CHAPTER 1

The tide was out, leaving a stretch of mudflat from the edge of the sandy beach out to where the water began. It was silent, six o’clock in the morning, the motel behind me quiet, no one else up, only an occasional crow squawk from across the highway. Nothing in front of me except the bay that lapped at the edge of the mud, forty yards off. A breeze ruffled the water beyond the edge.

An egret came toward me, low, its wingtips touching the surface and then it splayed its wings, came upright, and settled its long legs into the water. It folded its wings and remained motionless. I watched it. Its shadow against the mud was like two apostrophes touching each other, a mirror image. It did not move. Then, slowly it bent its head, canting it to one side, looking intently at something beneath the surface. Something down there had moved, and it waited, head bent, still, motionless as sleep, motionless as death. And it was death for whatever had moved. Some tiny fish or a mollusk or a mud worm. Something that was alive and would not be alive in a few moments. I waited to see the egret strike. But it did not move. It maintained its motionless presence, waiting, waiting. I realized that it could wait longer than I could. And it came to me that the thing that was the target had no idea that death was poised above it.

The worm continued to work its way through the mud or the tiny fish finned searching for something to eat while the thing that would eat it waited patiently for the right moment.

And that was it. Be the egret. Be the creature that was silent and motionless, and when it struck the strike would be deadly and quick and what I needed to do was to practice patience. Practice waiting. Practice holding myself in readiness, waiting for the right moment. There was no point in rushing in. If the egret moved, the worm would suddenly bury itself, the minnow dart away beyond the reach of the sharp bill. Wait, I told myself. Wait for the moment when he was unaware that I was there; wait until he moved as carelessly as that tiny fish.

The egret lifted one leg, a millimeter at a time until the foot was clear of the water, and then the egret placed the foot in the water, lowered its leg until it was no longer bent, and it was a few inches forward, head still canted, eye seeing the thing that would be snatched up in a single thrust. I could hear that crow calling out again. I did not move. How long would the egret wait? Probably longer than I could stay motionless, watching.

I heard a noise and turned. A man approached, an older man, slightly bent, and he held a leash and a dog, a small dog that stopped, bristling when it saw me. It barked several times and the man told it to be quiet, pulled at the leash. I looked back at the egret, but it was gone.

“Up early?” the man said.

“Yes, it’s quiet at this time.”

“Sorry about Ralph. He’s friendly, but he has to announce himself.” Now he was close enough so that the dog came toward me, tugging at the leash, and it barked again.

“He won’t bite,” the man said.

How often have I heard that one? He won’t bite and the child stretches out a hand to pet the dog and suddenly the teeth snatch at the outstretched fingers. “But he never does that!” the owner protests while the child howls, clutching its hand. This dog sniffed at my shoes, and I thought for a moment that it would raise a leg and piss on me, but it waited, I suppose, for me to pet it.

“Sweet dog,” I said. I like dogs. This one reminded me of a dog that we had, my daughter’s dog, a feisty little schnauzer, but when it got old and deaf and its hindquarters didn’t work right it began to lash out at people who approached it from behind. It couldn’t hear them and it lashed out at the unknown. Eventually it got to the point where it couldn’t function all that well and I took it to the vet. “I can stitch it together,” he said. “It’s unraveling, but you won’t be doing it any favor if you have me do that “

“So it’s come to the end?” I asked.

“I can do it for you,” he said.

“No, I need to do this myself.” By then my daughter was dead, and Trigger was the only thing left alive that was connected to her, if you discounted me and my wife, who had left me three years before.

“The humane society does it,” he said, and I drove out there and filled out the papers and sat with Trigger in the lobby and then a nice young woman came out. She reminded me a bit of my daughter. She took Trigger and said, “It won’t be long,” and then she came back with the papers and I went out to my truck and sat behind the wheel and cried. I cried for the old dog and I cried for my daughter.