by Chris Pike
Anna’s eyes brightened at Dillon’s comment. “What do I call you?”
“You can call us whatever you want to.”
“Sweetie,” Holly said, “I’ll never replace your mom and I don’t want to. When Dillon and I adopt you, you’ll be my daughter, and I’ll be honored to be your second mom.” She took Anna’s hands in hers. “For now, call me Holly. You can call Dillon by his first name or Dad. It’s your choice.”
“Okay. I’ll decide later. Is that alright?”
“It sure is.”
Holly rose and stretched. “I think it’s time we go home. Dillon has had enough excitement for the day.” She placed her hand on Anna’s shoulder, directing her to the door, and glanced back at Dillon. “I’ll be back in a couple of days to take you home. For now, we’ll leave you to rest.”
“I’ll see you then.”
As the door closed, Anna peeked back inside. She stood at the door, hesitated, then blurted, “Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, Anna. See you soon.”
After the door shut, Dillon was left in the quiet room. His thoughts took him to everything that had transpired over the last few years, and how he thought he’d never find happiness again after the death of his wife. Fate intervened when he found Holly, and through the miracle of the Lord, Cassie and Ryan’s lives were spared when the plane crashed. They came together, and now were expecting their own child. Dillon leaned back and rested his head on the pillow, clasping his hands behind his head, realizing he had found happiness. He was going to be a grandfather. He had a family again, a second generation was to be born, and life went on.
He was a lucky man, and he knew that now.
He closed his eyes and said, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for all your blessings.”
Chapter 37
(One Week Later)
“Good boy,” the elderly rancher said, patting Buster on the head. “You’re fitting in good here, and you’re going to make a fine ranch dog. Stay here while me and the missus head into town.”
The man and his wife hobbled down the front porch steps of their ranch house, stepped on the walkway of sandstone slabs, then to the truck where he held the door open for her. He glanced at Buster and said, “We’ll be back later.”
“Hun,” the wife said, “do you think he’ll run away while we’re gone?”
“Nah, where’s he gonna go? There aren’t that many people left, and I suppose whoever owned him dumped him because they couldn’t feed him. It is what it is.”
“We should have put him in the house with Skippy. He’s so well behaved and friendly.”
“It’s too soon to leave him in the house.”
“But, Hun, suppose something happens while we’re—”
“Now don’t fret about that. He’ll be just fine. It’s nice this evening.”
The rancher backed the truck out of the yard, and proceeded down the gravelly path to the farm-to-market road.
“He’ll make a good ranch dog. Sure was terrible what happened to old Gus.” The rancher briefly thought about his favorite dog and his unfortunate demise. He shook his head. “The old dogs aren’t any match for a pack of coyotes.”
“Life can be cruel on a ranch.”
“Sometimes it is.” The rancher glanced at his wife and patted her arm. “He’ll be okay. I know he’s already your favorite. Don’t worry, we won’t be gone that long. I doubt the store has much of anything. When we come back, I’ll let him into the house. How’s that?”
“That would be wonderful. And thank you for humoring me by driving me into town,” she said. “I wanted to do something normal, especially after all that has happened.”
“I know. I’m glad to take you shopping. Sorry we got off so late.”
“Think we’ll be home by the time it gets dark?”
“I’m sure we will. I heard on the ham radio a fog bank is rolling in from the Gulf, so we’ll need to be careful about getting stuck in bad driving conditions. I’m sure nothing will happen while we’re gone. The dog will probably be right where we left him.”
* * *
Buster sat on the front porch and watched the truck disappear beyond the tree line. The crunching of tires on gravel became less and less until only the sounds of the country remained. His ears flopped down on his head, his eyes drooped, and tinges of desperation and loneliness came to him. As a dog accustomed to the presence of his pack, being alone was unnerving, and he cautiously checked his surroundings.
The unfenced yard had slabs of sandstone paving a path from the house to where the truck had been parked. Two pecan trees shaded the otherwise sunny yard where grass grew unhindered. A barn sat back from the house surrounded by thick woods.
Buster’s eyes flicked to the woods and the dark spaces hidden among the trees.
In the short time he had been with the older couple, they had shown him kindness by feeding him until his belly was full, and by talking to him in soothing tones when he shivered. They put an old blanket on the porch for him to sleep on.
This wasn’t home, though, and he preferred the energy of Holly’s home she shared with Dillon, Cassie, and Ryan.
Where were they? Why hadn’t they come to get him? He missed their voices and the unique ways they interacted when they greeted each other.
He couldn’t understand the reason he became lost, only that the loud explosions had startled him and hurt his ears. He recalled shivering at the pressure of the helicopter’s whumping blades high overhead, lashing wind and noise, resulting in panic and blood and terror which had become too much.
It had been fight or flight, and Buster had chosen flight, a choice unbecoming to a dog of his stature. He ran and ran until his muscles cramped and his thirst drove him to rest. He ran over anthills and clambered under barbed wire fencing, yelping when a rusted barb nicked his skin. He dodged fallen logs and a patch of cactus. Stinging stickers dug deep into his tender pads, and he briefly stopped to lick his bleeding paws.
A noise had startled him and he jerked up, tucked his tail, and ran because he had to, until the noise in his mind of panicked voices and mechanical screechings were no more.
He had become impossibly lost in the tangle of trees and brush, pastures and cows, and galloping horses. He darted past darkened houses void of laughter or the wafting scents of human habitation. Food cooking, soap, clothes hung out to dry, cars with tanks filled with gasoline, boots, or worn carpet trapping a plethora of scents indicating life was alive and well.
With the rancher and his wife gone, Buster was alone again.
He lowered his body to the porch slats. He sniffed the dried mud the rancher tracked in earlier when he returned from his work in the pasture.
He sniffed the sweet traces of talcum powder the woman had left as she brushed past him. Her cotton dress, freshly washed and dried by the sun’s rays, lingered in the air.
Buster huffed a warm breath and rested his head on his paws.
The wind rustled the leaves of the oak trees, blowing them around. The pine trees loomed tall and stately. An animal scurried in the brush and Buster pricked his ears, listening, waiting. He lifted his snout, his nostrils twitching, testing the wind for an answer.
A cloud floated in the sky, casting an island of a shadow on the land, darkening it.
More clouds rolled over the land.
A red cardinal flitted across the sea of green trees and tall grass then landed in a tree. It sat perched on a limb, preening its feathers. Occasionally it stopped to sing a tune, twittering a pleasant melody, the song of the land. Another one answered and the cardinal flew away, leaving Buster listening to the wind whistling through the trees.
A thick fog bank floated in from the warm Gulf water, draping the land in a misty monotone, clinging to the air and obscuring visibility. Buster lifted his snout and tested the moist, salty air hinting of sea creatures and the ocean. Fine particles of water collected on Buster’s dark coat, and he felt the chill of the air. He padded to his blanket and pillowed into it.
&
nbsp; How long had the man and his wife been gone?
Time meant nothing to Buster, and without anything to do or to keep him occupied, he became drowsy. His eyelids became heavy until he could no longer fight the urge to sleep. He drifted back to his home, back to where Cassie waited for him, and he felt the comforting strokes of her warm, soft hand across his back. He dreamed of chasing a ball thrown in the house, and the hearty laughter echoing when he clumsily slid across the floor.
His dreams floated to the home where Dillon and Holly were a couple, where Cassie and Ryan would become parents. He dreamed of—
Buster woke with a start and sat up on his haunches. Perhaps it was intuition, or his superior senses, but whatever it was, it was dark and his eyes had already acclimated to the low light. The moon hung in the sky like a lamppost, a hazy light casting a yellow pall across the land.
A coyote yipped far in the distance and Buster cocked his head in the direction so he could understand the meanings of the yips and howls. Others joined in.
The padding of four legged creatures darting in the woods, snapping leaves and twigs garnered his attention. He stood tall and growled low in his throat, sensing the presence of a similar species. Unable to see through the fog, Buster relied on his olfactory and acute hearing senses.
He lifted his nose high in the air as a breeze drifted by, capturing the scents of the animals clinging to droplets in the fog. His nostrils twitched to understand the peculiar odor dominating his senses. He had smelled the scent before, a wild and untamed odor, and as his mind whirled to identify the animal, Buster realized his precarious situation. He was being stalked by coyotes.
He moved with caution and backed up toward the front door. He clawed at it fruitlessly to get in.
A blur of snarling teeth and bristling fur burst out from the cover of the misty fog and darted into the yard. Like soldiers trained to subdue their opponent with precise maneuvering, the coyotes scattered to flank each end of the porch, cornering Buster. The large male leading the pack was front and center. Yellow eyes rimmed in black locked on Buster for the kill. The coyote lowered his head and cautiously put one paw in front of the other, inching closer to the porch.
The dog inside the house barked.
The coyote flanking Buster to his right also crept closer while the other one blocked an escape to Buster’s left.
Buster bared his teeth and growled.
Without warning, the large male barged forward, and as he scrambled up the steps, he lost his footing on the slick wood, wet with fog. The coyote thrashed and tumbled down the steps, legs flailing in the air. He yelped when he landed on the hard sandstone rocks leading to the driveway.
In the sudden confusion, startling the other two coyotes, Buster took a running start and leapt over the coyote to his right. The Olympic worthy jump propelled him high above the coyote and when he landed, he did so with a solid thud.
Buster dug his large paws into the wet grass to gain traction, bolted out of the yard, dashed to the woods, and with wild abandon ran blindly through the fog.
Branches slapped his face. Twigs snapped under the weight of his legs. Dirt and leaves flew in all directions.
Buster sensed the coyotes were running with an exclusive fervor to kill, while he ran with equal vehemence to live.
He sprinted across a pasture where cows stood watching the life and death chase. A thousand pound bull snorted and emerged from the center of the herd, alarmed at the sight of the dog and coyotes. The massive bull lowered its head and stampeded across the land, its thundering hooves pounding hard on the grassy plain.
The coyotes scattered at the sight of the charging bull. A single kick could be deadly.
A rabbit dashed from the clump of high grass where it had taken cover.
One of the coyotes saw the splash of brown and white darting across the pasture, and suddenly its attention was on the lesser prey. The coyote took off in hot pursuit. A moment later, there was a flurry of fur and growling, then a high pitched squeal silenced by the jaws of the coyote. Taking the limp, lifeless body of the rabbit, the coyote hurried away with its prize.
The others joined their pack member to find a suitable spot to share their spoils of the chase.
Buster ran further away from the coyotes and from the man and woman who had rescued him, until their memory meant nothing. He ran through the woods with the ease of a lighter dog, fast and powerful, until his legs became wobbly. He slowed to a trot, and finally to walking.
He came upon a fallen tree, its bark soft and branches pliable, ferns and mushrooms sprouting from the wood. He padded to the other side where the dirt was soft. He scratched at the dirt then huffed his wet nose in it. It smelled of the damp woods and earth, of the animals that had crawled the length of the once magnificent tree. Exhausted, Buster curled into a little ball and fell into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Hunger gnawed at the massive animal roaming the woods. Standing thirty-six inches at the shoulder and weighing close to four hundred pounds, it was a formidable beast.
It was hungry and it was on the prowl.
Its face and neck were scarred from fighting, its massive body muscular and covered in stiff, dark colored hairs. It had long side whiskers, a straight tail, short legs, and a larger head in proportion to its body. The animal had four tusks which grew continuously, two on top, two on bottom, and the constant gnashing of the tusks resulted in scissor sharpness, excellent for slashing and stabbing prey.
It had small eyes and poor eyesight, yet huge ears resulting in superior hearing, and a long snout for a keen sense of smell.
It was a wild boar that had descended from domestic hogs which escaped or were released when Texas settlers fled the bloody fight for Texas independence.
As the years passed and as one century turned to another, the domestic hog mated with European boars. The cross breed adapted to the new environment and established traits needed to survive in the wild. Bristly hair replaced the fine whispery hair of the domestic variety, and males grew long tusks needed to fight for breeding rights and to claim territory.
This evening the solitary male walked the paths it had taken before, rooting for grubs and searching for acorns. It had checked the normal places for food, but with the exploding hog population, others of its species had already depleted the food sources.
It needed animal protein, and lots of it.
Sticking its snout into the dirt, it pushed aside leaves and twigs, and recognized a familiar scent. A dog had passed by just minutes before, and had left an unmistakable odor of fear.
The wild boar knew about fear and pain, and the limping from a bullet lodged in its thigh had become more pronounced. It was no longer the revered bush beast it once had been, dominating the other male hogs and forcing them to flee for their lives. Sensing the wild boar’s weakened state, one of its former contenders had forced the boar to less sustainable territory containing poor food sources.
When the wild boar recognized the dog’s scent, it followed the trail. Tame dogs were no match for the massive beast, and it had made a meal of pets many times before. Easy prey, exactly what it needed tonight.
With its snout to the ground, the boar followed the scent trail.
Gradually, the scent became more pronounced until the boar spotted the dog, yards ahead, sleeping, unaware of the impending danger. Its feet and nostrils twitched in the low light. The dog was big, yet it could be easily subdued. A seventy-pound dog was no match for this particular boar.
Stealth was not in the boar’s repertoire of skills, so it did what it did best; it used its massive girth to plow ahead. Thundering hooves gouged the soft earth, leaving hoof prints an inch deep. It trampled grass and rotted logs, and when it approached the dog, the boar readied his impressive set of razor sharp tusks.
The kill was moments away.
Lost in the tangled woods, Buster had fallen asleep exhausted next to a sapling, but even while sleeping, his nostrils twitched and his mind worked to identify
the odors of the woodland. Granted, he had never smelled anything remotely similar to a wild boar, but the instinct of his wolf forebears, some of whose DNA lingered in Buster, recognized the danger, waking him and spurring him into action.
It was the boar’s pungent odor of wallowing in a foul soup of urine, rotted vegetation, and putrefying dead animals from the day before which alerted Buster to its presence.
Buster opened his eyes to the horror of the wild boar lowering his head for the upward killing thrust of the tusks and the ripping of flesh.
In the millisecond it took Buster’s brain to process the boar with those menacing three-inch tusks, Buster thrashed and wiggled his legs, dug his paws into the dirt, tucked his tail, and tore out of there.
If Buster had been a cat, he would have used up all his nine lives.
The boar’s tusks missed its target, and instead dug into a small sapling. With a mouthful of bark, the boar jerked his head, jarring loose its tusks. Hunger drove the boar to a maddening level of aggression.
It took off running after Buster. The enraged boar ran across the land, foaming at the mouth, long strings of drool dripping from its jaws.
Although massive and injured, the boar was unfazed by its girth or the bullet wound to its leg. Full of adrenaline, it barreled through the brush, hot on Buster’s trail.
Gradually the boar tired and lagged further and further behind, until it lost sight of the dog and no longer heard the animal crashing through the woods. Undaunted, the boar put its snout to the ground and began tracking Buster, winding around trees and bramble, fallen logs, and ant mounds.
The space between Buster’s scented prints became less and less, until the boar recognized the dog was now walking. The boar traipsed through the woods, carefully choosing where it would step.
It lifted its snout and got a whiff of a strong scent of the panting dog, which the boar now recognized as fatigued. Experience had taught the boar once its prey was fatigued, mistakes followed.
The dog was now his to kill.