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Bigfoot held the bearskin beneath Old Shuck’s mighty purple nose.
From where I was standing that bearskin smelled a little like the leftover breakfast that I had just emptied out of my stomach and into the sugar plum bushes a short time ago – but Old Shuck seemed to like it just fine.
“Come on you big purple Barney dog,” Bigfoot said. “Come on and get yourself a really good snoot full.”
The big purple death dog snorted the bear pelt daintily.
And then he sneezed about a bucket and a half full of giant green and purple dog snot all over Bigfoot.
“Maybe he is allergic to you,” Coyote suggested. “I have heard of such things.”
“It might help if you actually used his real name,” I added. “Rather than calling him Barney. He really doesn’t look a thing like that big purple television dinosaur.”
Bigfoot wasn’t impressed by my suggestion.
“Maybe he’s actually allergic to stupidity,” Bigfoot replied. “How about if you two stand back up and let this big fellow breathe?”
“Listen to the fur ball talk,” The Prophet said. “I’m betting that big old Sasquatch couldn’t even SPELL the word allergic if he had it written out in front of his eyeballs.”
Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if I could spell allergic without using a “k” or two – but I didn’t bother saying so. I was way too busy watching the effect that bewitched bear pelt seemed to have on Old Shuck.
He growled at that Spirit Bear pelt.
“I don’t think he likes the smell of that bear pelt all that much,” Coyote said.
“I don’t care WHAT he likes,” Bigfoot said. “He is a hunting dog and that means that he is supposed to be able to hunt.”
Old Shuck put his big purple paw over his head, like he didn’t want to listen to what ever Bigfoot had to say.
Bigfoot grabbed Old Shuck by his ear and held his face up close to his own – close enough to either lick or bite, which I thought was quite a risk. Then he shoved the bear skin back under the big purple dog’s nose.
“Fetch!” Bigfoot said.
Old Shuck growled a little deeper in his throat.
“I don’t think that grabbing onto his ear is all that good of an idea,” Coyote pointed out. “He doesn’t really seem to like it all that much.”
“Here, kid,” Bigfoot said – holding the spirit bear’s pelt in my direction. “You seem to have better luck with this Death Dog than I do.”
“It might be because Adam behaves a whole lot nicer than you do,” Coyote pointed out. “Did you ever stop and think of that?”
“If I want to hear from you I’ll pull your tail like a bell rope,” Bigfoot warned. “And you can just say ding.”
“Like I said,” Coyote added, tucking his tail under all four of his feet. “A whole lot nicer than you know how.”
I held the bear skin in my hands like it was a peed-on blanket that had been forgotten behind somebody’s bed and left to grow mildew.
And then I stepped a little closer.
“Hey Old Shuck,” I said. “Old Shuckster, good old Shukramarama.”
Old Shuck panted happily and thumped his tail in the dirt, rising up a dust cloud about the size and density of Vancouver Island squared fourteen times a hundred.
He really seemed to like me.
I knew what was happening.
You’d have to be ten kinds of stupid not to recognize what Shukramarama was really looking at when he saw me.
He was seeing Little Billy standing there – the boy that Old Shuck had died for. He was seeing Little Billy as a kid again, and ready to play.
That was fine by me. The truth was I had begun to grow a big old soft spot, right directly in the center of my heart for this ugly purple Death Dog. If he wanted me to be his Little Billy – well that was fine as fine could be.
“Sniff on this,” I told Old Shuck. “Come on boy.”
Old Shuck took himself a sniff.
He panted happily, big purple gobs of dog-drool hanging down his big fuzzy chin.
Then he took himself another big old sniff.
Then he barked.
“I think he’s got the scent,” Bigfoot said happily. “What did I tell you? That was easy. I knew the kid could do it.”
I rolled my eyes a little.
“Shut up and the let the kid do his work and stop trying to take the credit for something you had no idea would happen,” Coyote growled. “Adam knows exactly what he’s doing.”
I smiled at that.
“Come on Old Shuck,” I said, shaking the pelt of the Spirit Bear. “Fetch now, fetch!”
Old Shuck opened his purple garbage truck mouth and took the pelt away from me and then he spat the pelt back down at my feet.
He looked up and panted happily, wagging his tail and waiting patiently for another skritch.
I guess that proper word choice when dealing with a giant purple Death Dog can be AWFULLY important.
“You fetched it all right,” I said, giving him the reward of his waited-for head skritch. “Good old Shuck, good old Shuckaramarama.”
“It might be you want to rephrase your command,” Coyote suggested. “Remember – good grammar is the difference between “Let’s eat Granddad” and “Let’s eat, Granddad.”
“Yeah, and it might be that you just might like to take your own advice for yourself,” Bigfoot added. “And just shut up for a bit and let the kid do his stuff.”
So I picked up the Spirit Bear pelt, and I gave it another shake and carefully held it back under Old Shuck’s nose.
Old Shuck gave another big old sniff.
“All right Old Shuck,” I said. “Good old Shuckeramarama.”
I thought very carefully about what I was going to say next.
And then it came to me.
I don’t think that I thought of it, actually. It was more like I heard someone inside of my brain whispering the word to me - somebody that sounded a whole lot like my stepdad Warren.
I knew the three words that I had to say.
I gave Old Shuck another sniff of Spirit Bear – and then I said those three words.
“Let’s go hunting,” I said.
Old Shuck barked happily and then took off running.
The hunt was on.
“Let’s go,” Bigfoot yelled.
We climbed into The Prophet and took off with a beat of his mighty pink wings – and we took off following directly behind Old Shuck from high above.
I could see him running down below, from my window seat. He looked like a giant fat grape-colored tick, bouncing through the woodland.
“He’s almost to the shoreline,” Coyote said. “I sure he hope he can swim.”
“He’ll most likely dog paddle,” Bigfoot replied.
Only it turned out that Old Shuck did not need to swim.
He reached the water and then he just kept on running, like the Atlantic Ocean was nothing more than a great big playground.
“How does he do that?” I asked.
“Magic would be my guess,” Bigfoot said.
“The next time you’re talking to that big purple dog,” Coyote suggested. “Why don’t you try asking him just exactly how he does it?”
We followed – flying above Old Shuck for about an hour.
We had flown practically halfway across the Gulf of St. Lawrence and were heading for the Labrador coastline when the Raven decided to attack.