Everything that Ever Was

Beau was Ernestine's dog, really.

Lonely in her golden years, especially with Henry spending all his time tinkering around the barn, it was Ernestine who had sprung Beau from the shelter. The shelter staff had introduced him that day as “a good old-fashioned mutt.”

When the lanky black dog with almost comically large paws retorted with “Thanks, Beth. I prefer of diverse ancestry,” Ernestine had let out a hoot of absolute delight, and fast friends were made.

For three splendid years, where Ernestine was, so was Beau. They watched game shows together every afternoon. Beau always got the first cookie, warm from the oven. Ernestine's sister would drive in from New York and the three of them would tell stories on the porch for hours over pitchers of lemonade.

Henry, a man of few words on a good day, paid Beau little to no mind. He hadn't wanted a dog, but he didn't begrudge Ernestine the companionship. He and Beau communicated mostly through grunts and head nods, but it was peaceful.

And then, one beautiful June morning, while the air was still sweet and cool, Ernestine's heart stopped beating out by the blackberry bushes. Beau was by her side. When he ran to fetch Henry from the barn, he couldn't find the human words for his grief, so he just howled and howled. Henry dropped the rag he was holding and ran to Ernestine without speaking a word.

Henry and Beau never spoke a word to each other about that day. Henry mourned stoically. Beau gave him plenty of space, not knowing what his place was here anymore. Henry, he imagined, might not want him.

But every morning, before he even made coffee, Henry fed Beau, and every evening when he was done tinkering for the day, he fed Beau again. This is how the two settled in to life after Ernestine. Beau even took an interest in a few of Henry's favorite television shows, and spent most evenings curled up on the floor by Ernestine's old chair. Sometimes the two would chuckle at the same joke, but words between them were rare and only as necessary.

It was on one of these nights that their quiet coexistence was interrupted by a ruckus out at the chicken coop. Eager to score points with his taciturn landlord, Beau snapped to attention and plodded off through the kitchen on his bear-sized paws.

“I'm on it!”

Beau pushed through the screen door and into the dark yard to scare off the intruder and survey the damage.

He smelled her before he saw her. As he rounded the corner of the barn, his twitching nose filled with the warm scent of damp fur and the sweet smell of mud, but more than that; it was the smell of the dark forest, the smell of moss, and moon, and hunger. His heart ached with it. It was both unfamiliar, and as familiar as his own breath. It was both painful and exquisite, an almost unbearable yearning for something he couldn't quite remember. He was reeling from this onslaught to his senses when he came face to face with her.

The coyote was sinewy and slight. Her slender muzzle hung low to the ground, but he could see that her glistening eyes were fixed on him. She looked silver in the faint glow of the moon; a chicken hung limply from her mouth.

Beau's ears grew hot, his breath fast. She was beautiful. The night seemed to stand perfectly still as the two stood only feet from each other, transfixed.

The spell was broken by a cacophony of yips just beyond the tree line. The coyote glanced nervously over her shoulder, and then back at Beau, her whole body tensed to flee. Beau finally found his voice.

“No, wait! I won't hurt you!”

She glanced towards the dark woods again, but seemed to be considering Beau's words. The yelps became more insistent, and he could tell she was getting ready to bolt.

“Please,” he stammered, “come back tomorrow?”

He thought he saw her nod her head, just once, before she disappeared into the woods with her quarry, bushy tail slung low. Beau shook his head, slowly coming to his senses. Feathers littered the ground, and the wire fence was bent where she had pushed through.

“Oh boy, “ Beau muttered. “Henry is not going to be happy.”

And he wasn't. He was at the kitchen sink when Beau got back. He looked at Beau and made a questioning grunt.

“Oh,” Beau explained, perhaps a bit too fast, “it was a fox. I chased it away, scared it good, but it got away with a chicken. The fence will need to be looked at.”

Henry shook his head and walked heavily off to bed.

***

Henry patched the fence up the next day, but that very night as he and Beau watched tv, the coop erupted again. Beau's heart leapt. Henry slapped his hands down on the arms of his chair and started to get up.

“No!” Beau jumped to his feet. “I'll take care of it, for good this time,” and then, over his shoulder as he walked away, for good measure, “Dang fox.”

He found her by the coop again, another chicken in her jaws. She didn't seem as anxious to run this time.

“This,” Beau said, pointing his nose at the fresh pile of feathers, “is going to be hard to explain.”

The diminutive coyote just stared at him, but he felt like he could see everything that ever was in her shimmering gaze.

“Listen,” Beau spoke softly as to not alert her pack to trouble. “I – I can't let you eat all the chickens, but I'd like to see you again.”

She blinked at him; his heart fluttered. And then the moment was over. The coyote chorus began, and the mysterious creature who had stolen his heart and his imagination was gone, again. Beau sighed at the mess of feathers and headed home to break the news that the fox had struck again.

***

Two nights went by with no disturbances. Beau had mixed feelings of relief and longing. Where was she tonight? Had she eaten? Did she think about him? His heart was restless.

On the third night, Henry had just turned the tv off for the night and was shuffling off down the hall to bed when chaos broke out at the chicken coop. Henry stopped dead in his tracks and spun on his heel, fixing Beau with a withering glare. He hunched his shoulders forward and drew his eyebrows together, shaking his head as he took long strides toward the living room.

“Wh-what are you doing, Henry?” Beau's mouth was dry and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood. He was afraid he already knew.

Henry strode through the kitchen and stepped into his muck boots at the back door, shotgun at his hip. He didn't say a word to Beau as he set out across the shadowy lawn. Beau tromped after him, weaving left and right around his feet, desperately trying to distract him.

“Hey, Henry, what if I just sleep out here? What do you think? I'll sleep right in the coop. I think that'll work, Henry, don't you? ”

But it was too late. Henry rounded the corner and came face to face with her, just like Beau had a few short nights ago.

“Son of a bitch,” the old man muttered, raising his gun to his shoulder. He had been expecting the fox that Beau always came home moaning about.

Beau had again lost the human words for the emotions that roared through him. He unleashed into the night a plea in his primal language, the language of the ancestors he shared with the coyote that had captivated him. As his mournful howl resounded through the night, Henry lowered his shotgun and turned slowly towards Beau, slack-jawed.

“Dog, what the hell has gotten into you?” he finally asked, his voice low and hoarse. Even the chickens had fallen silent.

The coyote, just moments ago tensed to run for her life, was also struck still, mesmerized by Beau's impassioned keening.

Beau howled until he ran out of breath. For a long moment, the dog and the old man stared at each other silently. Beau spoke first.

“I love her, Henry,” he said softly. “I just do.”

The old man looked from Beau to the coyote, and back to Beau, clearly befuddled.

“I don't know how to explain it,” the dog continued, his gaze growing soft and drifting to the timid canid. “When I saw her, it was like I had always known her. I saw a lifetime with her flash before my eyes. I wasn't alone anymore. It felt like – it felt like – “ Beau struggled to find a word for what he saw in her eyes, and how it made him feel, but Henry lifted his hand.

He knew.

He thought of a day in July fifty seven years ago, when he stopped at a diner off of Route 7, and a pretty waitress with a nametag that said “Ernestine” walked up to his table, and he felt like he could see everything that ever was in her green eyes.

The old man lowered his gun back to his hip and cocked his head towards the house.

“I'm going to bed,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back across the lawn. “Be ready to go by eight a.m. We're going to town to get a fence she can’t get into.”