Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks, the boy snuck as much food as he could to the puppies, and he made sure they had plenty of water. When he played with them, he could see that they were forming their own personalities, and he saw things that made each unique.

He could also see that they were going to be big dogs. An average male Aussie weighed between 50 and 65 pounds and stood around two feet. A few of the boys, like Remy, were going to be a lot bigger than that. They were going to need lots of food. He wondered who their father had been. From nearly all angles they looked like Australian shepherds; they even had blue merle coats, though some of the puppies had darker, solid-colored coats. Yet, in certain small ways – their ears, their paws, the dip of their tail – they didn’t look like Aussies.

One late autumn day, with the leaves nearly all gone from the trees, he walked to the fort. As he turned the last corner of the trail, he saw trouble ahead. It was the Old Man.

“I thought I told you to get rid of them?” the Old Man asked in more of a command. “We’re not only not going to make any money off them, we’re going to lose money with you feeding them.”

The boy didn’t know what to say.

“We don’t run this business because it makes our heart feel good. We raise dogs to make money. It’s a real simple thought, and it’s one you better understand. Now, pick ’em up and follow me,” the Old Man said.

It was a booming voice the son hadn’t heard in a long time, but it was a voice he fully remembered.

They got into the old Chevy pickup. They drove miles along a winding, tree-lined road. Although he’d been down this road several times in his years, the boy hadn’t remembered it being so … empty. He didn’t see another soul. Sitting next to the silent Old Man and hearing the puppies playing, he suddenly felt very lonely and very young.

They seemed to drive for a long time, but the boy figured that the Old Man didn’t want anyone to know what he’d done. Everyone who lived near them knew that he raised Australian shepherds. Even though the puppies weren’t full-blooded, they looked an awful lot like they were. If people saw them, they’d put two and two together and start asking all kinds of embarrassing questions. And they’d know the answer because they knew the Old Man. They’d know that he was the type that would dump a litter of puppies by the side of the road – and never look back.

Finally, the Old Man stopped the truck. They were next to a tree-studded cemetery that was adjacent to a small wooden church. This wasn’t their church, and the boy didn’t know anybody who went to it.

“Here,” the Old Man said. “Leave them here. Some of them church-goers will take them. They like doing good deeds. And who can turn down a puppy.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

The boy heard the bitter irony in his father’s voice. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d never seen his father go to church. It was their mother who always took them. Every Sunday.

The boy wanted to argue, he wanted to keep the puppies, but it’d been awhile since he’d seen his father this mad. He’d heard some of the arguments he’d had with his mother over the years. And he remembered it was always the father’s voice that carried the meanness. His meanness was sharp and stinging. His father, when he got that way, was not someone to tussle with. At least, by leaving them at the church, his father was giving the puppies a chance. That thought, though, didn’t help soothe the boy’s mind much.

He opened the door and put the crate of puppies on the ground. He heard the engine idling. For a brief moment, the boy thought about staying with the puppies. Finally, he pulled himself back into the truck, but before he did, he gently tipped over the crate. The puppies came rushing out. Big Remy was in the lead.

“Take care of them,” the boy said to Remy, before closing the door.

Remy blinked his eyes at the boy.

The Old Man took off and pulled a U-turn. The boy saw Remy, confused and scared, staring after the speeding truck. It was the last time that he saw the puppies.