Robin McKinley - Fire - Tales of Elemental Spirits

ʺGood plan.ʺ He lifted the end of the counter and came out. ʺI’ll take you round. Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?ʺ

ʺNot really. Something that can put up with a lot of cats and people and won’t chase horses.ʺ

The pound was nearly full, so there were a lot of dogs to look at. And most of them were barking. Miri began to think there were more advantages to cats than she’d realized. Her head started to hurt, and it was hard to look at each dog, especially the barking ones. But shouldn’t she want a dog that barked? In case it happened to be on the right side of the house the next time someone tried to break into the tack room.

They turned down a row of large runs. ʺI also don’t want anything that it takes two days’ salary to feed for one day,ʺ said Miri, as something that looked like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Shire horse shambled up to the front of its run to look them over.

ʺThey’re not all like Marigold,ʺ said Ronnie. ʺSome of ’em are just tall.ʺ

Miri stopped at a run a little over halfway down the row. This dog was not only not barking, which was unusual enough, but it was curled up in a far corner with its back to them.

ʺThis one’s a funny one,ʺ Ronnie said. ʺYou won’t want him, though. Nobody does. I’d’ve taken him home by now, but my wife says six is enough. He’s a complete gentleman; he wouldn’t chase your cats or your horses. But you won’t want him. He’d scare your little kids.ʺ

Miri’s curiosity was now fully aroused. All she could see was a long reddish-chestnut back: part setter, maybe.

ʺI’m going to take him home soon anyway, though,ʺ said Ronnie. ʺI hate seeing him like this. Some dogs almost don’t mind being pound dogs, but he’s a sensitive soul, and he’s been here too long. He’s pining, poor thing. No one even stops to talk to him, let alone take him home.ʺ He unlocked the wire-mesh door and went in; Miri followed. ʺHey there, my friend,ʺ said Ronnie. ʺYou’ve got a visitor. Come say hello.ʺ

The dog raised his head and looked back over his shoulder at them. He had a long narrow head with lopped-over ears, and a slightly bristly red coat—although more streaky merle than setter. He also had enormous, slanted, almond-shaped eyes, with slightly drooping lower lids. But the interior of those lids was a brilliant scarlet red, flame red, and the rim all round was red; and the eyes themselves were a curious reddish brown, almost the color of his coat. The whites of his eyes, visible at the angle he was looking at them from, were also scarlet red.

ʺOh,ʺ said Miri.

ʺThe vet can’t find anything wrong with him. He seems to see perfectly well, the eyes don’t seem to be sore or tender and there’s no swelling, no wounds; the lab reports all come back negative. He just looks . . . odd. Somebody saw him by the road and called him in; but when Diane went out with the van she almost didn’t bring him back, because of the way he looks.ʺ

The dog was looking at them sadly. Miri wasn’t sure how she knew this; it was hard to read an ordinary dog expression in those eyes. But she was sure she knew what she was seeing. It wasn’t just what Ronnie had said about him.

ʺSo, dog, how’s it going?ʺ she said, and held out her hand tentatively.

The dog looked at her for a moment longer and then slowly uncoiled and stood up. Oops, thought Miri, well, he’s certainly one of the tall ones. He waited, watching them, before he turned around so he was facing them, and paused again, still looking at them. The way he moved reminded her of the way you move around a nervous horse: slowly, gently, with lots of pauses, and watching carefully both for any reaction and any opportunity to try to make friends. This was suddenly so clear to her that she grinned, and held her hand out more positively. The dog cautiously walked the length of the run to them, stared into her face a moment longer, and then dropped his vivid eyes and lowered his head to put his nose in her hand.

ʺIt’s only that he’s a hellhound,ʺ Miri said. ʺThat’s why he has those eyes. I’ll take him.ʺ

Ronnie, grinning so hard his face was in danger of splitting, left her in the run with her new dog and went in search of a collar and leash. She glanced down. The hellhound looked up immediately. The scarlet of his eyes seemed to swirl and flicker, like real flames.

When Ronnie returned, he was apologetic. ʺThis is the only one I could find in his size,ʺ he said, holding out a loop of bright red. Miri laughed.

ʺNo, I think red’s exactly right. Anything else would only make it worse.ʺ

He was a rather beautiful dog—except for the eyes—and she was already getting used to them by the time she’d buckled the collar round his neck. He ignored all the frenzy from the other dogs as they made their way back through the rows of kennels to reception. There was a surprising amount of paperwork to adopting a dog—and it cost more than she was expecting too. Drat, she thought, there goes the indoor arena for an extra—oh, six minutes or so. While Ronnie went into the office for the adoption forms she stood by the counter and looked at her hellhound some more. Her hellhound looked back. The faintest suggestion of a wag rippled through his hindquarters and tail.

ʺI wonder if you know anything?ʺ she said. ʺI mean any of the ordinary dog things. I wouldn’t want to guess what you really know.ʺ She’d done a lot of dog-minding and dog-sitting for people who came to the barn so she didn’t feel at a total loss, although there was a strange fluttery feeling in the base of her throat. As Ronnie came back again, holding a wad of papers, she stooped down and tapped the floor. ʺLie down,ʺ she said. And then she heard herself add: ʺPlease?ʺ

The hellhound had obligingly lowered his head to watch her. He looked at her tapping finger and put his nose on it. Then he looked at her face again—and she had the extremely disconcerting sensation that he was changing his mind as he looked at her, thinking something on the order of, no, I can’t keep it up. Keep what up? she thought. That you’re a dog? Or that you’re not a dog?

He lay down. He lay down like the statue of a jackal on an Egyptian tomb, or like a stone lion in front of a library. She almost felt that she ought to stay crouched in front of him.

She stood up.

ʺWow,ʺ said Ronnie. ʺI don’t think I’d be teaching that one to fetch my slippers, though.ʺ

ʺNo,ʺ she agreed. ʺBut any self-respecting tack-room thief ought to take one look at him and run away.ʺ

She’d named him Flame by the time they got home. She found herself pressing the gas pedal more gently as she turned into the sandy, gravelly drive to the barn, as if by doing so the truck’s wheels would make less noise, and she—and Flame—would be able to slip in unnoticed.

Of course this is not what happened. The old truck, perhaps as a result of over ten years of pulling horse trailers, had developed a unique wheeze, not unlike a horse with broken wind. (ʺIf you had a horse that made a sound like that, you’d retire it,ʺ said Miri’s father. ʺNed,ʺ said Jane with dignity, ʺit’s a truck. ʺ) So even though there were always cars and trucks (and frequently old croaky cars and trucks) pulling in and out of the stable-yard, Jane, Mal and Ned—and two of the current regiment of barn cats—were all standing at the edge of the drive by the time she’d parked and turned the engine off. Mal’s summer job—he still had two years of high school left—was second shift. Just my luck, though, she thought, to have picked a day when Dad is working at home. Oh, well. Maybe better get it over with. . . .