The Good Dog

For Jack and McKinley, the real ones

“D
ad! Ma! McKinley! Guess what I saw!”

McKinley had been sleeping in the front yard bushes. Hearing the familiar voice, he lifted his head and looked around with sleepy eyes. He was just in time to see Jack, his human pup, skid so fast on his mountain bike that gravel scattered everywhere. The boy leaped off the bike, raced across the place where the cars sat, and ran into the house.

Now what? McKinley wondered.

Though he would have liked to sleep more, McKinley stood, yawned, stretched his muscles until they were tight, then relaxed them until they
were loose. Shaking his head, he jangled his collar tags, and then ambled toward the house.

By the time McKinley reached the door, it had already swung shut. As he had taught himself to do, he bent down, wedged a large forepaw where there was a gap beneath the door, extended his claws, and pushed. The door popped open a little.

Sticking his nose into the gap, McKinley shoved the door further open and squirmed inside. Once there, he sniffed. Smelling dinner, he trotted down the hallway, wagging his tail, till he heard Jack saying, “Dad, I'm not making it up. I really saw a wolf.”

McKinley stopped short. His tail drooped. Was that the
wolf
word the boy had used?

When he was young—Jack had also been much younger—McKinley had spotted a wolf during a walk with his people. It was just a glimpse, but the people had seen it, too. They had become very excited. That's when McKinley learned the
wolf
word. He could recall the wolf's reek, a mix of deep woods, dark earth, and fresh meat. Its wildness had
frightened him. And excited him. But that was a long time ago.

Wide awake now, McKinley hurried past the large room and into the small food place.

Jack was talking to the man of the family. Sometimes the man was called Dad, sometimes Gil. McKinley liked him and the way he always smelled of the outdoors.

“Now, hang on, Jack,” the man said. “You sure it wasn't just a big old German shepherd? They can look a lot like a wolf.”

McKinley stood still, his head cocked. There it was again, the
wolf
word.

“No way, Dad,” the human pup answered. “You know how much I've read about wolves. I'm sure this was one. I mean, yeah, at first I thought it was McKinley. But it wasn't.”

Wanting to understand more, McKinley jumped onto one of the sitting places near where the humans put their food when they ate. Mouth slightly open, tail wagging, he sat, turning from the pup to the man as each spoke.

“I'm not saying you're wrong,” the man said. “Just, if you're right, it's pretty amazing. Hasn't been a wolf sighted around here for years. Remember the time we spotted one up in the Zirkel Wilderness? But not here in Steamboat Springs.”

McKinley saw Jack look around. “Where's Mom?”

At the mention of Jack's female—the boy called her Mom, the man called her Sarah—McKinley barked once. The woman spent time on Most Cars Way in a place where there was lots of food, and often brought him treats—like bones.

Gil said, “She has to work the dinner shift. So it'll be just you and me tonight. Sausages and carrots. And your mom made bread. Now keep talking as you set the table.”

Jack all but threw down his eating sticks and tall, clear bowls as he chattered. “I was a little scared,” he was saying. “I mean, that wolf really surprised me. I think I surprised him, too.”

The human pup poured water for himself and the man into the tall bowls, then thumped down onto the sitting place. McKinley edged closer to the boy.

“Here's grub,” the man said as he brought food to the boy and sat across from him. “And I'm starving.”

McKinley, eyeing the food, drooled and licked his own nose.

“I was marking trail up by Rabbit Ears Pass all day,” the man said. “Fair amount of snow up there already. Promises a good season.”

“Hear that, McKinley?” Jack cried. “Snow is coming!”

Snow,
a word McKinley knew and loved. He barked in appreciation.

“But go on,” the man said to the pup. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

Jack spoke between mouthfuls. “See—the wolf had this thick, gray fur coat—with sort of flecks of gold. His head was wide—his muzzle was light colored—and I think he had a limp.”

“Was he bigger than McKinley?”

Jack turned toward him. McKinley, wishing the human pup would calm down and speak slower, leaned over and licked his face.

“A lot skinnier,” Jack said, wiping his cheek with
the back of a hand. “Longer legs, too. Gray fur. Not blackish.”

“You didn't see a collar, did you?”

“No way.”

“Describe his eyes.”

McKinley watched closely as Jack swallowed the last of the sausage. “Not, you know, brown and round like McKinley's. Like, sort of yellowish. And, you know, egg-shaped.”

The man reached for his tall bowl and drank. Then he said, “Well, that's certainly wolflike. Where'd you see him?”

“Up in Strawberry Park.”

McKinley yawned with nervousness. Strawberry Park was a small valley outside of Steamboat Springs. It was hemmed in by forested hills, and beyond, by snow-peaked mountains. Looming over everything was the great mountain, where most of the humans did their snow sliding.

There were only a few houses in the area, and the dogs who lived there ran completely free. McKinley was head dog there as well as in town.

“What were you doing there?” Gil asked.

Jack shrugged. “School was out. I was exploring.”

“McKinley with you?”

Jack gave his dog a quick smile. “Wish he was.”

Liking the attention, McKinley barked.

“Hey, how about feeding him his dinner?”

“McKinley, I'm sorry!”

The pup leaped up.

McKinley watched as Jack snatched his food bowl from the floor, then reached into a food box. The boy put some bits into the bowl, added water, and set it back on the ground. As a final touch, he placed two dog biscuits on top.

McKinley wagged his tail, jumped off the sitting place, and went for the wet food, gulping down the biscuits first.

“Jack,” Gil said, “if that was a wolf—and I'm not saying it wasn't—there are going to be lots of people in town stirred up. Generally speaking, folks don't like wolves.”

McKinley stopped eating to look around. There it was again, the
wolf
word.

“I know, Dad,” Jack said. “People say wolves are mean and vicious. They aren't. Look at McKinley.”

“McKinley is a malamute,” Gil said. “Not a wolf.”

“Part wolf,” Jack insisted.

“Well, maybe so, way back. Not now. Look Jack, the point is, this is still ranching country. If people learn there's a wolf nearby, some of them will be wanting to hunt it down. Kill it. I'm serious, Jack. Since you like wolves, be smart. Don't let anybody know what you saw.”

The words
hunt
and
kill
unsettled McKinley. Hunting was not something that Jack's family did. But there were many humans in town—and their dogs—who hunted. For McKinley it meant
danger.
Just the sense of it made him bark.

Jack and Gil turned to look at him.

Gil asked, “What do you think he's saying?”

“Wish I knew,” Jack said.

F
ood bowl emptied, McKinley trotted back down the hallway. Finding the front door shut, he stood up on his rear legs. He mouthed the doorknob, twisted it, pulled the door open a bit, quickly nosed the door open further, then went out onto the deserted way.

From where he sat he could look into the front yards of many houses. Tree leaves had fallen. Bushes had thinned. The air was ripe with autumn smells.

McKinley sniffed for Aspen, his best friend who lived next door. She was a retriever whose gentle
eyes had always appealed to him. The two dogs spent lots of time together.

She did not seem to be around.

Sitting quietly, McKinley put his mind to the words he had just heard. As he understood them, his human pup had seen a wolf in Strawberry Park. And there had been talk of hunting—killing, too.

McKinley sighed with frustration. He had been very young when he had come into Jack's house, a good place where he had plenty of food. The house was warm, too, which was important because for much of the year nights were cold and the ground snowy. His human pup had called him McKinley, not that the dog knew why. What he did know was that Jack was supposed to feed him twice a day, morning and night. In return, it was McKinley's responsibility to look after the three humans, protecting them—the boy in particular—and their home. He took his job seriously.

Of all the people in town, Jack—and the man and woman—were the humans McKinley knew best. Hardly a wonder that over the years he had
come to understand some of their talk. He could grasp more meanings by watching faces and gestures, especially Jack's. Still, McKinley wished he understood more. It was frustrating taking care of them when, like tonight, their words were so difficult to understand.

Thinking that perhaps the dogs along Most Cars Way might have heard about a wolf, McKinley took off. At the first corner he stopped. He had caught sight of a piece of paper on a post. McKinley gazed up at it.

McKinley had seen enough papers like this one to understand that a dog had run away and his human wanted him back. And McKinley recognized this dog. A member of the town pack, her person called her Duchess. What's more, McKinley could easily guess why she had run away, and knew why she should remain free. The human she lived with, a man called Pycraft, was famously mean to dogs.

Before, when Duchess ran off, she went to the boulders up in Strawberry Park. All McKinley could think was, Why hadn't she stayed there that first time?

He was about to continue on when two humans approached the pole. A dog—on a leash—was with them.

McKinley recognized the people as the Sullivans of Pine Smell Way. The dog was a big setter called Redburn, who lived with them. Taller than McKinley, slim and graceful, he was perfectly groomed, fur always seeming to have been just brushed. He trotted with perfection, too, head
high, tail extended, leg feathers flowing. Redburn expected admiring glances—from humans and dogs alike.

McKinley sniffed the group. All three smelled of soap. They always did.

The humans stopped to look at the paper. Redburn acted as if McKinley wasn't there. Since McKinley was head dog, this was a clear snub.

“Duchess, eh?” the male Sullivan said, looking at the paper on the pole. “Cute-looking pooch.”

“Must be something special if Ralph is offering a reward,” the female Sullivan said. “The guy isn't exactly generous.”

The man laughed. “Yeah, right. But if anyone can track that dog down, Redburn can. Don't you think so, fella?” He patted the setter on his head. The dog licked his hand.

Disgusted, McKinley wrinkled his nose and looked the other way. There was something about Redburn that he always found irritating.

“Be nice to get the money,” the woman said. “Why don't you call Ralph?”

“I think I will.”

As the three of them began to stroll away, Redburn, still ignoring McKinley, tossed his head high.