Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 6

Blue shimmered off the snow, the glaze of ice adding to the shine. Sarge poked his head out of his den now that the snow finally stopped. The ice, thick enough to support his weight, still wasn’t inviting. Lifting his head, he sniffed. Deer had passed perhaps at sunrise but few scents enticed him. Hunger enticed him, drove him on. As everything was covered with deep snow, so were his caches. No point trying to dig them out.

The footing was good thanks to the glaze. He headed east toward Beveridge Hundred. Mice lived in the outbuildings; often the garbage wasn’t secured. Little things were beginning to get away from the Van Dorns like pressing down hard on the garbage cans. Better yet, the human in the dependency, the perfect cottage, put out treats. She even purchased a doghouse, the door facing away from the northwestern winds. Sarge was especially grateful for the treats and the deep straw bedding.

Moving quickly, the light wind biting, he reached Beveridge Hundred in ten minutes at an easy lope. Running kept him warm. He noticed few tracks on the way. Knowing every shortcut for a good two-mile radius from his den, not only could he dump the hounds, he could visit other creatures along the way if he had a mind to, but today no one was lounging at a den’s opening, sitting in a tree, or nestling in a stall. The Van Dorns kept a tidy two-horse stable even though they no longer rode, age overtaking their ability to do so.

A curl of smoke, the wood smelling wonderful, rose from Yvonne’s chimney. Tootie stacked up a full load of wood for her mother. As Yvonne was not a country girl, she had no idea what she would need. Tootie and Weevil brought over two truckloads for her with Sister’s permission. The wood was from Sister’s farm. Tootie, handy with chores, cut up the fallen trees while Weevil split them. Naturally, they also created a huge pile for the Master, stacking it in her woodhouse at the corner of the entrance to the mudroom. The last thing anyone wants to do in bad weather is walk far for wood.

Sarge stopped to peer into the living room windows. Yvonne, a Christmas tree in the corner of the room, presents under the tree, sat in a chair as she read. Yvonne was not handy but she could throw together clothing in five minutes, walk out looking beautiful, which she was clothed or unclothed.

Good woman that she was, the cozy doghouse had kibble, little milk bones, tiny grape candies, and Jolly Ranchers. Sarge loved candy. Tootie told her mother that foxes often had a sweet tooth as she helped her mother set up the doghouse.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sarge. He darted into the doghouse, having to plow his way through a small drift to get into the house. The blizzard’s swirling winds created interesting shapes, opened some areas, closed up others. Yvonne watched the young red fox enjoy the kibble while plucking at candies. She had to smile.

“Merry Christmas, little one,” she said.

Christmas brought back memories as it created new ones. Yvonne wasn’t enamored of the holidays, but she had agreed to go to Aunt Daniella’s for a holiday drink. Sam, Gray, and Sister would be there along with Tootie, Weevil, and Weevil’s mother, who had flown in from Toronto before the storm.

After this, they would drive to Sister’s for a big Christmas dinner, more drinks, endless gossip from prior decades, some from this one.

In Chicago when Yvonne socialized with white people, it was always business. Victor, her husband, would push her to sweep the girls for business tidbits, little observations that could help him. This she did. She even liked some of the people but felt she would never be close to them. It was always business with Vic.

She didn’t bother to call him for Christmas. Why would she? But it infuriated her that he didn’t call their daughter. Yes, she’d walked away with half the money she helped him make, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She still wanted to hurt him. Was it a waste of time? It was but the unchristian part of her wanted to see him writhe. Tootie, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less about her father. She’d written him off by the time she reached tenth grade. Pleasant, quiet, she didn’t cross him but went her own way. He was too self-centered to see he’d lost his daughter, but then so was she and she regretted that, was trying to make amends.

Sarge, on the other hand, was unwrapping Jolly Ranchers. Marriage never occurred to him. Mating might and a few other foxes at the edge of his territory told him the season usually started in December. Started a few weeks earlier for the grays. Well, a mate might be a good thing to have but he was still on the small side. How was he going to best a big, fully mature red fox? Plus he hadn’t found a girlfriend yet, although some unattached females were around.

Popping a lemon Jolly Rancher in his mouth, he looked up at the cottage again to see Yvonne staring at him. She didn’t frighten him. Sometimes a young woman was with her. Sarge could hear them talk when the windows were open on those delicious warm fall days. They spoke with the same cadence.

He curled up, just for a minute, then he noticed a shiny ball in the corner. Shiny things intrigued him. Little shiny bits he brought to his den. One belt buckle, a curb chain that he dragged from Tattenhall Station, and a streamer of bright green ribbon. If he sat on it it crinkled. This was a perfect ball.

Yvonne put in a Christmas ball for him because Tootie told her some foxes were scavengers, liked toys, liked old sweaters, too. Sarge awoke when Yvonne started her car engine. A small garage by the cottage protected the car. The roads, not cleared this far out, had packed down a little. Cecil and Violet Van Dorn kept a fellow on payroll with a snowplow. He also mowed the considerable lawns and hayed the fields in summer.

Sarge wanted to take the Christmas ball home but it was too big. Rousing himself, he walked back to the two-stall stable, doors shut. The place could be easily entered if one was a fox or small animal.

A barn owl reposed in the rafters. One eye opened up.

“There’s food in the doghouse.”

“H-mm,” the bird replied. “Terrible storm, wasn’t it? Never heard the winds howl like that. Old birds used to tell stories about the banshee. Now I think I know what a banshee sounded like.”

Sarge, not knowing of those stories, asked, “Any mice?”

“A few.” She paused. “Enough.”

The fox looked around. An object at the corner of a stall caught his eye. He walked over to bat it. Then he picked it up.

“Did you see this?”

The bird looked down, both eyes open now. “Did.”

Sarge picked it up. “This has a stag’s head with antlers.”

“A ring.” The bird had floated down for a closer look. As the barn owl was stout, claws formidable, and beak likewise, she wasn’t worried about Sarge grabbing her and he wasn’t worried about her grabbing him. He was big enough to take care of himself.

“It’s pretty.” Sarge peered at it with the owl.

“Gold. Oak leaf on the side. Think this has some religious significance.”

“Because of the cross?”

“Yes.” She hooked a claw in the ring, bringing it up to her golden eye. “They’re superstitious, humans. I watch them usually from the belfry in the chapel. They do things in unison. A cross is carried down the center aisle and there’s one on a table up front with a bigger gold cross, has to mean something.”

“Between antlers?” Sarge questioned.

“Yes.”

“Did you see the human who lost this?”

“No. I managed to get home a bit after the snow started. Why a human would be in here I don’t know.” She opened her beak. “You’re young. I’ve been watching humans for years. They are highly peculiar creatures. Whoever lost this ring will be back for it if he or she can remember where they were. Had to be during the bad snow.”

“Do you want it?”

“No,” the owl replied.

“Then I’ll take it.” Sarge put it in his mouth, left the stable, but it was so cold that the ring hurt his tongue.

He returned to the doghouse, dug a bit in the straw, leaving the ring there.