Christian Kiefer - The Animals

The thing is, the warden said, the law’s pretty clear on this.

I’m sure we can work together on this, Bess said. Right, Bill?

Bill did not look at her, instead continuing to stare at the warden.

I’m sure you’re right, the warden said. He looked at Bill once more and when there was no response he stood. Well, I’ve gotta get moving, he said, extending his hand.

Bill looked at it. I’m not— we’re not doing anything wrong, he said.

I know you’re not but that’s not really the issue.

We’re taking care of animals up here, Bill said. Feeding them, taking them to schools, and … hell, it’s not like we’re getting rich doing this. You know? I spend every day and night here.

I understand that, the warden said. His hand had been floating before him in the air above the desk but he let it fall now. I don’t make the laws. I just enforce them. That’s my job.

Bill stood looking at him.

I’m not your enemy here, the warden said. He waited a moment for Bill’s response and then shrugged. All right, I’ve gotta head out, he said. You folks have a nice day. He stepped past Bess, who mumbled that she would walk him back to his truck, and then the door swung closed behind them and they were gone.

He sat behind the desk for what seemed like a long time. At some point Bess returned, the door opening just enough for her to poke her head inside. You OK? she said to him.

Yeah, I’m all right, he said.

We’ll get the paperwork together. We’ve got records of everything.

He nodded. You need help getting the birds loaded?

The boys already did it.

Ah, he said, what school again?

Stidwell.

He nodded. She stood there, watching him. What? he said at last.

You sure you’re OK?

I’m fine. Really.

He’s just doing his job, Bess said.

He shrugged and sipped at his coffee.

Bess stood for a moment longer in the doorway and then said, I’ll be back about one, and he nodded and then the door closed slowly and she was gone.

He sat for a long time behind the desk in the silence of that room, listening to the ticking of the heater, sipping at his coffee. Then he stood and descended the path toward the parking lot, crossing the gravel and standing at the edge of the forest where the ridge fell away and the big trees — firs and pines — stretched over the landscape in all directions. The pen where he kept orphaned fawns and elk and moose calves stood to his left and near the open gate were gathered four young deer, those he had bottle-fed through the summer and released six weeks ago and which returned every three or four days, as if holding to the hope that he would bottle-feed them once more.

What are you doing down there? he said.

They looked at him, querulous but not alarmed, and he moved down the gravel to the railroad tie path that led to the pen, all the while the deer watching him come, only the one he had named Chet appearing skittish at all, the deer’s hoofs worrying the black earth as if it might spring away into the thick shadows of the trees at any moment.

Don’t get agitated, Bill said. It’s the same old me it’s always been.

The other male, Pancho, merely stared at him, and the two does, Jolene and Darlene, sniffed at the ground as if Bill was of little interest, raising their heads only when he stood directly before them and then moving forward, all four of them, into a tight semicircle like students awaiting an assignment. The starting antlers of the two bucks stood atop their heads like thick gray knobs, single rounded and velvet-covered pedicles that would, the following spring, begin growing into full antlers, first of a similar blunt and sensitive velvet-covered bone, and then into the full collected rack, eight or ten points. They would have long forgotten him by then, moving through the deeper forest, over the ridgetops and down into the misty draws between, fighting other bucks for territory and for the right to mate, their bodies shadowing through landscapes into which they had been born and into which they would return.

I got nothing for you, Bill said.

The deer stood watching him. After a moment, one of them, Pancho, leaned forward and nudged his arm gently with the side of its black nose.

I really don’t, he said, smiling now. He tapped his pockets as if it was a gesture the animals might understand. You guys are supposed to be wild by now.

Their hooves shuffled against the dirt and crunched in the fallen needles, their eyes so darkly brown that they appeared black, watching him, then looking away, and then watching him again, as if in doing so they might catch him with a handful of dry corn or an apple.

Have fun out there, he said at last, still smiling. And don’t play in the road.

He turned and came back up the path and when he looked down toward the gate again the four of them were drifting about the small clearing in front of the enclosure, sniffing the ground, their ears twitching.

When he returned to the office he dialed Grace’s number at the veterinary clinic, expecting to leave a message at the desk, but then she came on the line and he leaned back in his chair, a sense of relief flooding through him all at once.

Boy, it’s good to hear your voice, he said.

That’s nice to hear, she said.

I thought I’d have to leave a message.

You caught me in between, she said. How are you doing?

He told her about the fawns, about the small knobby antlers of the two bucks and that all four looked healthy and well. And then about his encounter with the wolf in the night, how the animal had marked its territory.

Wow, she said. Old Zeke’s getting used to you after all.

At least at night.

It’s a start.

Definitely, he said. It felt great to see him like that. I’ve been worried about him.

And he’s gonna be fine, she said. They don’t all have to come right up to the fence, you know.

Two years is a long time to be pissed off, Bill said.

You’d be pissed off too if you lost a limb.

True, he said. It’s just nice to see him feeling comfortable. Or at least less skittish. It was silent on the line for a moment and then Bill said, Hey, that guy Steve Colman from Fish and Game came by today.

Crap, she said. He still barking about the permits?

That and the moose, he said.

He told her what the warden had said, both about the moose and about the permitting, his anger rising and falling as he recounted the details.

What a dick, Grace said.

He laughed then. Yeah, for sure, he said. I’m not gonna lie: I’m worried about it.

I’m sure he’s just trying to get you to pay a fine or something.

Didn’t sound like it. Sounded more like he wanted to shut us down.

No one would want that.

I don’t know, he said.

Was Bess there?

Yeah.

What does she think?

Pretty much same as you.

See, she said, you’re outnumbered. Reason and logic win.

He was pretty serious about it.

Then take it seriously, she said. Just don’t obsess about it.

I’m not obsessing about anything.

Really?

Really, he said. When do I obsess?

All the time.

When? He had been running his finger along the edge of his coffee cup but he stopped now.

Seriously? Any time an animal’s poop looks weird you talk about it for a month.

I learned that from you.

I’m sure, she said. You want me there tomorrow?

I want you here now.

Baby, I wish I could, she said.

Can’t you tell everyone you got parvo or something?

They probably won’t believe me.

Dang, he said. What if I have a sick dog?

You are a sick dog.

Exactly, he said, and I need a house call.

Tomorrow, unless you want to come over tonight.