Lady of the Hounds

The hounds don’t ask me where I’ve been when I return. They greet me like hopeful patrons gathering around their prophet. They’re waiting, tongues hanging, for good news. There is none.

All I have to offer from the valley is a bundle of brittle bones. I toss them into the center of the den. Piper and Duke slink from the same shady corner to wrestle over a femur. The others will wait until they have settled to take their own.

“Still sorting it out?” I croak over my shoulder.

This is my clock. Even when there’s no meat on the bones, Duke and Piper vie over the first cut. Coco side-eyes Piper then decides it isn’t her day to push rank. Rockstar chews spurs from his paws like they are worth more than the bones, and the indifferent majority observes with heavy eyes. Eventually, Duke will get tired and return to the corner, letting Piper win because he’s an old man and leading alone is boring. This is our way of things.

Bickering snarls are drowned by the rustle of tarpaulin that I hang over the mouth of our den. Streams of light pierce through cracks in the boulders — lanterns of our hideaway. When I peel back my bandana, a slew of softened blisters come with. Singed chunks of hair fall, drifting through the air like unmarried webs. On my indefinite clock, this is a time I remember to accept the ugly nature of surviving. I let loose the thermos from my belt, and the disappointing gong of its emptiness rings through the den.

“Sorry,” I promise to perked ears.

Itty Bitty stirs from her nook and scuttles over to me. She is as big as the thermos and as small as the last rabbit we caught. I curl my neck and let her lick the sweat off my face. She is waiting for me to settle. She will wait a while because I am usually the last to sleep. After the bones are picked and gnawed to points that could gouge, the hounds sprawl, resting through the heat. It is the only bearable way to waste an afternoon in the barrens.

They call me Lady, so that is my name.

The pups can only look at me with those hungry, bulging eyes and ask, milk? Some days, I am simply a milk maid searching for the last surviving cow.

“No milk here,” I whisper, offering calloused fingertips for them to suckle and teethe.

Itty Bitty sniffs the three scrawny litter mates, almost her size, and sits beside their bed. She is the fiercest little auntie they will know.

“No water here either,” I sigh, wringing the sweat out of my shirt and wondering if I could drink it.

Marco is curious enough to try. He laps up the puddle quicker than I can claim it then kisses my nose. Sometimes, he calls me Polo because he’s funny like that.

“Wake me at sundown?” I ask Bear, the bloodhound.

He is fixed on a wedge of light marking the floor. He is waiting for a lizard to skitter by. He will wait for hours. I strip and lay skin to stone, grateful I don’t have fur in this swelter.

At the meadow, we cooled in the river, and I called the river Grant because it gave us relief. I’m on hound’s time, so I don’t know exactly how long it’s been. But the meadow is gone.

Itty Bitty curls into the curve of my neck. Most days, we sleep beside the pups like this. Often, others will join, but it’s too hot for that now. It’s too hot for anything but sleep.

I dream about lizards. They are climbing over Bear through a crack in the tarp, swarming him. Lady, follow the lizards to water, Duke whispers through lazy eyelids. Coco stands on her hinds and paws the tarp open. The pups stumble from their bed, wandering out of the den. I chase them, bare, into the moonlight.

I break from sleep with a jolt. Dreams have never meant nothing, and I’m paranoid. I reach for the pups, patting their sides to wake them. They stir, mouths gaping like nestlings. They are fine.

Bear is still fixed on the patch of fading light. I don’t know much about lizards, but I know about visions and crazy ideas that turn out to be somewhat sane. I dress and hook the thermos under my arm. The entire pack stirs when I open the tarp.

“Stay,” I command.

They do.

I didn’t see any lizards last I was out. I wasn’t looking for them. Evening is falling, and the air is finally bearable. I search for them on the faces of boulders that talk only when the hounds sleep.

Those sly reptiles usually dart into crevices once discovered. But today, they don’t move. Today, they are as still as the villages that have been buried in ash. I peel the fried body of one off a stone and toss it to the mouth of the den where Bear waits. He paws it like a baby with a lock of mother’s hair.

Disappointment claws at my stomach. I crouch onto my heels, gazing at the shallow valley with not even a shrub to its name. I call it Little Lie because it fooled me. Marks of rivers and ponds are carved into the clay. Somewhere, someone told me that water hides below the surface of old bodies. But here, not even the lizards could find it.

An ache builds behind my eyes then hardens like a seed in my throat. I want to cry, relieve the pressure of it all, but I am too tired. My tears have dried up like the river. Sometimes, I feel like the pups, suckling on a mother I couldn't admit was gone.

This is not the end of the world. Just a part of it.

I stir through my pocket for the thermometer and thrust it into the shade. 98°F. The heat wave is coming. We cannot survive another day in the barren.

My lungs fill with the heavy air. I hold my breath and think of the meadow — clovers blanketing the earth like clouds, the sweet grit of blackberries in my teeth, and Grant, who kissed me more tenderly than any lover ever had.

In the meadow, the hounds were discovering their ancestral instincts, finding freedom from the cages of their past. They wandered, chased birds, and slept uncovered beneath the stars. They had begun to recognize their own names, the wild ones. I promise Banksy and all the hounds I still love that we will find it again somewhere, someday.

Tonight, we must find shelter.

Ramona greets me at the den. Ramona, who used to wear bows in her hair, brushes my leg with knots overrunning her merle coat. In our world before, she was one of my regulars. Her owner scheduled me for an hour every afternoon. We’d walk together under shady rows of lemon trees and listen to music on the patio. Weekly groomings marked her calendar. She had her own room, a basket full of toys, and a water dish embossed with her name. I used to believe this was the truest kind of love. But there was foxglove growing freely in her backyard.

Everything I do is for the hounds.

The horizon eats the sun. With the last hour of light, I will gather our supplies. The hounds stretch. They know we are leaving. Some are wagging their tails. Beau, the basset, follows me with only his eyes. He lays like a pool of melted Neapolitan ice cream. He will be the last to leave.

I tuck my belt bag beneath my shirt. It holds scent swabs for each hound and three flashlights. Carabiners hang from my hip like a custodian with too many keys. The tarp fits at the base of my rucksack. Bowls and empty bottles go next. Extra layers for sun block squeeze into the crevices like sand in a jar of pebbles.

Somewhere hidden in the bundles is a wad of cash and papers that mean nothing in this world but everything in the last. The first aid kit fits on top. It is mostly unstocked after weeks between towns. A coil of ropes and leads drape over the bag from its handle. In the right pocket is a mishmash of half-used batteries, a tin can full of coins, and a baggie of scavenged jewelry. In the left pocket is something that terrifies me.

We have no more food or water. I test the weight of my bag, preparing for the dreadful brevity. An unexpected brightside hits me. One day, we were running with only our skins and coats from the fire. I am grateful to be burdened by the things we carry now.

The hounds begin their meager preparations. Goose mouths her stuffed mallard. She will carry it the entire walk. Twix has a wooden frog he will drop a few times and eventually ask me to hold. I don’t mind. Blaze is deciding which bone he wants to bring.

Some wear vests: Smith and Wesson are decked in camouflage. Rockstar’s is aramid. Their owners were paranoid too. Empress, the careful giant, bears a saddle bag with bucket pockets.

All wear a reflective band around their wrist. I check each. They are secure. I check again. It is the only way I can find them in the pitch black.

The pups huddle in a soft bodied cat crate. They finished the last packet of Similac this morning, but they are still hungry. For their sake, I pray we find formula on the road north. I close the cover of their crate and strap it front facing around my shoulders. Tonight, they will fall asleep by the rocking of my steps.

“Let’s go,” I say, holding the flashlight in my strong hand.

Ghosts of the past are stored in my body no matter how many times I try to let go.

Duke and Piper lead the walk. Goose and Blaze follow. Empress and Rockstar flank me, being cautious of Itty Bitty and Twix weaving underfoot.

I am careful not to wake the pups. Marco and Coco are behind us. Smith and Wesson hold our perimeter. Ramona and her shadow, Shiloh, skirt the inner circle. Bear and Beau are the last to leave.

We are twenty. We travel less like wolves and more like a shoal of fish. We sway to the wanderings of each other. We must stay together. It is too easy to get lost out here at night.

The mouth of the den is swallowed by distance. I wonder if the hounds remember what home means, if they felt it in the meadow. We have not crossed this land, but we have known ones like it. It is a void between what was and still is. Some come to get lost. Hopeful fools wander through following rumors about new growth.

I’ve seen enough to know we cannot stay. During the cooler months, we could trek aimlessly throughout the day. But in mid-summer, every hour beneath the sun costs something. I will not pay more than we already have. Eventually, everything dies in the barrens.

I don’t know where we are going except north. Somewhere, beyond the hills and plains, there will be a mark of civilization, however miniscule. We must find it before dawn.

When we walk like this in the darkness, I am filled with terror. I cannot show it to the hounds. They sense fear. Instead, I hide it in parts of my being that are usually numb and keep walking. We march for something like an hour undisturbed.

A lone mesquite tree emerges on the horizon. An outline of the road is behind it. It could be the beginnings of life beyond the barrens. My steps slow in relief.

Then, a ghastly noise cuts through the silence. A coyote yowls from the nearby hillside. It is answered by the yap of another across the plain. A third and fourth call from the distance. We are surrounded by them.

The hounds are alert, ears pricked and tails raised. My heart feels like it has exploded into my shoulder and bicep, seeping down my fingers. I turn and point the flashlight in every direction. It flickers in my trembling hand like a bulb ready to burn out. I cannot see them.

Only seconds pass until the next yowl, closer now. The hounds stop. They are scanning the horizon for movement. Seconds are suddenly all that matter.

The smallest of the hounds, Itty Bitty is the easiest prey. I stoop down, pick her up, and put her in the carrier next to the pups. They are whining faintly from the commotion. I wonder if the coyotes can hear them.

“Shhh,” I whisper to the pups.

Twix, the dachshund, looks up at me with petrified eyes and drops his frog.

“It’s okay,” I say to him, pocketing his toy and calmly pulling him to my side.

I cannot carry more, and we cannot linger.

“Let’s go,” I say, trying to swallow the fear in my throat.

If we make it to the road, the coyotes may not follow. We must stay together. The hounds know.

When we start again, Smith and Wesson pull closer to our inner circle. Piper, the fearless, waits for the others to pass and guards our rear with Bear. Duke leads alone, carefully eyeing the road ahead. Twix shivers under my arm.

The next yap sounds over my shoulder, devastating any remaining calmness. I startle, shaking the whining pups. Coco growls. Marco whimpers. Blaze and Goose tremble ahead of us. I almost drop the flashlight as I survey again for the approaching coyotes. I still cannot see them.

Then, Shiloh breaks from the pack and flees into the plain.

“Shiloh, come here!” I yell, shining the light and catching the flicker of his wrist band far to the left of the mesquite tree.

He does not return.

If we go after him now, the pack would break into chaos. The hounds are undecided. Some follow Duke, pressing onward. Others look at me, slowing in hesitation.

“We’re fine,” I say calmly.

They don’t believe me.

“Shiloh!” I call, squinting now to spot him in the distance.

Seconds. In only seconds he is gone. It is exactly what the coyotes wanted.

“Ramona,” I say, finding the Australian shepherd among the startled pack. “Go get him.”

She is a herding hound. She will find him, I can only hope, before the coyotes do.

I urge the pack forward as Ramona follows Shiloh’s trail. My stomach falls into my feet when the minute passes and they are not back. We stop at the mesquite tree. There are no lights on the road. It is as abandoned as my sense of self.

“Wait here,” I order as we gather beneath the long, gangly branches of the tree. I scan the plain and catch only the briefest flicker of eyes in the darkness, then they are gone. The yapping and wailing of the coyotes is fainter now. I want to believe it’s because they have retreated. I know better.

A ki-yi is the call of an animal in distress. I have heard a man make the same noise once before. When it cuts through the plain, the coyotes go silent. I start to cry.

“No,” I whisper in angry protest.

I will not lose anyone else. Even if there were only seconds, I had to try.

“Empress,” I call the Great Dane toward me as I set Twix carefully on the dry earth.

She waits patiently as I hide Itty Bitty and the wiggling pups in the bucket pockets of her saddle. I take off the carrier and retrieve the can of coins from my side pocket.

“Listen,” I say, waiting for all the hounds to eye me.

Beau is the last to look up with heavy eyes.

“Stay.”

Rockstar is still beside me. I hook my hand into his vest, and he pulls away from the pack with me. Duke, Piper, Smith, and Wesson take guard, encircling the others. Goose, Blaze, Coco, and Bear hold the inner circle, corralling the most vulnerable. Empress stands over Twix, covering him with her massive body. I set the extra flashlights from my belt bag on the ground, shining into the distance like headlights.

“Beau,” I say.

His head is barely visible behind Bear.

“Sound the alarm.”

Beau howls with all his chest. Bear and Duke join. Nothing would dare approach the pack now. When I’m sure none will follow, I sprint with Rockstar toward the whimpering cries.

***

Chapter Two is available here: