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Old Shuck continued to growl.
GRRRRRRRRR...
I could see one thing very clearly.
Old Shuck did NOT like this new Dad – not one single bit.
“Is that your dog?” back-from-the-dead Dad asked me.
GRRRRRRRRR...
“He’s my friend,” I said, just a little bit too defensively. “I wouldn’t exactly call him my dog. He just walks with me, is all.”
GRRRRRRRRRRR...
“Well you ought to teach your friend better manners,” Dad said. “In fact, I don’t think that I really care all that much at all for your dog-friend’s company.”
I put my hand on Old Shuck’s neck, just hard enough to hold him back just a little – although of course, if that big old purple Death Dog had REALLY wanted to move I couldn’t hold him back any more than a twelve year old Girl Scout could hold back a freshly-cut full-sized redwood tree from timbering on down.
Come to think of it the Girl Scout would probably stand a better chance.
“Go on, Shuck,” I told him. “Go on over there with Coyote. I’ll be all right over here by himself. I’m just talking to my Dad, is all.”
Wasn’t I?
Old Shuck growled a little bit more but he listened to what I had told him. He walked slowly over to stand directly beside Coyote – who was still standing there with that goofy look on his face and those two goofy Raven feathers sticking out of his mouth like he had been caught eating an unplucked chicken dinner.
And all the time Old Shuck kept on growling at Dad-not-Dad.
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR...
I stood there beside my Dad.
Not-Dad.
Did you ever hear that little voice that whispers to you sometimes whenever you are getting set to do something that you REALLY ought not to do?
Well, that was the voice.
“Dad,” I said – trying hard to drown that quiet little voice out. “It is SO good to see you.”
Oddly enough, I almost meant what I was saying – in spite of that little voice that kept on whispering not-dad to me. I mean – I had already pretty well lost Warren and Bigfoot and The Prophet. Who could really blame me for not wanting to lose anyone else?
“A dog like that REALLY ought to be tied up,” Dad-not-Dad said. “You do know that, now don’t you?”
Then Dad-not-Dad looked at me and he smiled like he was thinking about a bottle of cold grape soda pop that he had left in the refrigerator back home just waiting for after he had got done walking home from Afghanistan on a long hot summer day.
“Speaking of tying,” Dad-not-Dad said – right before he reached over and tied two black raven feathers in my hair. He did it fast – like he had been tying feathers into people’s hair for about as long as birds grew wings. He braided each of those feathers up in about as much time as it took you to read this sentence.
It was that fast.
And all at once I felt a deep calm wash over me – like when your Mom tucks a blanket up around your chin and tells you that it is time for you to go to sleep and dream about a world where teachers hand you out A-filled report cards just because you stayed at home all day watching cartoons on your television set.
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Fine,” Coyote echoed.
And then Dad-not-Dad looked back at Old Shuck – who was still growling in Dad-not-Dad’s general direction.
“Yes sir,” Dad-not-Dad said. “A dog like that just REALLY ought to be tied up.”
Then he nodded and before I knew it a couple of dozen of those tiny Mannegishi had begun to circle around Old Shuck, carrying lassoes.
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Just fine,” Coyote echoed.
It was funny.
A part of me was wondering just WHY my Dad-not-Dad was so darned determined to tie up Old Shuck – but heck – maybe he just didn’t like dogs, is all. Which was really kind of surprising. I mean, that was something that I never knew about my Dad-not-Dad but there is an awful lot of things that a kid like me doesn’t know about a Dad who went and died and came back from the dead just like my Dad just did.
Not-Dad.
Of course, trying to throw a rope around Old Shuck was an awful lot of wasted energy. Even I could have told them if they had thought to ask me about it. The first three lassoes fell directly onto Old Shuck’s neck and he took off like a dream of running wind with those three Mannegishi warriors just hanging on for pure sweet life. Two of the Mannegishi thought to let go but the third warrior must have had his hand snagged or else he was just too scare or too stupid to let go. Either way, Old Shuck took off into the Labrador wilderness like he was fixing to run half past forever – with that third stupid warrior bouncing behind him in the dirt like a drunken lead-plated kite’s tail.
Darn it.
That was most likely the very last that I was going to see of Old Shuck – which bothered me a lot because I had actually begun to LIKE that big smelly purple old death dog – but then I felt that deep black calm wash over me.
Who cares – I thought.
Who cares about an old purple dog just so long as I have got my Dad with me again.
Not-Dad.
Dad.
Not-Dad.
Dad.
“Good riddance,” Dad-not-Dad said. “I hope that mangy animal keeps on running until he hits the ocean and drowns.”
“That’s fine,” I said – wondering to myself just exactly why had it taken me so very long to discover just how truly fine the word “fine” felt like when you kept on saying it.
I mean, just try saying it, right now.
Fine.
You just can’t help but smile when you say that word out loud.
Fine.
“Just fine,” Coyote echoed.
“You still talk too much,” Dad-not-Dad said to Coyote. “But I can fix that.”
Then Dad walked over to where Coyote was standing. I saw him pull a long thin bone needle out from shirt, as well as a spool of dirty white cord. Then, before you could say Singer sewing machine my Dad stitched a long nasty running stitch across Coyote’s mouth.
“Now that’s fine,” Dad-not-Dad said, with a grin that wasn’t anywhere close to a happy grin.
“Jph fhn,” Coyote mumbled through the stitches in reply.
And then my Dad looked over at Bigfoot.
I didn’t actually like the way that Dad-not-Dad was looking at Bigfoot but the feathers kept on telling me never you mind.
“All right,” Dad-not-Dad said to the crowd of Mannegishi, pointing down at what was left of Bigfoot. “Take care of him!”
The Mannegishi raised their long sharp spears high over their heads.
They paused for just a minute, like they were waiting for some kind of an alarm to go off or else maybe some sort of cosmic omen.
I knew what they were going to do.
You would have to be ten kinds of stupid not to see it coming.
But I just stood there and smiled calmly - and then they drove those long sharp spears down – directly into what was left of Bigfoot’s big hairy chest.
“That’s fine,” I said.