Metzger's Dog

37 It was four o’clock in the morning when Chinese Gordon climbed out of bed in the bungalow in the garden of the Biltmore Hotel. Margaret stirred in her sleep and then tugged the extra covers up over her bare shoulder. Chinese Gordon studied her as he pulled on his pants. The sight of her made his breath catch in his throat. She seemed so tiny and vulnerable, and yet there was something about the way her lips turned up slightly at the corners in a serene smile that made him want to touch her.

He had to go out now, though, before the hotel gardeners arrived, or it would be too late. He tiptoed to the door and pulled the key quietly from the lock. He opened the door and held it until the dog passed out into the garden.

Chinese Gordon and the huge black dog walked across the wet grass in the darkness, then down the stone steps to the cool, damp sand. Every few seconds there was a crash of surf and then a hissing as the wave subsided, boiling and bubbling, back into the ocean. Then there was a long lull, and he could hear the loud, excited panting of the great black dog beside him as they walked down the beach.

Chinese Gordon said, “You can run now, boy.”

The dog stood still, and he could feel its eyes looking up at him in the moonlight.

Chinese Gordon knelt on the sand beside the looming shape of the dog. “You’re not locked in a hotel anymore, you big vicious bastard. Enjoy yourself.” Chinese Gordon patted the dog’s back and stood up. He began to trot, and the dog trotted with him. They loped down onto the smooth, hard sand at the edge of the surf. Sometimes the water would wash up to Chinese Gordon’s ankles, and he would splash through it. It seemed to excite the dog, and he would run out into the surf and run back, circling Chinese Gordon easily. When they passed the first jutting point they were out of sight of the hotel. Before them a mile of empty beach stretched into the darkness. Chinese Gordon’s heart was pounding in his chest. He shouted to the dog, “Now run. Go get ’em.”

The great black dog galloped ahead of him down the beach, his long legs taking leaping strides, his paws kicking up little sprays of sand behind him. Chinese Gordon sat down and watched. In the moonlight he could see the dog diminish in the distance, a small black shape on the white sand streaking off in a meandering pattern as though he were trying to cover the whole beach, step on every spot.

Chinese Gordon lay on his back and looked up at the stars, letting his wind come back to him. In another hour the sun would come up. He rested, feeling his breathing deepen and the pulse in his temples slow. At last, above the sound of the ocean, he heard the thumping of the dog’s paws and the huffing of his breath as he approached.

Chinese Gordon sat up and looked into the dog’s broad face. “I guess it’s time we started back.” He raised himself to his feet and began to jog back up the beach. The dog seemed to hesitate until he called, “Come on, boy. Come on, Porterfield,” and then he heard the sound of the big animal’s heavy paws as it moved up beside him in the darkness.