He’s found the brook that runs alongside the western perimeter of the graveyard, so he is no longer thirsty. He’s discovered acorns and roots beneath the massive oak trees that border this little plot of grass and stones. They crunch in his mouth, unappealing, but are a little something to put in his belly, although he throws them up a little while later. There are field mice; he can hear them in the tangle of briars and in the grass, but he has yet to capture one. He imagines snapping his jaws down on the fragile bones of the rodents, savoring the wild meat, being true to his distant ancestors, but the field mice are too quick even for a dog that dances. That’s the word that Justine uses: dance. “Want to dance, little man?” He always keeps his eagle eye on Justine’s face and hands, watching for the subtle signals of weave and bow, prance and spin. And, finally, his favorite—leap into her arms as she laughs and cuddles him close, proud and pleased with their performance. He has learned to like applause.

11

The second time she sees the dog, still at his post between the cemetery gates, Alice pulls her fifteen-year-old Dodge Caravan to the narrow shoulder of the road, a few yards from where the dog waits. “Here, boy.” She clucks at him from the safety of her car. A half a pound of sliced roast beef is in the sack beside her on the seat, Ed’s lunch. The dog stands up, then sits again, but his eyes remain on her, odd eyes, one blue and one brown, clearly skeptical. Why should he trust her? Alice climbs out of the van. The dog watches with interest as Alice pulls the meat out of the plastic deli bag. Ed won’t miss one slice. The dog does not approach her, nor does he move away; the unmatched eyes focus on what’s in her hand. The skeptical look has become that of wishful thinking. Gingerly holding the floppy piece of roast beef where it stains her fingers pink, she proffers it. “Come on, boy. It’s okay.”

Suddenly, the dog trots over, as if he’s made his mind up about her, that she is trustworthy, and all hesitation is gone. She holds out the meat and he takes it from her fingertips with surprising gentleness, swallowing the slice without chewing. He licks his muzzle, cocks his head with its jack-in-the-pulpit-shaped ears, and waits for more.

“Oh, what the heck.” Alice takes another slice of roast beef out of the deli bag. Now the dog’s tail end wriggles from side to side, his eyes on her hand, and his tongue, pink and narrow, appears. She can’t just leave him here on the side of the road, now, can she? He’s been here long enough that she knows he must be homeless. Just waiting outside the cemetery gates like that Scottish dog, Greyfriar’s Bobby, keeping his dead master company. Maybe the dog belongs to someone recently deceased. Alice can’t think of anyone who’s recently passed. Mrs. Fontaine died a couple of weeks ago, but she was in a nursing home, so this can’t be her pet. Besides, nowadays most everyone gets planted in the new cemetery, closer to town. In an old-fashioned way, this place is still called “the graveyard.” No one but those with old Moodyville names buried here. Moody, Thompson, Pierce. Her family names, dating back to when her great-great-grandfather came from England with a young bride, bringing his skills as a metal smith to the new factory.