A Shiloh Christmas (15 page)

There's turkey noodle soup for supper, and pumpkin pie with Cool Whip on top. Dad tells us about how much holiday traffic there was down on Route 2, how he couldn't wait to make the turn at the Friendly post office and head up into the hills where we live.

“I get to the Jennings place, though, and her mailbox is all torn down and chewed up,” Dad says. “Linda comes out to the box to tell me she put a piece of mince pie in there the night before. Had it all wrapped up in foil and figured it would be safe in a metal mailbox till I got there the next day. In the night, the raccoons knocked the post over, she thinks, and clawed open that box, all for a piece of mince pie.”

We laugh, and Dad says, “Told her my stomach was already full from Thanksgiving dinner, but she had another piece all wrapped up to give me. Told me if I saw any raccoons on the road, she wouldn't mind if I ran 'em over, 'cause they've been particularly mean this year.”

“Did you run over any, Daddy?” asks Becky.

“No, sugar. I don't run over anything 'less it's an accident.”

I get this bad feeling about Shiloh and raccoons. “Where do the Jennings live?” I ask.

“Oh, 'bout halfway between Little and Friendly. Just before that patch of woods on the right,” says Dad.

Same patch of woods I was in that afternoon. And suddenly I don't want the rest of my pumpkin pie. Shiloh's not new to raccoons, of course. Must have seen plenty around our place. But . . . what do you really
know about what your dog does when you're not with him? You can say he don't mess with raccoons and he don't chase geese, but how you going to prove that? I've seen animals brought into Dr. Collins's clinic that have been in fights with raccoons, so how do I know what Shiloh was sniffing out when he had his nose there on the ground in that woods?

Tonight the girls are watching
A Charlie Brown Christmas
, but I don't much feel like watching. Seen that about a dozen times in my life already, and after they've gone to bed, I'd rather keep the TV off so I can hear if Shiloh's scratching at the door. I leave the porch light on so I can look out from time to time, but the porch stays as empty as I feel inside.

“You still worrying about Shiloh?” Ma asks. “He'll be along. You know that.”

She's probably right. Tomorrow he'll come trotting up to the house like,
what was all the fuss about?

When I settle down on the couch with my blanket and pillow, I feel another
why
coming on. Why is it humans and animals can't communicate with each other—some kind of language, I mean? Like, I could ask Shiloh all kinds of questions, and he'd bark once for yes and two for no. That kind of talking. Man, I'd give him the third degree when he got back.

I dream of Shiloh that night. Dream that I throw open the door and say, “I
knew
you'd be back!” But when I wake Saturday morning, listening for sounds in the kitchen, I know right off that if Shiloh was there, he'd be panting his dog breath in my face. I turn away and pull my arms up around my head.

Eat hardly anything for breakfast. Get on my bike and ride back to that woods, calling every ten seconds, and I think I walk all the way through to the other side, 'cause I see houses on up ahead.

I go home around noon so Mom'll know where I've been, but got no appetite for lunch. I know Shiloh's been away all night once or twice before, but I try to remember if he ever wasn't back by the next morning. Get on my bike and check both sides of the road again, calling all the while. Not a sign of Shiloh anywhere.

When I get home a second time, there's Christmas music playing on the radio and a fire going in our potbellied stove. Ma's starting in on the seven different kinds of Christmas cookies she makes each year, keeping them in metal tins in the bottom of our refrigerator till all of them are baked. Then she'll take them around to friends and neighbors. Dara Lynn and Becky are there at the table, putting almonds in the tops of little round balls of
dough, or chocolate sprinkles on cookies of a different kind. I finally eat the lunch Ma put aside for me, but it's just to stop the ache in my belly.

If Shiloh don't never come back, Christmas won't feel like Christmas. Even if I had me a bedroom all to myself, what's the joy in it without Shiloh there on top of my feet? Licking my face to wake me up in the morning? Can't believe he isn't back by now.

Becky stops her cookie decorating and comes into the living room to give me a wordless hug, head on my lap, then goes back to the table. Even Dara Lynn keeps her sassiness to herself. Ma gives her an orange in the afternoon, and she peels it open, gives half to me.

All I can think about at dinner are the bad things that could have happened to my dog. Gettin' run over, like Judd's. Tore up again by the German shepherd. What if it really was Shiloh and the black Lab running through Ed Sholt's yard, scattering the geese, and he took a shotgun to Shiloh like he threatened? Who would blame him? I should have learned from Dr. Collins all the things that can happen to pets when you let 'em run free.

But Shiloh's run free ever since I got him. Always used to the great outdoors. And that's what I tell Dad later when he comes out and stands on the porch beside me in the dark.

“Same with children, Marty,” he says. “When you're young, just a baby, we're watchin' you all the while, keeping you safe. But comes a time you're going to go places we can't go with you, ride in cars with someone else driving, take chances, be silly, make choices. And more'n once your ma's said to me she wishes she could bubble-wrap her kids, keep 'em safe wherever they go. But we can't. And that's no kind of life at all.”

“But you can talk to your children,” I argue. “You can tell them where it's safe to play and where it's not. Dogs don't understand.” I can feel the corners of my mouth tugging down. I wipe one hand across my cheek.

“That's true,” Dad agrees.

So what am I arguing for? To fence him in? “I helped Judd fence his yard in once,” I say miserably.

Dad looks down at me. “A dog that's used to running all over creation would need a pretty big yard,” he says.

“We could do it, though, with chicken wire. Keep him there till I got home from school each day, and then I could take him out. If Shiloh comes back,” I promise, “I'll work just like I did for Doc Murphy to earn money to buy those fence posts and chicken wire. I'll help dig the postholes, like we did for Judd's dogs, and we can stretch it to go behind the oak trees out back, so he can chase squirrels around 'em, and whenever I'm on my
bike, Shiloh can go along, and even when David Howard comes over, we'll take Shiloh wherever we go. . . .”

Dad's shakin' his head, ever so slight, but he says, “Well, we'll see, Marty.” And even I realize it don't make a lot of sense, 'cause I was right there with Shiloh yesterday, and he still disappeared.

Besides, nothing I promise myself brings him back. Suppertime comes, and if Shiloh was around, he'd be here, begging. Tomorrow's Sunday. He's been gone over twenty-four hours now. I imagine making posters about Shiloh.
Two
dogs missing.

When Judd stops by, Ma tells him about Shiloh.

“Well, that's a heck of a thing!” Judd says. Then, trying to make me feel better, I guess, he says, “But Shiloh knows the way home, Marty. My dog don't even have a home.”

That don't cheer me much.

“I'll keep my eye out for him,” he promises, and goes on out to the tent.

“Do you think we could get up early tomorrow, Dad, and go out in the car looking?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“Yes, I think we could do that,” he answers.

I go outside and whistle for Shiloh one last time before bed. Stand there waiting for the rustle in the
bushes, Shiloh coming home. Nothing but the silence of stars, looking down at me.

Don't seem like the right way to go about it, but I'm wondering, should I go to church tomorrow? Like maybe if God sees me in church, he'll bring Shiloh back. Still . . . First off, if God knows everything we're thinking, he'll know I pulled on my Sunday pants and my shirt with the stiff collar just in case it would bring my dog back. And God don't like phony.

Second, if I pray and ask him to bring Shiloh home, it's like God took him, maybe. At least, that he knows where Shiloh's at and has the power to bring him back.

And third, do I want to pray to a God who took my dog? And if he's got the power to bring him back, why don't he just do it? Why do we have to beg?

I'm in and out of sleep, only barely aware that Dad's making himself some coffee in the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and making toast.

Then I feel his hand on my shoulder, nudging me awake. Remembering we're going to go look for Shiloh.

“All right,” I say, trying to keep my eyes open. “I'm coming.”

But I'm back in my dream, my head sinking deep in the pillow. I feel Dad shaking my shoulder again.

“Marty,” Dad keeps saying. “Get up. Want to show you something.”

I sit up in a snap and look around for Shiloh. But he's not here. Still, I haul myself up off the couch and follow Dad over to the window next to our table.

“Look out there,” he says.

It's barely light, and I rub my eyes. Can just make out the trees and shed and chicken coop.

“What?” I ask.

“Look over at Judd's tent.”

I lean a little closer and stare hard.

Right outside the zipped-up door flap is a white dog, head on its paws.

And standing off to the other side . . . is Shiloh.

C
AN'T HARDLY BELIEVE MY EYES
.

“Shiloh!” I shout, and whirl around so fast I'm like to lose my balance, arms going like windmills to keep me upright as I start for the door.

But Dad reaches out and stops me.

“Wait!” he says. “Look here a minute. Judd's got his lantern on now. I want you to see this.”

“But Shiloh!” I say again.

“He's not goin' anywhere. Don't ruin this for Judd,” Dad tells me.

The next sixty seconds is the longest minute I ever spent in my life, just watching that white dog waiting for Judd, and Shiloh out there wagging his tail.

“Shiloh brought Judd's dog back, didn't he?” I say.

“Sure looks that way,” says Dad, huge smile on his face.

Bein' Sunday, Judd don't have to go to work, but most Sundays he hangs out at a diner over in Middlebourne. He'll pull on his clothes, splash water on his face at the pump, then drive to a take-out place for coffee.

“C'mon, c'mon, Judd,” I say, my eyes on Shiloh. Sure don't want to lose my dog again. Not easy for a man to get dressed inside a tent, I suppose. Ma washes his clothes, but he keeps them out there, and I figure they're as stiff and frosty as the air when he puts 'em on.

Now the light goes out and we see the tent flap open. First dog Judd sees is Shiloh. Turns his head and sees the terrier. Then we hear Judd shout.

He's crouched there on his hands and knees, staring at that dog, on its feet now looking back at him, tail picking up speed. Then the terrier's in Judd's arms, licking him all over his face.

One second later I'm out on the porch in my pajamas—barefoot, too—and almost before I can call his name, Shiloh's racing 'cross the yard, lickety-split, piling on top of me, licking me up one side the head, down the other.

“Oh, Shiloh!” I say, hugging him tight. “Shiloh!”

“Marty,” I hear Judd call. “Look what I got! He come back to me!”

“Shiloh brought him!” I shout, and the both of us are showing off our dogs like it's Christmas morning already. Judd Travers don't often give a full 100 percent happy kind of smile, but if he ever did, this one's it.

“Well, get in here, the four of you,” Dad says, holding the door open wide, and both dogs skitter across the linoleum. “So you got your dog back, Judd! Sure can tell you were missing each other. Come sit down and have some breakfast.”