Mirror Of My Mood

Neither offer was serious, in the sense that neither man expected to enter into negotiations about the ownership of the red dog. Both were, however, graceful, country-style compliments. They were accepted and are remembered with more pleasure than any ribbon won by the dogs I once showed in a ring.

One night in Arizona events occurred giving me a brief, frightening insight into what Dain might truly be worth to me. We were alone in the cabin where the dog and the Navaho had met. It stands on the side of a large empty canyon that has a very bad rock road winding through. Bad as it is, the road gets a fair amount of nighttime traffic. Dope dealers and therefore narcotics agents are active in these parts. There is an Army post 20 miles away and soldiers, their friends and lovers, occasionally come by simply because it is a lonely place.

This night I was in the cabin working by lantern light on field notes having to do with the behavior of coati mundis. I heard a car below and then voices. Sound travels in this thin air and I heard something about "that light up there." Since it was the only light in the canyon, I assumed my lantern was under discussion. Then there were several gunshots.

There was a rifle in the cabin. We seldom carried guns but this one, ironically, had been brought in the week before to use against a pack of wild dogs running in the canyon that we feared might molest the coatis, whose females were then gravid. I picked up the rifle and went outside with Dain. We walked quietly a little way down the trail, which wound through a dense stand of Emory oak. We could hear voices, then footsteps on the trail below, and saw flashlights. Dain advanced, barking ferociously.

"Get the damn dog," I heard, and then two more shots. Without any reflection, I fired once into the oaks and then began screaming threats of violence.

Thereafter the incident petered out. The voices and sounds retreated, shortly a car door slammed and the car started up. I was left shaky, not so much because of the brush with danger, which probably was minimal, but because of my reaction to it. I was shaking because in the moment of red anger it seemed as if I would have killed another man in defense of a dog. Whether anything is worth that price is an enormous question, but it was the price that for a moment I put on Dain.

As I worked away on the firewood logs, thought about the old red dog, watched him, talked to him as he lay napping in the early winter sun, I reflected on another price that I soon would pay, not ask, for him. One day soon, very likely before the spring comes, in any event before his time and feebleness have become a perpetual humiliation and agony for him, I will kill him. A vet will not do it in a sterile room with a needle. If he can he will follow me and if he cannot I will carry him to a quiet place and I will kill him myself. It will be the last thing we do together and the sobs, the sorrow and loss will be the ultimate price.