I test Storm, saying “Is that Eric?” as we walk, but that only makes her pick up speed, leaving me stumbling over rocky ground to keep up. I quit that before I lose her again. Another thing to add to my duty belt—nylon rope for a temporary lead. I search for something else to use, but I’m not wearing a regular belt, and I have gauze pads not strips. So, I just keep calling “Slow!” when she bounds ahead, and then I get those looks, like she’s humoring Granny with the bad hip.
We’re definitely not going the same way we came in. I try not to worry about that. I still have my landmarks, and Storm is on a scent that is almost certainly Dalton’s. When I hear something in the trees ahead, I call, “Eric? Tyrone?,” and the long muzzle of a caribou rises from a grassy patch. The caribou sees us. Storm sees it.
“Stop!” I say.
Wrong move. The sudden shout sends the doe running, crashing through the trees. I dive for Storm, and I land on her, my hands gripping her collar. But she hasn’t moved. She’s quaking, watching that fleeing caribou as if fighting the urge to turn tail and run, the memory of the cougar still fresh.
I pet her and tell her it’s fine, and I’m fretting about that, whether one bad encounter will now have her terrified of every creature in the forest. But as the caribou bounds off, Storm’s shaking turns to another kind of quivering, the kind that says she wants to give chase, and it’s a good thing I have both hands on her collar and my dead weight holding her back. The surge of fear has passed, and now all she sees is yet another fleeing play toy.
I sigh, shake my head, and say “stay,” and then I’m the one fighting an urge. A horrible urge to touch her shoulder, that raw line of stitches, a quick jolt of pain to remind her why she cannot chase things in the forest.
I feel sick even thinking it. Here I was worrying that this bad experience will traumatize her . . . and then I’m struggling against the urge to reinforce that?
I finger a tiny scar on my jawbone. Compared to all the other scars on my body, this one is invisible, but for so much of my life, it was “the scar.” A permanent reminder that I had disobeyed my parents, and this was the price I’d paid—that my face would never be “perfect” again.
I got the scar rollerblading. I wasn’t allowed to rollerblade, of course—looking back, I’m surprised my parents let me own a bicycle. But I’d been at a friend’s place and borrowed her blades, despite knowing I was not allowed. I’d fallen and this scar, maybe a half inch long, was the result. After that, whenever I complained about not being allowed to do something, my mother would take out her compact mirror and hold it up for me, and I knew what that meant. Remember the scar.
In my head, a barely noticeable blemish became hideously disfiguring. A guy I dated a few times in high school touched it once, when we were sitting on the curb, and he told me it was cute, kinda cool and badass. I dumped him after that, convinced he’d been mocking me. As a child, though, when my mother showed me that mirror, I never felt angry at the reminder. It meant she loved me. It was the only way I knew my parents did. They might not hug or kiss me or call me endearments, but they cared about my safety. Now, as an adult, I’m not sure that was love at all, and yet, when I feel that urge to touch Storm’s wound as she watches the fleeing caribou, that is what goes through my head. I will touch it and remind her of the danger because I want her to be safe. That is love.
I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. That’s not me. That will never be me. But even knowing I’d never do it, the urge still hurts. And on the heels of that comes the reminder that maybe it’s a good thing my attack meant I can probably never have kids. I have no experience of how to be a proper parent, and so perhaps it’s a decision that should be taken out of my hands.
I shake off the thought. Clearly not appropriate—much less helpful—at this moment.
Storm twists and licks my face, whining softly.
“Sorry,” I murmur, giving her a pat. “Let’s get on with it. Take me to Eric. That’s who you smelled, right? Eric?”
Her tail thumps, and I nod, relieved that it wasn’t the caribou.
I carefully release her, ready to lunge and grab her back, but she stays at my side for a few steps before venturing into the lead again. As she walks, she lifts her muzzle to catch the breeze, snuffling it, and I call “Eric!” each time to reinforce that’s who we’re looking for. There’s no sign or sound of him, though, and I’m getting nervous. Nothing here is familiar, and there’s no way to be sure he is what Storm’s tracking. We just seem to be wandering deeper into the forest.
When a distant sound catches my ear, I home in on it, thinking, Eric. It’s not the sound of people, though. It’s water. The rushing water of the river I’d seen from the ledge.
Good, I’m on target. We’ll go another couple of hundred steps, and if Storm doesn’t track down Dalton, we’ll swing east and try to find our way back to Jacob’s camp.
Storm gives a happy bark and looks at me, tail wagging.
“You smell Eric?” I say.
She whines and dances.
I smile. “Okay then.”
She takes off like a shot. I jog after her. The ground is more open here, and I can easily track her as she runs. I don’t see anything ahead, but she very clearly does, tearing along, veering to the left, me jogging behind, my footfalls punctuating the burble and crash of water over rapids—
Water.
River.
To the left.
That’s what Storm is running to. Not Dalton, but the one thing she can resist even less than fleeing prey: the siren’s call of water.
I shout, calling her back, but she keeps running. I don’t know if she literally can’t hear me, being too far away, or if she figuratively can’t hear, the call of that water too great.
Damn it, we need to work on this. Buy a whistle and train her to come to it.
We also need to seriously consider that pool. It might help with her water fixation. I can’t blame Storm—Newfoundlands are water dogs. She’ll even try getting into the shower with us if we don’t close the door.
I’m chasing her at full speed, but I’m not worried. We’ll be delayed for a few minutes while she splashes and plays. Then I’ll continue on with a very wet but happy dog.
I hear the crash of the water over rocks, and I realize I know where I am. We came this way a couple of months ago with Anders, just as the spring thaw was setting in. He saw this river, rock-filled and fast-running, and said it’d be perfect for white-water kayaking. Dalton said sure, if he could—
My steps falter as I remember the rest . . . standing on the edge of rock and looking down at the river as Dalton said, “Yeah, if we can airlift you down there.”
Down into the canyon river, fifty feet below.
32
“Storm!” I shout. “Stop!”
She doesn’t slow. I yell louder. She keeps going.
I need a whistle. I need a leash. I need to do more goddamn training with her.
All of which is a fine idea, and perfectly useless at this moment.
We reach the rocks, and she’s leaping over them, heading for that gorge.
“Storm! Stop!”
I shout it at the top of my lungs.
Less than a meter from the edge, she stops. Then she looks back at me . . . and begins edging forward, like a child testing the boundaries.
“No!”
Another step. A look back at me. But, Mom, I really want to go this way.
“No!”
I’m moving at a jog now across rocks slick with moss. Storm has taken one more careful step toward the edge. Her nose is working like mad, picking up the scent of the water below.
“No.”
Please, no. Please.
She whines. Then she takes another step, and she’s almost to the edge.
“Storm, no!”
Goddamn you, no. Damn you, and damn me for being the idiot who didn’t bring a lead.
She’s stopped mere inches from the edge.
As she whines, I hunker down and say, “Come.”
Whine.
“Come. Now!”
She looks toward the edge.
“Storm, come!”
I hear a noise. At first I think it’s the water below. It must be. It cannot be what it sounds like.
Storm is growling. At me.
She growls again, jowls quivering.
My dog is growling at me.