Dog Days

(July-August 2016)

2: Second Chance

On Tuesday morning, the clinks of plates being set on the table and the aromas of breakfast woke Mabel. She stretched, yawned, rolled out of bed, and reached for her slippers. She was wearing her faded old sleep shirt, the one with the floppy disk emblem, and knee-length pajamas, certainly no less presentable than Stan used to be in his boxers, so she went down the hall and into the dining room without pausing to dress further. Dipper and Wendy, in their running shorts, were just sitting down to pancakes and turkey bacon. "Any more?" Mabel asked hopefully.

"Hi, Mabes," Wendy said. She pointed by twitching her head. "Stack of three pancakes on the stove, still warm. We figured you'd wake up when you heard us. More bacon in there, too."

Mabel made herself a breakfast plate, poured herself a cup of coffee, and joined them. "What time is it?" she asked, reaching for the bottle of Sir Syrup maple-flavored pancake topping.

Dipper glanced over at the clock, saving his sister the trouble of turning her head. "'Bout ten to eight," he said.

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Sheesh! You guys start on your running extra early?" she asked as she glugged about a third of the bottle of syrup on her plate.

Wendy sipped from her coffee. "Little bit. We ran our nature trail for about fifty minutes," she said. "Came back to the Shack oh, twenty minutes ago."

"Gah," Mabel said. "Too much exertion too early in the morning! I'd have thought that hauling all that wood would've been enough exercise for the month for both of you! Can't talk now, eating." She dug into the bacon, cut forkfuls of syrup-drenched, dripping pancakes, and wolfed down the breakfast. "That was good!" she said after about three minutes, hopping up in a livelier way, having stoked her sugar-powered engine. She paused to drain her coffee in three quick gulps. "I'll come back in and help with the dishes in a minute. Gotta check on my pigs first!"

"No, first put some clothes on," Dipper advised her.

She stuck her tongue out at him, though that was exactly what she'd intended to do next. Mabel went back to her room, pulled on yesterday's jeans and sweater—she'd shower before the Shack geared up for breakfast—and without bothering with socks, put on her flats. "Don't do the dishes until I get back!" she said, banging out the door.

She paused on the porch to take a deep, appreciative sniff of the clean, naturally pine-scented air. Mm, it was a nice morning, not exactly cool but fresh, though she thought that today would surely be a hot one. The sky had that slightly yellowish blue tint that promised a day of hard sunshine, one of the sweltering dog days of summer. It was the kind of day that sometimes ushered in a pounding thunderstorm—not nearly as rare here as they were back home in Piedmont, where they happened no more often than three or four times in a year.

Humming a little ("One Dance"), Mabel bopped to the storage shed and filled a bucket with Diss Little Piggy brand pig feed (the Diss family produced the stuff), guaranteed to have all the nutrients needed by pigs. That was Waddles's and Widdles's normal breakfast. In the evenings, they always dined on leftovers.

Mabel hefted the bin of pig feed back in its little closet, hauled the pail of brown pellets out of the shed, and carefully shut and latched the shed door behind her. Once she had forgotten to do that, and her pigs had broken in and, well, pigged out. It was probably bad for them, though Mabel sort of admired the way they'd gone through a two-week supply of food in less than half an hour.

"Waddles!" Mabel called. "Widdles! Mommy's here with breakfast!" She opened the sty gate, paused to run water from a hose into their water trough, and then poured the pig feed pellets into their food trough. She heard them grunting, and in a couple of seconds the two lumbered out of their shelter, blinking in the morning sunlight, and then eagerly trotted into the sty, coming over to nuzzle her before tucking into their food. Mabel laughed and caressed and patted both of them. "Little darlings!"

Darlings they may have been, but they were little only in Mabel's memory—both of them had grown into the hundreds-of-pounds range now. They gruntled happily as side by side they ate their breakfast, and Mabel said, "Sorry I've been preoccupied lately. I'll come play with you today after work. I promised Brobro I'd help with the dishes, and you know what a grumpy-grump he can be when I pledge to do something but don't do it. You guys can ramble around the yard, but be good and don't scare the tourists. And don't go into the woods, because who knows, there might be a big bad, uh . . . wolf?"

Movement in the shelter door had caught her eye, and she saw a tentative brown head peek out fearfully and then quickly draw back. "Hey, you guys have a visitor?" Mabel asked.

She went over to their shelter and stooped to peer in. A small dog crouched on the straw, its eyes wide and bright with fear. Though shivering, it did not growl or bark at her. It was short-haired, with a coat in tones of cream and brown and sharp upright ears, though it flattened them in alarm as she approached. Its head looked like that of a German shepherd, though much smaller.

"Hi," Mabel said softly. "Hey, I won't hurt you. You don't have to be afraid of me." She held her hand out, palm up, and did not look directly at the dog.

She could hear it stirring as it inched forward in the straw. And then she felt its soft, warm tongue lick her hand. Mabel backed away. "Come on out," she coaxed. "You're OK. I'm friendly."

The dog crept out on its belly, and Mabel's tender heart panged as she saw how starkly its ribs stood out. "Poor little thing!"

The puppy—it couldn't have been more than five or six months old—rolled on its back and waved its paws. She reached down and patted its chest. "You must be starving. Come with me. Come on! Here, boy!"

She walked to the open gate of the pen. Waddles followed her out, stretching in his piggy way, and then after pausing for a drink Widdles came, too, and apparently the dog decided that any friend of the pigs was his friend, too, because he limped out to Mabel.

"Aw! Are you hurt?" Mabel walked toward the Shack, with the pup following, favoring its right front paw as though footsore.

She sat on the lowest step of the small porch. The dog came right up to her and put its head on her thigh and whimpered. "It's OK now," Mabel said, petting him. "You come inside. I'm gonna take care of you." She stood and opened the door, and the puppy's nose twitched as the aroma of bacon drifted out. "Come on, now."

Trembling, the dog lowered its belly and crept up the steps and inside the Mystery Shack. Mabel gently closed the door as her new friend looked around as though terrified of being inside. "This way."

Dipper and Wendy were clearing the table. "Didn't think you were coming back," Dipper said. "You wash and—whoa, a dog?"

"I think he's a stray," Mabel said. "Can we give him some turkey bacon?"

"Just a couple of pieces left," Wendy said. "I'll get them."

She brought them back. The dog whined, licking his chops. Wendy knelt beside him and gave him one of the two pieces of bacon, which vanished as if by magic as the dog took it from her and ate it. Wendy handed the other strip of bacon to Mabel. "You give him this one."

Mabel sat on the floor and fed the bacon to the pup, who climbed into her lap, tall wagging furiously, as he strained to lick her cheek.

"I think somebody's in love," Dipper said. "Is he sick?"

"I think he's just starving," Wendy said. "Look how skinny he is, the poor little guy! But we ought to take him to the vet to be checked out. No collar?"

"No," Mabel said. She had examined his paw, but saw no obvious cut or sign of injury. "Maybe he's got a chip, though."

Wendy ruffled the dog's neck. "A vet could scan for that. He seems friendly. But I don't think he's ever worn a collar. His neck's so smooth."

Dipper looked at the clock. "Dr. Setter always is in his office early. I'll give him a call."

Dr. Julius Setter was a local veterinarian who normally treated mainly farm animals, goat-sized and up. Dipper looked up the number and called the veterinarian, who answered right away. Quickly, Dipper explained that a stray dog had showed up and looked malnourished and weak.

"Well," the vet said, "normally I'd tell you to take it to Dr. Murtha, but she's booked up right now, and I've been taking her overflow. Can you bring the dog in right away? Say be here about eight-thirty or so? My first appointment's at nine-fifteen, so I can work it in."

"We'll manage that," Dipper said. "How much will the bill be? I mean ballpark?"

"Maybe as much as a hundred," Setter said. "Sounds as if he needs shots, and he surely needs a thorough exam. There'll be some lab fees involved."

"OK," Dipper said.

Abuelita, Soos and Melody, and the kids had just got up, and they came in. Dipper explained that Mabel needed to take the dog in to the vet as Little Soos stared at the puppy, though he seemed a little afraid of touching it. In turn, the dog seemed apprehensive of so many people looking on, too, though he cowered rather than attempting to flee.

"Sure," Soos said. "You can take the morning off, Hambone! We'll manage somehow. But try to be back by eleven if you can, because the lunch crowd is bonkers crazy when we have a busy day."

Mabel agreed. Dipper went up to the attic and, with a little inward sigh, he took seven twenties out of his stash of summer money. Maybe Mabel would remember to repay him, but generally she still lived by a cheerful su stuff es mi stuff philosophy. The car she had named Helen Wheels, for example, belonged to both of them, technically, but Mabel expected Dipper to ask her for permission if he wanted to drive it.

Soos dug out the pet carrier that Waddles had long since outgrown, improvised a pad from three old towels, and then Mabel urged the puppy into it. He whined a little but did not bark or howl. Dipper gave Mabel the cash and told her to bring back the change.

"If any!" she said, happily quoting the Munchkin bishop from the Wizard of Oz movie. Dipper lugged the pet container out to Helen Wheels for her and with a wave, Mabel set off to take her new friend to the vet's.

At first when the human female came out to the pig sty the dog had wanted to bolt and run. He still didn't understand what had kept him from doing that. Maybe his sore leg, or maybe, just maybe, something else.

To this point in his young life, the dog had experienced very little contact with human beings, none of it pleasant. He had been screamed at and chased away from garbage cans, people had thrown sticks and rocks at him, an irate farmer had shot him with a pellet gun that had made his flank sting for days.

He came to regard people as threats to be avoided. He had never thought of them as companions. In fact, he had never had any companions.

He could only dimly remember his mother. He had been born in a hollow log in the forest, his mom an emaciated stray. Of the three pups, he was the only survivor (he did not really remember the other two and did not miss them). He was barely weaned and just able to find food for himself—though with great difficulty—by the morning when his mother did not wake up. Desolated, he had left her and the only home he had known. From then on, he slept where he could and ate what he could find or steal and keep for himself. Often enough other animals, and even Gnomes, took it from him.

He missed his mother. Her bones probably still lay in the log den.

The world as he came to know it was a place of peril, pain, and terror. However, he desperately wanted to belong. He was, after all, a dog.

The night before, the two pigs had accepted him and had shared their warm straw and their food with him. Perhaps that had set him up for the human female whose voice and touch were so soft. He did not understand the words she spoke to him, but he gathered from her tone that she meant him no harm.

And the human male and the other human female had been kind and had given him food that tasted amazing. The best he had ever eaten, though there was only a little of it. And they touched him carefully, reminding him of the days when his weak mother would lick him and comfort him.

Something he'd never felt before had been born within him. He had no words at all, not yet, and could not call it anything.

But a human might call it . . . trust.

And so in the little movable den that still faintly smelled like one of the pigs, the puppy lay and shivered with not only fear but also with dawning hope.

He knew nothing of cars except as hurtling indifferent monsters to be avoided when crossing a road. He had seen one kill a possum once and roar on into the darkness. He didn't even try to retrieve the possum, hungry as he always was, because the fear of cars lingered strong in him. Now he was inside one, full of unknown smells and strange noises and the alarming sense of movement.

But the girl sat beside him, making the car go, and she crooned soft words to him the whole way.

Fear was strong. But need was stronger. Hope was stronger.

Trust—strongest of all.