Barry (7 page)

I turned around and walked out of the cave with my precious burden tied to my back. I was a strong dog but I was no mule. It was not easy carrying a wriggling toddler. The weight shifted as I walked, and I had to move to keep my body beneath the boy’s. If he came off my back, I might not have been able to get him to the hospice without dragging him there. And dragging him might hurt him even worse than the cold.

I stopped to rest frequently, leaning my body against a boulder or a tree. I dared not lie down lest I find myself unable to get up. There were times when the boy went so still that I worried the life
might have left his body, too. When he coughed or began to stir again, my heart soared. I trudged along all through the night, and as dawn lit the sky, I heard the peal of the chapel bells. The hospice was close now, but I had to move so slowly and so carefully that it might as well have been on the other side of the mountain.

When I came to the valley, I followed Michel’s tracks down one side and up the other. At the top of the rise, I could see the smoke from the hospice’s chimney. I headed toward it, slowly but steadily. I came into the hospice yard and leaned against a shed to catch my breath.

Never had I been so tired. But I had kept my promise to the dying mother. I had brought her child to safety. Still, I worried. Would the boy survive after all this time in the bitter cold?

While I was resting, I heard someone call my name.

It was Prior Louis. I recognized him by his long black cloak and his peaked hat with the tassel on the top. He came over from the hospice, leaning on his long stick. “We were just about to send out a
search party for you, Barry! Where have you been? We were so worried.”

I walked toward him, weaving.

“Barry, are you hurt?” he asked, coming to my aid. “And what is wrong with your back?”

When he came close enough, he saw that apart from weariness, there was nothing wrong with me. But there was a small boy tied on to my back with a red shawl.

“What is this?” he cried. He leaned over and untied the shawl. He lifted the boy in his arms.

The boy was silent and still.

Prior rushed him into the warm hospice kitchen. I followed close at his heels. I had gotten the boy this far. I was not about to let him out of my sight now.

Prior spread out the red shawl and laid the boy on the table, next to a pile of onions and potatoes.

Other men came into the kitchen. They crowded around the table. I poked my nose between them to see what was going on.

“He’s not breathing,” said Prior.

I did not like the sound of that. Breathing kept people and dogs alive. What were they going to do about this? I felt better when Michel burst into the room. The others made way for him. He leaned over the boy and rubbed his limbs and his narrow chest.

The boy coughed and began to whimper.

The men cried out with joy. I wagged my tail. The boy was alive!

They wrapped the boy in blankets and took turns holding him. They should have let the boy lie down next to me. I would have kept him warm with my bari hug. But wherever they took him, I followed. I knew that my place was at his side.

Michel looked down at me and said, “Don’t worry, Barry. We are taking good care of your boy.”

They had better be taking good care of him! I had made a promise to his mother that no harm would come to him. I watched while they spooned hot soup into his mouth. I watched when they put him onto a cot.

“Come eat something, Barry,” said Michel. “You have worked hard and you must be starving.”

But I lay down next to the cot. If the boy woke up, I wanted to be the first thing he saw.

Michel brought my food, and I ate it there next to the boy. When he woke up, I saw that he had beautiful eyes, the color of a summer sky. He smiled and reached out a small pink hand to pat my nose. I licked him for good measure, and he threw his arms around me.

I stayed with the boy as much as I could. When
his legs regained their strength, I toddled with him up and down the halls. Together we explored the hospice and the grounds. I showed him all my favorite places, like the bush and the corner of the cellar where I was born. I introduced him to my brother and sister and to all the dogs.

When the spring came, a woman and a man came up from the valley to take him to a new home. I sniffed their hands.

“Will I do, Barry?” the man asked me.

I snorted and wagged my tail. He would do. He smelled right. The important thing was that the boy seemed to like them. As he rode off down the mountain in a mule cart, I stood at the door and never took my eyes off him until he was out of my sight. Before he disappeared down the dip, he smiled and waved. The wind carried his voice to me. “Bye-bye, Barry!”

M
ICHEL
L
OST

In the winter of my eleventh year, it snowed a great deal. Sometimes the snow was so high, the drifts reached the second-floor windows of the hospice. How strange to look out the windows and see a blue wall of snow pressing up against the glass. We dogs worked harder that winter than any time in memory.

I had formed a routine with a couple of the other dogs who worked well with me: Jupiter and
a two-year-old—a real up-and-comer—named Artemis. Artemis had an excellent nose on her. The three of us would go out into the snow together on our own and patrol the roads. Sometimes we went north toward the valley of the Rhône River. Sometimes we went south toward Italy. If we found travelers who were lost in the snow or who had wandered off, we led them back to the path. If they were overcome by the cold, one of us would run back to the hospice to get help while the other two stayed and kept the travelers warm.

Two of us dogs had a way of lying down on either side of a freezing-cold traveler so that we formed a living blanket. In this way, we would keep the cold person warm until the clerics arrived on the scene with the sled and blankets. During that winter alone, we rescued six people from the White Death. But before the winter was out, I would
encounter the biggest challenge of my lifetime.

We had just come back from a particularly difficult rescue mission. We had found a husband and a wife and their baby buried in an avalanche. We worked hard to bring the family back to life. They were buried deeply, and the snow was wet and heavy and difficult to move. There is an old expression,
dog tired
. That day, I knew what it was. Every bone in my body was exhausted. As I lay with my head on my paws, Michel came to me and nudged me gently with his boot.

“Don’t tell me you are too tired to take a walk with me today,” he said.

I opened my eyes and looked up. Michel was already in his coat and fuzzy hat. He seemed eager and full of energy. Just looking at him made me feel tired. I let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“It seems you are too tired. I guess I am on my
own today. I will see you later, Barry,” he said as he took his stick and set out alone.

I slept a deep, dreamless sleep for most of the afternoon. When I woke up I shook myself out and went to look for Michel. I searched the sitting room. There were travelers by the fire. But no Michel. I searched the kitchen. There were clerics preparing a delicious-smelling roast and vats of steaming soup, but there was no Michel there, either. I searched the hallways and dining room and the dormitories and even the chapel and the stable. But there was no Michel anywhere in the hospice or on the grounds.

I trotted over to Prior Louis’s study and bumped my nose on the door. Prior Louis opened it. He looked out. I could tell he was expecting to see a person standing there. I pawed at the floor to get his attention.

He shifted his glance downward. “Oh, hello, Barry,” he said. “Was there something that you wanted?”

I am worried
, my eyes told him.

Prior Louis must have been in the middle of doing something very important, for he returned to his desk. He took up his pen and began to make squiggly marks on the paper.

I stood beside him at the desk. I began to whimper. Prior Louis kept writing. It made a scratchy sound. Then I put my paw up on his knee.

I am worried sick
, my eyes told him.

Prior Louis put down his pen and sighed in an exasperated fashion. “Barry, can’t you see that I am busy?”

Just then, Brothers Martin and Gaston appeared in the doorway.

“What is it, Brothers?” Prior Louis said.

The brothers bowed their heads respectfully. Brother Martin said, “Pardon the interruption, Father, but we are worried. Michel went out alone for a walk hours ago and he has not yet returned.”

Prior looked down at me, understanding dawning on his face. “Was that what you were trying to tell me, Barry?” he asked.

Finally!
I sighed.

“Of course,” said Brother Martin softly. “Our Barry always knows whenever something is amiss.”

The prior rose quickly from his desk. “You must go and search for our lost man,” he said. His brow was wrinkled, and now he looked as worried as the rest of us were.

I waited while the brothers got ready to go out into the snow. They lit lanterns and donned their heavy cloaks and hats and drew two long sticks from the stack by the front door. As soon as the
door opened, I bolted and bounded across the snow. Michel was out there somewhere. And I had to find him!

Nose to the ground, I followed Michel’s trail. Concentrating fiercely, head low, tail high, I followed his scent along the path he had taken earlier. As I went, a bad feeling in my gut grew, and this time I knew it had nothing to do with what I had eaten.

Darkness had fallen by the time I came to the place where Michel’s tracks dropped off the edge of the path into a steep gorge. Dogs and men alike avoided this dangerous spot. I descended into the gorge. I could tell from the jumbled look of the snow that Michel had not walked. He had tumbled. And it was a very long tumble down to the bottom of the gorge. When I got to him, his face, in the light from the moon, was blue. He was lying
very still. Maybe he was just stunned from the fall. If I was fast on my feet, maybe I could bring him the help that he needed?

I ran back toward the hospice, as fast as my legs could carry me. I met Brothers Gaston and Martin as they came down the path, following my paw prints. I barked loudly.

“You’ve found him, Barry?” Brother Martin asked.

I spun around and ran, leading them back to the gorge. I arrived before they did and licked Michel’s face. But even then I knew it was too late. That face would never be pink and lively again. What I was after, if you want to know the truth, was a final taste of my good friend. When I had gotten it, I lifted my nose to the sky and howled.

The brothers came slipping and sliding down the side of the gorge, the sled banging clumsily
along behind them. Their eyes were full of fear.

Skidding to a stop beside Michel, they fell to their knees. Just like me, they knew they were too late to save him. They dropped their heads into their hands and wept.

Afterward, they bound Michel’s body on to the sled and hauled it up the side of the gorge and back to the hospice. It was a slow, sad trip. When they saw us coming, all of the men and all of the dogs came pouring out of the hospice to greet their fallen brother.