“Huh?”

“I said stay put,” Paul hollered loud enough to break his own neck.

“Foot? Whose foot? Yours or mine?”

“You’re either deaf or stubborn. I can’t figure out which.”

Vern ignored him and marched toward the woods in a straight line. Vern was middle-aged and quiet. But if it weren’t for the gray on Vern’s woolly temples, he would’ve seemed like a teenager. A stubborn teenager.

Louisville whimpered at Vern. She started trotting through the high grass toward the trees.

“Lou!” Paul hollered. “You stay here with me. If I can’t go, then you can’t go. We’re a team.”

Louisville paused to look at Paul. She was thinking about this. Then she glanced at Vern, who was moving farther away.

“Back here, girl.” Paul clapped, then pointed at the ground by his feet. “Come here to me. Now.”

Louisville was old. She had spent a lifetime doing whatever Paul told her. She blinked at him. Then she turned and followed Vern.

Two
Good Girl

Louisville trotted ahead of Vern, pausing to sniff. She was a smart girl. Vern remembered when Paul had trained her as a puppy. The animal could track human scent and game—in the air or on the ground.

Louisville was getting white around her nose, and Vern could tell she wasn’t as sharp as she used to be. She ran in hurried zigzags through the woods, looking, sniffing, sneezing, pawing, thinking, serious. Vern knew what she wanted. She wanted the praise that finding prizes would bring her. She wanted to come trotting out of the woods holding a dead squirrel in her mouth so Paul would pat her head and say, “Good girl, Lou.” Those three little words made Lou’s whole life worth the trouble.

The high-pitched screaming cut the cricket noises. Vern didn’t know which direction to walk, so he followed Rabbit Creek. He pointed his good ear toward the sound. He stopped every few steps to focus. He closed his eyes. The screams stopped.

The only sound he heard was a woodpecker smacking its nose against a tree. Maybe whatever was making the noise had gotten spooked and stopped hollering. Maybe it had worked itself free and escaped from whatever snare it was in. Or maybe it had died.

Vern thought about turning around and going back. But not Louisville. The old girl stopped and sniffed the air. She tilted her nose toward the sun and held her tail straight up.

The woodpecker made a sound again.

Louisville followed the bird sound. Then she took in more wind through her nose. She darted into the woods, head up, nose to the breeze, moving fast.