That same morning, Tyrell drove Danny into the country west of their ranch. Banjo sat on Danny’s lap, nose out the window and ears flapping in the wind.
The night before, Danny had called every kid he knew from school, begging them to take Banjo. But none of them could, or would. Ricky wanted to take him, but when his dad asked why Danny was giving his dog away, Ricky had to tell him.
“Sorry, Danny,” Ricky said. “My dad won’t risk it. I called three other guys I know, and their parents said the same thing. Can’t you find him a home in Bend? Or better, somewhere they don’t have livestock, like Eugene or Portland?”
“Don’t have time. And I don’t know anyone there.”
“You really told your dad you’d shoot your own dog?”
Danny closed his eyes. “I had to think of something.”
“Oh, man…now what?
When Danny didn’t answer, Ricky said, “Don’t tell me you’re really going to shoot him.”
“Worse.”
“How’s that possible?”
Danny told him.
“I don’t think I could do that,” Ricky said.
“Maybe I can’t, either.”
Now, as Tyrell drove out into the country, Danny’s thoughts were like barbed wire in his brain. He shut his eyes and tugged his hat down low, trying hard not to think about the Winchester in the window rack behind him.
He looked in the side-view mirror, but it was cracked and pointing toward the sky. Danny reached out and tried to adjust it.
“Broken,” Tyrell said. “I need to get a new one.”
“What’d you do to it?”
“Some idiot hit it with a baseball bat, or something. While I was at work. Got five more cars, too.” He shook his head. “Fools everywhere.”
Danny pulled Banjo closer. “Did you ask Spike?”
Tyrell nodded. “He said his wife isn’t ready for another dog.”
Danny closed his eyes and threw his head back.
“Don’t think about it,” Tyrell said. “It’ll drive you nuts.”
“Already has.”
They drove in silence, country fence posts slipping by. Danny slapped the seat. “Come on, Tyrell, we have to know someone who can take him.”
“Not a chance. Maybe Portland, but who do we know there? We don’t even have time to put an ad in the paper. Where exactly are we going, anyway?”
“Camp Sherman, I guess.”
“What’s out there?”
“Forest.”
Tyrell turned to look at Danny. “We ain’t seen nothing but forest. Why out there?”
“It’s faraway forest.”
Minutes later they were beyond Sisters, heading toward the mountain pass. The sun was straight up and hot.
“I don’t know about this,” Tyrell said. “I mean, is it more humane to euthanize him or turn him loose? He’s a pet. He doesn’t know how to live in the wild.”
Danny looked out his window.
Tyrell turned the radio on.
“All I know is nobody’s killing Banjo.” Danny turned the radio off. Music was wrong at a time like this.
Tyrell looked at him, then back at the road.
When they reached the turnoff for Camp Sherman, they headed to where the Metolius River ran cold and clear. They pulled up and parked in front of Camp Sherman’s one store, a shoebox among the giant ponderosa pines.
Danny opened the door.
Banjo started to jump out with him, but Danny held him back.
“Stay.”
Banjo sat. He’d always been a good dog.
Just outside the store, two men wearing baseball caps sat on a bench with their arms crossed over their large bellies. “Ask them if they want a dog,” Danny said, low.
“You go on in,” Tyrell said, and sat on the bench with the two men. “Either of you gents want a dog?”
Inside, Danny bought two bottles of water and a packet of beef jerky, then went out and nodded to Tyrell.
Tyrell stood. “Nice talking with ya.”
They got back in the truck and followed the road downriver.
“Well?” Danny asked.
“Nope.”
“Did they even consider it?”
“For about a second.”
Danny closed his eyes, his chest tight.
Three miles later they parked in a dirt pullout near the river.
The dry air smelled like mint.
Danny let Banjo out. “Go on and run a bit.”
He tossed Tyrell a bottle of water and jammed the other one and the jerky into his back pockets.
Moments later Banjo came loping out of the brush. Danny knelt and scratched his ears, which Banjo liked, his eyes closing to slits.
Danny hugged him for a long time, then got up and reached into the truck for the rifle.
They headed downriver.
Soon they crossed a bridge and angled into the trees on the other side, looking for a place where campers or fishermen or hikers would not go.
Tyrell trailed Danny. “You know where you’re going?”
“No.”
“We could get lost in here.”
“Long as we can hear the river, we’re good.”
They kept the river within earshot, though the sound grew weaker. When they stopped, Banjo was somewhere deep in the woods.
Tyrell sat and leaned against a tree. “Why’d you tell Dad you were going to put Banjo down when you knew that would never happen?”
“To keep him alive.”
Tyrell snorted. “Now, there’s irony for you.”
Danny sat and laid the rifle in the pine needles. They waited in the eerie silence of motionless trees. When Banjo finally came back, he lay down next to them, tongue out, panting.
Danny’s head started to throb.
He looked at the rifle. “This is the worst day of my life.”
Tyrell tossed a rock into the thick trees. “Just do it and let’s go home.”
Danny reached over and put a hand on Banjo’s head. “I’m sorry, Banjo…I…I…”
There were no words.
Banjo’s ears perked forward, his eyes bright.
Danny ripped open the packet of jerky with his teeth and held out a piece.
Banjo snapped it up and started gnawing on it.
“That’s not going to help us do what we came here to do,” Tyrell said. When Danny didn’t answer, Tyrell closed his eyes. “Time to get serious.”
Danny rubbed his temples. How long could he put it off? He took the bottle of water and poured some into his cupped hand. Banjo lapped it up.
Please, God, help me, because I can’t do this by myself.
He gave Banjo more water, then hugged him so tight Banjo yelped. Danny let up but couldn’t let go. He buried his head in Banjo’s black and white fur.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”
Tyrell pushed himself up, grabbed the Winchester, raised it to his cheek, and aimed.