David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

The important thing was to separate them. Edgar ran forward, coming at Epi from behind. He thought briefly of kicking her to force her away, but he’d have to kick hard, maybe hard enough to injure her, and he wouldn’t do that. Anyway, he was too close and running too fast. When he reached Epi’s hindquarters, he simply threw himself at her.

Later, he would try to understand it all from Epi’s point of view. Someone had appeared over her shoulder. A dog’s eyes are oriented along the axis of their muzzle, with less peripheral vision than a human being. Edgar intended to thread his fingers through her collar and pin her to the ground using the momentum of his fall, like his mother sometimes did when a dog refused to down. Done right, a dog would be flattened before it had time to resist. If you had enough surprise. If you used enough force. If you got a solid grip on its collar.

Edgar wound up with none of these.

Epi threw her body sideways until her hind feet skidded out on the smooth cement. She could have turned and fled, but her mind was geared toward engagement, and by the time Edgar rolled onto his side, she towered over him. All he could do was loop two fingers through her collar, but without his hands free, he couldn’t issue a command, and Epi wouldn’t have obeyed anyway.

If it was idiotic to step into a dogfight, it was suicidal to fall into one. He lay on his back, Epi’s body suspended over him, all arcs of muscle and fur, and before he could move, she stepped back, arched her neck, and bit him.

In fact, she bit him twice, lightning fast. The first time, her teeth barely touched his skin, as if she were taking bearings, but the second time was for real and by then he was resigned to it, even felt she had the right. The surprise was that she restrained herself, suppressed the bite pressure that could have crushed the bones in his forearm, checked the upward jerk that could have sliced across tendon, muscle, and vein from wrist to elbow in a track just like his father’s. Instead, a flicker of recognition appeared in her amber eyes. She was a good dog, just besieged and confused, and when the point of her canine tooth penetrated his arm, she froze.

Then Almondine’s muzzle entered his field of vision from the right. She was taking no chances. Epi was younger and stronger, and if Almondine had ever been in a dogfight, it was so long past that Edgar could not recall it. But Almondine didn’t want to fight. She wanted Epi off him, off her boy. She didn’t bark or growl, she didn’t try to bite Epi’s neck or harry Epi into releasing Edgar’s arm.

At that moment, Almondine had one idea: to blind Epi.

TRUDY SAT UP IN BED, annoyed and confused. In her dream, Gar had been on the television, talking to her, so it was terrible enough to wake up at all, and doubly bad when she understood that what had woken her was the dogs, barking and crying, every one of them. Her first thought was that an animal had gotten into the barn. This happened every so often, though God knew why, since the place surely reeked of dog. But once inside, the sounds either paralyzed the animal or drove it into a mindless panic. One time it had been a raccoon; another, unbelievably, a cat. The uproar that had ensued sounded alarmingly like what she now heard coming from the barn.

She tried to stand but lost her balance and began to cough. A yellow haze spread across her vision. Pain shot along her ribs. She sat down on the corner of the bed. The house was pitch dark. She tried calling to Edgar, but she couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper. When she felt strong enough to stand again she made her way slowly to the bottom of the stairs.

“Edgar?” she said. “Edgar?”

She waited for a light to come on in his room, or for Almondine to appear. When neither happened, she walked up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, she paused for breath. His bedroom door was open. She walked to the doorway and turned on the overhead light.

The sheets had been carelessly pulled off, the pillow and blankets gone. She made her way down the stairs again, her movements slow and cautious. Something bad was happening in the barn. She pulled on a pair of slacks and a shirt over her nightgown, slipped her feet into unlaced boots, and opened the door.

EDGAR’S EYES WERE FIXED on the sight of Epi’s jaws on his forearm, how his skin had rucked up around her canine tooth like a loose stocking. There was no blood yet, and no pain, only a pulling sensation in the skin of his arm.

And so, lying there on the floor, all he saw was a blur and then a gash opened near Epi’s eye. Then Almondine’s muzzle was stretched wide next to Epi’s face and a sound came from her he’d never before heard from a dog-not a bark, but a scream, so raw and ferocious and bloody that, for all the baying and howling of the dogs until that moment, the kennel might as well have been silent.

Epi released his arm and scrambled backward. Before he could move, Almondine had straddled him and when he tried to sit up, she thumped him with her hip hard enough to knock him over, as if he were a pup. He had to scoot from beneath her to climb to his feet. Her pelt contracted when he touched her.

Epi had retreated to the front of the barn, alternately growling and nosing the door. A trail of black drops led across the cement. She pawed at her muzzle and shook her head. Edgar led Almondine to the medicine room and flashed his hands over her. She wasn’t cut or bleeding. He stayed her, firmly, and turned to Finch. He led the dog to the center of the aisle where the light was brightest. He wouldn’t take any weight on his left front foot. When Edgar tried to examine him, Finch jerked his leg away, but not before Edgar saw the gash near the dog’s left elbow, and a flash of white through the dog’s blood-matted coat. He ran his hands along Finch’s muzzle and throat. His fingers came back wet, but not bloody.

Kennel up, he signed. Finch hobbled to his pen. Once the latch was closed, he turned to Epi, pacing near the front door. Whenever he made eye contact with her, she flattened her ears against her skull and lifted her hackles. Her cheek looked like it had been opened with a knife. The sight made his heart thud.

He’d knelt and begun to coax Epi forward when the door swung open and his mother stood illuminated against the night. Instantly, Epi bolted, forcing his mother to step back and grab the door to keep her balance. She watched Epi flee into the darkness, then turned to Edgar.

What are you doing here? he signed, frantically.

“What’s going on?”

There was a problem. A fight.

“But it’s the middle of the night. Your arm-are you hurt?”

He looked down. Blood was smeared across his shirtsleeve. He couldn’t tell if it was his or Finch’s. He pushed it flat against his side, hoping to conceal the gash on his forearm.

I don’t think so. Not much. But Epi’s face is cut. She’s going to need stitches. Almondine bit her. Finch is lame. I can’t tell how bad.

His mother teetered and corrected herself.

You shouldn’t be outside, he signed. Go back to the house.

He tried to turn her around.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Look at your arm.”

Go back to the house. First let’s do that.

“Edgar, I’m here already. I might as well stay.”

No! Doctor Frost said you could end up in the hospital! He said you could die!

She started to respond, but a coughing fit doubled her over. When it passed, he steered her into the night. It wasn’t especially cold for spring, but neither was it warm, and he wanted to get her to the house. Then he remembered Almondine. She sat near the medicine room, watching them from the aisle. He clapped his leg, but she wouldn’t budge.

Come on, he signed. Come on! We don’t have time to screw around. She took a few steps forward, then faltered and sank to the cement.