A Dog's Life: Part II

On that first night in the woods, the first night without Bone at my side, I slept fitfully in the leaf nest.

I looked above me at the leafy canopy and saw that it was now many hues, instead of the one humans would call green.

The branches of the pines that sheltered my den were dense and sweeping, but the branches of the other trees lay stark against the sky, like the skeleton of a fawn I had once found in the woods near the Merrions’ house.

The branches of the pines that sheltered my den were dense and sweeping, but the branches of the other trees lay stark against the sky, like the skeleton of a fawn I had once found in the woods near the Merrions’ house.

The snow melted, and the ice at the edges of the stream broke away and was carried off in the currents and rivulets.

She was more inclined to raid the garbage than to hunt.

When I reached the garbage can, I pulled it over easily, and Moon and I surveyed the bounty. Someone had thrown away half a ham.

And we discovered that the lids on the cans were now apt to be fastened extra tightly, and that some people began placing bricks on the lids.

Moon and I scrounged for food, then went on our way.

I stalked through the woods until I came to a clearing.

They were different shapes and sizes, but all stood stiffly, ears back, snarling and bristling.

And their eyes were rheumy and runny.

I snarled and yipped and sank my teeth into the dog’s flank.

The dog who had bitten my neck now stood before me, poised to charge again.

I was at the bottom of a heap of flesh and limbs. I was smothering.

I was in exquisite pain.

A mouse emerged from a small hole near a roof beam, scampered to a spot just above Mother’s head, and watched us solemnly.

I licked at her ear, at the scabby notch that had formed after the dogs tore it.

We loped through yards where chrysanthemums and autumn crocuses bloomed.

We ran through fields where the tall grasses had become brittle and rattled in the wind.

We stood just inside some bushy undergrowth and looked out at a street lined with houses like Marcy and George’s.

They continued to run up and down the street with their bags, but now they danced through the little white eddies whirling around their feet, and tipped their heads back to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

Moon and I followed it, trying to stay out of sight of cars, until, from the top of a low hill, I could see a town in a valley—rooftops and treetops and church spires.

Robert spent a morning putting ropes of pine boughs around the window of his shop.

The sun came out, and Moon and I basked in it, our stomachs full.

We passed them everywhere, and we all vied for the same food in town—whatever the garbage cans or pie tins had to offer.

Then we would wander discreetly through Claremont, watching Robert and Lisa and Sarah and Amanda, watching as the Christmas decorations were taken down and in their place sprouted hearts and cupids, and later eggs and rabbits and chicks and baskets and candy.

We found supper behind The Wagging Tail and slept under the awning of the back entrance to Robert’s jewelry store.

We were so intent on surprising the chipmunks that neither of us heard the truck that came thundering around a bend in the road, not until it was almost upon us.

A woman stooped down beside Moon.