looking forward to your own room for a long time. But there are kids in that motel who just want a real place to call home. And if I can get them there a little faster by helping clear their land, I think I ought to do it.”

  Didn’t hear nothing I didn’t expect. Feeling sorry for myself, I guess. Wanted Dad to at least say he’s sorry we won’t have that room done by Christmas. He don’t. Saving his sorry for the folks who got burned out.

  “You understand?” Dad says at last, finishing the rest of his coffee.

  “Yeah,” I say. I don’t have to like it, but I understand, and wish I hadn’t asked the question. Should have held on to my Shiloh happiness a little longer before I brought the subject up.

  Girls can’t hardly wait for Judd to get back that night, ’cause they’ve both got names for his dog. Judd’s spent the day watching football with a friend, and his pickup pulls in about eight, girls already in their pajamas.

  I call out, ask him to come on in, Ma’s got some white beans on the stove waiting. So he does.

  “Where’s the dog?” I ask.

  “One of the mechanics from Whelan’s has a fenced-in yard. Says he’ll keep him for me till I get a pen of my own,” Judd says. Unzips his jacket, and Ma slides a plate onto the table.

  “Well, that worked out well, didn’t it?” says Ma, glad, I know, there won’t be an extra dog here.

  “Yeah, fellas have all been pretty good to me,” Judd says, and sits down. “This here looks mighty good. Thank you.”

  “We’ve picked out some names for your dog!” Dara Lynn says eagerly. “You want to hear them?”

  “You’re thinkin’ of naming my dog?”

  “Yes!” says Becky. “Fluffy.”

  “Fluffy?” says Judd. “What kind of name is that for a dog?”

  Becky sticks out her lower lip and turns toward Dara Lynn to hear her idea.

  “I think you should call him Lucky, because he’s lucky he didn’t get run over,” she tells him.

  “He’s lucky all right,” says Judd.

  “Pal would be a nice name for him, now that he’s come back,” says Ma.

  “Well, he’s already got a name. I named him this morning,” says Judd. “Norman.”

  “Norman?” we all say together. What kind of name is that for a dog?

  “It’s my middle name,” says Judd.

  What could we say? But I think we knew right then that Judd was going to take good care of that dog, now that it was a member of his family.

  “Been a fine day. Norman must be good luck for me,” he says, enjoying the beans. “I drove over to another man’s house, showed off my dog—they all know he’s been missing—and he’s got a trailer I can use for a while.”

  “Well, hey!” says Dad.

  “Only big enough for a squirrel, but he keeps it in his yard for relatives’ visits. Got people coming for Christmas, but he says I can move it over on my property after the first of the year, and keep it till I can buy something bigger.”

  “That’s wonderful, Judd,” says Ma.

  “I got some money saved up, and I’m thinking of getting me one of those prefabricated two-room houses,” Judd says.

  “The kind you put together yourself?” asks Dad.

  “That’s the kind,” Judd tells him. “Maybe we could help each other out. I could help with your insulation and all, and you could maybe help me put up the frame for my house when it comes. Two rooms should be big enough for me and Norman.”

  And we all think that’s a fine idea.

  Christmas itself is big in our family, but presents aren’t. The same time Dad was paying medical bills for his ma, we’ve been trying to save up to buy the materials for that extra room on our house.

  Last year was the hardest for us—Uncle Bill had lost his house in a flood, and of course we didn’t need a
dog to care for too, but that’s when I brung home Shiloh.

  “Poorest we’ve ever been, that one year,” Ma says.

  We don’t have two cars, so no way she could get a job, and even if she could, she’s got Becky to care for, not in school yet. So that year she told Dara Lynn and me not to expect much for Christmas, and on Christmas morning we each of us found a card with a five-dollar bill in it, and a package under the tree: a giant-size box each of our own favorite cereal, nobody could eat it but us. Becky, of course, with that super-size box of Froot Loops, carried it around to announce it was all for her. But Dara Lynn still remembers last year as the Cap’n Crunch Christmas.

  Things are easier this year, but we’re still being careful. I do my part by helping out at the animal clinic, so Dr. Collins takes care of any problem Shiloh’s got for free. Didn’t have to pay for the presents I’m giving my family either. Every one of them has John Collins’s name on them. He gives them out to his clients at Christmas ’cause they’re good advertising.

  I got a little toy mouse for Dara Lynn to give her cat, and a paperback book about owls for Becky; both of them got JOHN COLLINS ANIMAL CLINIC stamped on them somewhere. Picked up a red plastic water dish for Shiloh, a rawhide bone for Judd to give to Norman, a hand towel for Ma with a paw-print design, and a JCAC key chain for Dad with a little jackknife and a flashlight on it.

  Ma tells Judd she expects him to be here for Christmas dinner. Tells him our aunt Hettie will be here too, and asks could he bring some firewood, which he’s glad to do. Dr. Collins says humans and dogs are alike that way: want to know you count on them for something.

  Dara Lynn and I have already chosen what tree we want Dad to chop down for us to decorate. Now that deer season is over, and we don’t have to worry about somebody shooting on our seventy acres—which they do sometimes, even though we got them posted—we always go off and look for the biggest and best fir tree we can find.

  But Dad surprises us on Tuesday by coming home from his mail route with a big bag from JCPenney, and of course we’ve practically got our noses in it before he takes off his jacket.