The Lost Woods: Stories

My Uncle’s Dogs

90 My Uncle’s Dogs 1974 Jacob White, Jr. My฀uncle฀died฀suddenly,฀one฀of฀those฀heart฀attacks฀that฀come฀in฀midstride ,฀blockage฀in฀the฀vein฀doctors฀call฀the฀widow฀maker,฀only฀he฀ had฀no฀wife฀to฀become฀his฀widow.฀She฀had฀left฀him฀many฀years฀before. ฀ He฀fell฀right฀where฀he฀was—two฀feet฀out฀the฀ba ck฀door฀heading฀out฀ to฀feed฀his฀dogs—the฀old฀orange-ticked฀English฀setter฀bitch฀named฀Sam฀ (short฀for฀Samantha)฀and฀the฀B rittany฀puppy฀Harlan.฀When฀my฀grandmother ฀found฀him,฀the฀dogs฀were฀sitting฀on฀each฀side฀of฀him฀as฀silent฀as฀ monks.฀Even฀after฀she฀called฀the฀ambulance฀and฀the฀EMTs฀got฀there฀and฀ began฀working฀to฀start฀my฀uncle’s฀heart,฀she฀said฀the฀dogs฀stayed฀there,฀ unwilling฀to฀leave฀him. ฀ And฀then฀later฀that฀night฀when฀it฀was฀all฀over,฀she฀called฀from฀the฀hospital ฀to฀tell฀Ardie฀Johnson,฀her฀neighbor,฀that฀Isaac฀had฀passed.฀She฀asked฀ him฀to฀check฀on฀the฀dogs฀because฀she฀knew฀Uncle฀Isaac฀would฀want฀that.฀ Ardie฀later฀said฀that฀they฀were฀still฀waiting฀right฀there฀where฀she฀had฀told฀ him฀the฀b ody฀had฀been.฀But฀one฀of฀them—he฀wasn’t฀sure฀which—had฀ been฀howling.฀He’d฀heard฀that฀before฀she฀called,฀and฀he’d฀wonder฀about฀it. ฀ My฀grandmother฀had฀always฀been฀independent฀and฀capable฀of฀surviving ฀anything:฀poverty,฀a฀w orld฀war,฀the฀d eath฀of฀her฀oldest฀son฀and฀his ฀ wife฀in฀a฀car฀wreck฀after฀that฀same฀oldest฀son฀had฀survived฀Omaha฀Beach.฀ And฀soon฀after฀that,฀the฀death฀of฀her฀husband,฀who฀had฀been฀bad฀to฀drink฀ My฀Uncle’s฀Dogs 91 for฀years฀before฀he฀died.฀And฀of฀course฀she฀had฀had฀to฀raise฀me฀(the฀son฀ of฀that฀same฀oldest฀son฀who฀died)฀after฀she฀had฀long฀since฀raised฀her฀own฀ children.฀And฀now฀Uncle฀Isaac,฀her฀second฀born,฀had฀dropped฀dead,฀and฀ she’d฀found฀him฀out฀there฀in฀the฀dark฀all฀by฀herself.฀But฀she฀would฀have฀ none฀of฀me฀sta ying฀there฀to฀help฀her.฀She฀was฀wa y฀too฀independent฀for฀ that.฀There฀were฀relatives฀just฀up฀the฀road,฀she฀said.฀Lots฀of฀them. ฀ But฀then฀four฀months฀later,฀when฀she฀told฀me฀that฀she฀was฀mo ving฀into฀ town฀and฀selling฀the฀farm,฀something฀gave฀way฀inside฀me. ฀ You฀grow฀up฀on฀a฀farm.฀Your฀body฀adjusts฀to฀its฀rhythms฀and฀somehow฀ selling฀the฀place฀is฀like฀selling฀your flesh.฀This฀was฀the฀far m฀I’d฀known฀all฀my฀ life.฀This฀was฀the฀farm฀where฀the฀father฀I฀never฀knew฀grew฀up.฀This฀was฀the฀ farm฀that฀m y฀great-grandfather—one-half฀to฀three-quarter฀Cherokee—฀ had฀chiseled฀out฀of฀the฀ear th฀with฀nothing฀b ut฀will฀and฀d etermination.฀ The฀farm฀my฀uncle฀had฀brought฀back฀to฀life฀all฀those฀years฀later฀with฀me฀ watching฀and฀helping.฀And฀it฀was฀the฀farm฀where฀we฀all฀learned฀to฀hunt฀in฀ the฀same฀way฀we฀learned฀to฀work. ฀ I฀had฀left฀at฀eighteen,฀determined฀to฀make฀my฀mark฀in฀the฀world.฀I฀did฀ four฀years฀at฀Davidson฀on฀a฀full฀scholarship.฀And฀then฀I฀did฀m y฀law฀degree ฀at฀Boston฀College,฀graduating฀with฀distinction.฀I฀enmeshed฀myself฀in฀ city฀life,฀becoming฀a฀junior฀partner฀in฀one฀of฀the฀near-prestigious฀Boston฀ firms฀in฀near -record฀time.฀I฀g ot฀a฀nic e฀apartment฀near฀B eacon฀Hill฀and฀ filled฀it฀with฀nice฀furniture. ฀ And฀then฀something฀happened.฀It฀wasn’t฀that฀I฀couldn’t฀do฀the฀work.฀ It฀wasn’t฀even฀that฀my฀drive฀and฀energy฀left฀as฀they฀do฀in฀people฀who฀are฀ burned฀out.฀I฀just฀stopped฀wanting฀to฀do฀it฀anymore.฀It฀was฀as฀plain฀and ฀ simple฀as฀that.฀I’d฀had฀my fill฀of฀plea฀bargains฀and฀depositions฀and฀trials฀ and฀discovery—the฀whole฀damn฀mess. ฀It฀was฀as฀if ฀an฀inst inct฀as฀old฀as ฀ time฀told฀me฀to฀look฀forward฀to฀the฀next฀phase฀of฀my฀life.฀Only฀there฀was฀ no฀next฀phase.฀I’d฀lost฀the฀map. ฀ “Don’t฀sell฀it,”฀I฀exploded฀to฀Grandmother฀over฀the฀phone.฀“Not฀til฀I฀ come฀home฀and—”฀I฀was฀without฀the฀right฀word฀suddenly.฀“And฀see฀it.฀ Again.฀And฀stay฀a฀while.” ฀ A฀long฀pause฀on฀the฀other฀end฀of฀the฀phone. My฀Uncle’s฀Dogs 92 ฀ “Junior,”฀Grandmother฀said฀in฀her฀most฀precise฀way,฀“What฀about฀your฀ work...