Our old farm house was on a gentle rise overlooking Townsend Bay. We spent our summer vacations there, in the land of my mother's people. No matter that we lived our regular life for most of the year, eight hundred miles away, for two generations; whenever we were about to return to that far off place, someone always asked "When are you coming home again?"
The annual migration to our country house was always the same. My parents filled a squarish station wagon to its roof and beyond, with suitcases, cots, pillows, sleeping bags, food, toys, bicycles, and boxes of books. My father was a writer and professionally addicted to literature and, if he wanted his supply of bookish comfort, he must load up the car. He was a master packer. There was one year when he managed to fit all the usual gear plus himself, Mother, myself and Genieve, who were in the midst of a week long squabble, our two year old baby sister Laurel, one cat, two dogs, and three puppies. It was simply too much for the cat and she disappeared under the driver's seat for the entire two day drive.
A long lane connected our place to the road. All the other farms had lanes of packed clay or gravel and in one singularly extravagent case, pavement. Our lane remained as it looked a hundred years ago, a wagon track with feral grains growing down the middle. As we drove over it, the bending tall grass made a watery sound of shush-shush, and with us gently bumping through potholes, it felt like we were sailing home.
The nearest neighbors lived up by the road, near the entrance to our place. They were called Murphys. My parents had met them and said they were nice, but we children never saw them. They were elderly and didn’t come out, although all the other old folks in the area frequently appeared to inspect us.
To be retired in that particular corner of the world was license to wander freely away from the long hard decades of farm life. Most farms existed under the cyclical arrangement of housing three or even four generations. Many a grandparent saw their exhausted middle aged sons and daughters off to an early bedtime, while they dressed up to go to a movie, card party or seniors social at the old school house. For years, as the sun was setting, we used to see a red car bumping along the lanes from farm to farm, picking up and leaving off various elder folk. The same car was always full but the occupants changed, sometimes even the driver, as it cruised the circuit of houses. Frequently the crowded vehicle would speed west toward town. It wasn’t clear who owned the red car. One year it was mainly driven by Maggie Tilloch and the next year Mr. Cavan was at the wheel and so forth, but it never stopped at the Murphy place. So the small white house at the end of our lane was a mystery and for over ten years it seemed the farthest place away.
That changed when we arrived one summer and were immediately informed by our cousins that a new family had bought the place. They were called MacGints.
"They've got two kids and the wife's right nice, but you’ll find her fella’s a bit standoffish.” It was all the cousins could tell us, which didn't matter as we intended to view the MacGints the same way as the Murphys; benign distant neighbors.
One morning as my sisters and I finished our oatmeal at the kitchen table, which had a handy view of the distant road, we saw two children turn down our lane. A large doggy shape came loping after them. We watched their progress with some excitement. Kids nearby to play with! It soon became evident that they were the size of seven year old Laurel. Genieve and I were fourteen and twelve. Still, these new kids might rescue us from the sometimes tedious chore of amusing eachother. Then we heard a highpitched voice shrieking, "Jack, go home! Jack, Jaaack!
We rushed out the door to greet them. Billy was round faced with greyish brown hair that stuck straight up. I remember thinking he had small rude eyes for a nine year old as he silently stared at my older sister and swiped at his nose. His silence was hardly noticed for his sister filled up the air with a twittering voice.
"I'm Trisha and I'm seven. I got a Barbie doll for my birthday. Yesterday we went to town and I had chocolate icecream. We moved here in March and I catch the bus up at the corner. My Dad said we could get a pony. How old are you?" This last question was launched at Laurel, who began to introduce herself in a similar fashion.
"I'm seven and a half. My Mom made matching sweaters for me and Susie, she's my baby doll wanna see--"
"Jack!" Trisha screeched, making us all jump. "Jack, git home! Oh-oh, he's poking in your screen door, Jack!” Sure enough there was a large dog standing on our porch trying to jam his slobbery muzzle into the kitchen through the old screen. He might have succeeded but Trisha rushed up and began hauling on his collar, which caused him to sneeze and sit down. "You've got a kitty, oh boy! Jack don't like cats." She yanked and yanked but Jack remained seated and turned his head to look back at us. It must be sisters share the same cruel humour, for we all began to laugh at her. I remember my preteen view of her at that time; a skinny pinch-faced kid with dull brown hair, eyes, and a sallow tan, all the same faded colour. Her voice whined like a mosquito. I dispatched her to the realm of annoying babies and turned my attention to Jack, who I thought was glorious.
I loved animals and our family had recently given away our two overly energetic dogs. I spent alot of time reading animal stories. I had made my room into a zoo of china cats, glass horses, and odd plastic creatures that galloped from shelf to shelf. In my fantasies our suburban garage was converted to a neat little stable. My dream silver stallion would allow only me to ride him unless he escaped to save people in distress. There was a red wolf-dog who had pretty much the same heroic character as the stallion.
Now here was Jack, a knuckle boned mutt-hound. He had amber brown eyes that looked like he was about to weep. The ends of his ears were tattered from brushing the earth as he snuffled his way through life. Parts of his short dusty fur were worn off and stalactites of drool decorated the corners of his cavernous jowls. Jack belonged in the land of humid southern nights baying at possums, for he had the langorous pace of a hillbilly boy, yet there he was in a northern climate where snow was marked by footage.
Genieve rolled her eyes and went back inside. My parents shooed us off to go and play. Eventually Billy tired of dolly talk between Trisha and Laurel, and he wandered home. I sat under a tree with Jack. We had a brief conversation. At first he was good about listening. I told him about my dream horse, Starlight, and how when I grew up I was going to have a big farm with fields full of amazing animals, like llamas, tapirs, wallabies, and dogs of course. His attention soon turned to the real fields where the unfettered winds beckoned and to persuade him to stay I had to scratch his ears and flanks. My fingers turned grey from the oil of his fur, so I let him go and simply enjoyed watching him as he wiggled under the barb-wire fence and explored the pasture.
When Trisha had to go home, we walked her to the end of our lane. Jack dawdled along behind us. Sometimes he disappeared and Trisha screeched his name until we noticed the tall rushes swishing by the side of the lane. Then we would see the dog's tail waving a ragged message while his front end rummaged in the ditch.
"Jack, get outa there! Git home!" Jack good naturedly galumphed a little faster to catch up to us until we forgot about him and he could go back to scrounging for frogs.
The next few weeks settled into a predictable pattern of visitations. Any day we were home, Trisha and Jack came down the lane and we were alerted to their arrival by her shrieking. Whether coming or going she was always telling him to go home about every ten steps, while he patiently ignored her. I tried to adopt him or at least become his best friend. I was willing to cuddle and spoil him with treats, but I soon found he only tolerated my fussing because then we would go to the back field.
The border land between the sloping back field and the bay was a wonderfully disgusting place for children and dogs. Dry ground swells and soggy dips merged into a salt marsh. Tall grasses bristled out of squelching mud. A brakish creek stewed with smooth green frogs. We passed among waist high thistles and brilliant white dragonflies. Here the cows had made twisting paths covered in manure in their search for tender grass. While I stepped carefully along these paths, Jack trotted straight through the muck.
The edge of the marsh had once been a dumping ground for the original farmer. Old wagon parts and a metal seat off of some old field vehicle were among some of the treasures to be found. The seat stuck up out of higher ground and overlooked a view for miles. When I sat on it, I was queen of Townsend Bay.
That year I found a huge mast from some passed away ship. It hadn’t been there the year before. The marsh was a strange place, constantly changing its face. Things sank into it only to rise up again years later. The log reclined, partly sunken into the higher banks of the creek, among wild oats and Queen Anne's Lace. It’s tapered body was silvery white and the weathered grain spiraled the length of it like handspun yarn. I had heard that a shipyard had been located there generations ago, and the sluggish creek was once a small river that sheltered light schooners. The log had miraculous endurance, given the climate of ferocious winter storms, salt water tides, bore worms, and other things that devoured whole ships. Yet there it lay with the signature of an adze still showing through its weathered surface.
I had heard that one of my ancestors had been a sparmaker, living a nomadic life in shipyards all over the island. I stretched my body along the log, tummy down, measuring its length against mine. The wood was warm under a summer sky and I laid my fingers along graven scars wondering if the hands of my ancient grandfather had graced the same surface. When I searched for the log the next year it was mysteriously gone. Yet during that summer, I often ended up with my back against the mast, staring skywards as the wind herded small clouds in from the bay, until Jack broke up the daydream by shoving his stinking wet muzzle into my face.
"Eccch-ff Jack! Gawd, what have you been eating?" He would throw himself down beside me with grunting and huffing as if the day had exhausted him. Then over on his back with his hind legs splayed to show his belly, dog cock and balls in shameless delight of the sun's warmth.
Once when I tried to rub his belly, the pink tip emerged from his cock and brushed my hand. I was immediately disgusted. I glanced around the fields for possible witnesses. There were none but a distant herd of cows, yet as I wiped my hand on the grass I felt as if I had inspired one more mark against me in God's book of permanent bad grades. As far as Jack was concerned the day was still fine and if it is one thing dogs do well it is to make joy during spare moments.
Sometimes we had company. The cattle, who had first rights to the fields, roamed as they pleased, following some mysterious schedule of grazing. There were rhythms of the pasture which only they could detect. A slight rise in the temperature, a shift in the wind, the whisper of insects and the herd would lift their heads and move to a different piece of the land. Cowpaths were carved out of the red clay soil by a century of successive herds as they crisscrossed the fields in the same pattern. Some paths were laid down as the arrow flies. My great Uncle Welland once observed that he didn't know why those university eggheads, who kept coming up with fancy theories about the building of ancient civilizations, didn't know that to lay out one of those Biblical cities, "all them fellas had to do was trail a cow and she'll lead you true as the stars." Of course historians know that beneath many an old road's tar lies an older cattle track. But Uncle Welland never lived to see such academic acknowledgement and the highway department has yet to discover the fine potential in the fields near Townsend Bay.
Poor cows. Technically they were steers, deprived of any bullish vocation. Occasionally they indulged in a misguided randiness, briefly clambering over each others backsides with a look of energetic puzzlement. These yearling bachelors were brought up to the fields for a final fattening summer, to be shipped the following spring to the slaughterhouse. They were blessedly naive to that business. The young steers were harmless and my sisters and I often wandered among the herd. The animals would shyly fall back as we advanced, and when we stopped they would gather around us in a ring of amazement. If we stood still, a few would advance step by slow step, their breath rising to heavy snorts as they resisted the instinct to run away.
Sometimes one would manage to come close enough to stretch out his head, with eyes rolling in fear or courage, stick out a long tongue and gently taste our sweat shirts. The friendliest ones would try to suckle our clothes, and left large wet slimey patches on our sleeves, which we thought was grossly funny and a bit sad. Not so long ago they were milky calves and beneath the large shaggy bodies and thick horns was the imprint of their mother's warm flank. One slight hasty movement sent the animals wheeling away to a safe distance where they would stop and gaze back at us with their dark fey eyes unable to completely sever their curiosity.
For the most part Jack and the cows turned away from each other. We could walk right through the middle of the herd and they would form a watchful corridor. They were not impressed by Jack and he made it quite clear that his blood was not tainted by any shepherd ancestry. Cows were not worthy of his energy.
Only once did Jack engage the cattle. We were making our way down to the creek. The herd was off towards the road, grazing and slowly walking in our direction, but there seemed to be no chance of crossing paths. We wandered well ahead. Jack suddenly angled off at a fast trot, nose to the ground, following some line of euphoric scent that guided him directly toward the leading steers. I continued walking and singing made up stories to myself, something I could do in the fields without complaints. I did not see the confrontation, but what Jack did to provoke the cows I imagine was suitably obnoxious.
My dreamy ballad was broken by a deep rumbling sound and the curious feeling of standing upon a drum. I heard the higher sound of my own drawn breath as I caught sight of Jack leading forty mad steers straight towards me. They were bucking and shaking their sharp horns. Jack easily outdistanced them, in fact he ran effortlessly with the expression of a joker. I was frozen, knowing I could not outrun them, nor make it to a side. Jack flew past. By some automatic command I managed to take one step toward the stampede. I raised my arms against them and shouted, "H' yah! Yah!" The whirling bodies moved around me and I felt suspended as if between slow drumbeats when the vibration is still carried in the air. I could have feathered my hands across their ribs. How gracefully the cloddish bodies rose and fell on small hooves. Sheets of red, brown, black, and white shifted against each other. For a moment I was part of the motion and felt the resonant power of the herd. Then they moved beyond.
The grand chase ended as Jack circled wide and headed back to me. The cows realized that their tempers and stamina were ill matched and in a unanimous decision they settled down to the more peaceful pleasure of staring at their new location. As for Jack, his smirk was replaced by a dog-eyed look of innocence for my benefit. He rightly guessed that I was angry at his foolishness, yet he did not show any remorse. I lost my temper and began yelling at him, calling out, with righteous delight, every bad word that I couldn't exercise in front of my mother. His resulting expression of wounded feelings only improved my fluency in curses. Very quickly he changed facial gears to achieve the far more effective look of a sad puppy. I immediately felt ridiculous myself and the secret fun of the forbidden tantrum diminished. Jack was not the demonstrative sort, normally I was the one mauling him with hugs, but he bumped his head against my legs and nudged my hands with such insistent affection that I gently smoothed his fur in assurance that my anger was fleeting. I spent the rest of the afternoon down on the creek bank, catching and releasing frogs among the cattails. Eventually the rising clouds of mosquitoes forced me to turn about with Jack reluctantly trailing me home.
One afternoon we heard Jack barking. We had never noticed him as a noisy dog and he carried on for over two hours. The sound became hysterical with occasional silences or long drawn out howls. The desperate lament carried clearly across the field between our houses. One after another we came out on our porch to gaze at the MacGint place. My father, who still loved dogs like children do, wondered whether Jack was all right. Mother, attuned to all manner of crying, suspected the neighbors were in trouble. We could see the MacGint car parked by their house and soon a man's figure came out and stood by the back end. "Well, they're home..." My parents murmured to themselves and I mentioned that Jack was often locked in a shed and didn't like it. Mr. MacGint did not look like he particularly desired to be rescued. If we had had a telephone we might have called, but at that time we were happily phoneless during our summers. Instead we talked ourselves out of interferring and soothed our suspicions by agreeing that dogs always bark. We went back inside. Jack's noise became fainter and the silences between howls grew longer until finally I realized he hadn't called out for nearly an hour.
Trisha did not visit us for several days. Then she surprised us by appearing quietly at our screen door.
"Can Laurel play today?"
Laurel and I went outside. I didn't even have to ask Trisha about Jack's absence.
"Jack died. My Daddy locked him in the car trunk and put in the gas." She recited this plainly, gazing at our faces.
We were stunned. "Eww, that's awful!" We did not know what more to say until Laurel made a face. "You mean Jack drank the gas?"
"No! The smoke from the back, my Daddy used the vaccuum hose and pushed it in." Trisha explained with some interest at our squeamishness.
"How come he did that?" It was Laurel again, for I could not speak.
"Jack was a bad dog." For a moment Trisha looked away from us, and I could see she was trying to deal with our reaction. Our opinion of her was changing and suddenly there was a dangerous space between us. I could not imagine my father doing what Trisha's father had done. I had seen my father weep at saying good-bye to our given-away dogs.
"Well tomorrow you can come up to our house and see the pony. My Daddy's goin' to get her in the morning from Mr. Rampal. Then we can ride her too, with a saddle, 'cause he said he would throw that in. Her name is Midnight. I get to ride her first!" Trisha swung back to us with her announcement, inviting us to help her repair the friendship.
"Wow! You got a pony!" How easily the grotesque news of Jack receded. He was just another bad dog. I preferred to be thrilled by pony talk, but the younger girls sidled away, leaving me hungry for more details.
It was only later in the bedtime gloom, as I gazed at the streaked wood paneling near my pillow, that I was able to consider Jack. I thought about crying and wondered why I wasn't. I loved Jack, no I didn't. He wasn't my dog. I didn't miss him, but felt peculiar that he wouldn't be there on the porch tomorrow and I would never see him dog trotting the fields again or touch the silky brown fur at his throat. Never ever. I realized then that infinity can have an unbearable rhythm.
I pictured Mr. MacGint lifting the flailing hound into the trunk of his car. Once Genieve and I had taken turns hiding each other in the back of my grandfather's car. In the closed darkness, the air seemed to gather in a hot thick presence. I felt as though my breath had nowhere to go but back down my own throat. The presence was only the echo of myself. It terrified me. Genieve climbed on the bumper and jumped off, making the car bounce. I whacked my head trying to sit up, began to holler, and the game ended.
I wrestled with the strangely shaped image of Mr. MacGint, trying to make him seem normal. He killed Jack. A dark gangly figure stooped over a car. I envisioned my own father striding up to Mr. MacGint and punching his face. My father read books and curled his fingers over a typewriter. Mr. MacGint might hit back and I could not imagine my tall father successfully slugging it out with any man. He simply didn't have a bad enough temper. He might have yelled at him to stop and convinced him to let Jack go. Mr. MacGint could not possibly out match my father with words. Yet my father's reaction to the news of Jack's death was a brief exclamation of disgust. "That man is a damn fool! What a fine dog, such a shame!" Perhaps Mr. MacGint had only made a mistake in judgement. I rolled over and found Genieve staring at me from her bed, barely an arm's length away. She was already waiting for what I wanted to ask.
"He wasn't a bad dog. I liked him, he wouldn't bite or anything. Why did they think he was bad?"
"I don't know. Maybe he crapped in the house or chewed up something."
"Yeah, but he wasn't allowed inside. They kept him in a crummy shed. I wish we could have got him."
Genieve rolled on her back and crooked one arm under her neck. With her other hand she gently pulled at the curled bangs along her forehead. After a silence, she whispered; "Sometimes it doesn’t matter being good or bad.”
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know, Grandma told me that once and I just thought of it."
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