He stopped and panted. He sniffed the air.
He opened his mouth and laughed, a thing he had learned from men.
Then, taking a very deep breath, he threw his head back and howled—a thing he had not learned from men.
In fact, he was not certain where he had learned it.
His howl rolled across the hills and echoed among them like a great horn-note.
His ears pricked upright as he listened to the echoes.
Then he heard an answering howl, which was like, yet not like, his own.
There could be no howl quite like his own, because his voice was not wholly the voice of dogs.
He listened, he sniffed, he howled again.
Again, there came an answer. Nearer, this time...
He waited, tasting the breezes for the messages they bore.
It was a dog that came toward him up the hill, rapidly at first, then slowing its pace to a walk. It stopped forty feet away and stared at him. Then it lowered its head.
It was some kind of floppy-eared hound—big, mongrel...
He sniffed once more, made a small noise in his throat.
The dog bared its teeth.
He moved toward it, and it did not move until he was about ten feet away. Then it turned again and began to draw back.
He stopped.
The dog watched him, carefully, and began to circle. It moved to his leeward side and sniffed the wind.
Finally, he made a noise at the dog, deep down in his throat. It sounded strangely like "Hello."
The dog growled at him. He took a step toward it.
"Good dog," he finally said.
It cocked its head to one side.
"Good dog," he said again.
He took another step toward it, and another. Then he sat down.
"... Ver-ry good dog," he said.
Its tail twitched, slightly.
He rose and walked up to it. It sniffed him all over. He returned the compliment. Its tail wagged, and it circled a-round and around him and threw its head back and barked twice.
It moved in an ever-widening circle, occasionally lowering its head to the ground. Then it darted off into the woods, head still lowered.
He approached the place where it had last stood and sniffed at the ground. Then he turned and followed the trail through the trees.
After a few seconds he had caught up with it and they were running side by side.
Then he sped on ahead, and the trail circled and dipped and looped. Finally, it was strong indeed.
A rabbit broke from the cover of a small shrub.
He ran it down and seized it in his huge jaws.
It struggled, so he tossed his head.
Its back made a snapping sound and it ceased its struggles.
Then he held it a moment longer and looked around.
The hound came rushing up to him, quivering all over.
He dropped the rabbit at its feet.
The hound looked up at him, expectantly.
He watched it.
It lowered its head and tore at the small carcass. The blood made smoke in the cold air. Stray snowflakes landed upon the dog's brown head.
It chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed...
Finally, he lowered his own head and tore at the thing.
The meat was warm and raw and wild. The dog drew back as he seized upon it, a snarl dying in its throat.
He was not especially hungry, though, so he dropped it and moved away. The dog leapt upon it once more.
After that, they hunted together for several hours.
He always beat the hound to the kill, but he always left it for him to eat.
Altogether, they ran down seven rabbits. The last two they left untouched.
The dog sat down and stared at him.
"Good dog," he told it
It wagged its tail.
"Bad dog," he told it.
The tail stopped wagging.
"Very bad dog."
Its head fell. It looked up at him.
He turned and walked away.
It followed him, tail between its legs.
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
The dog cringed.
Then he barked five times and howled.
The ears and tail rose again. It moved up to his side, sniffing at him once more.
He made a laughing noise.
"Good dog," he said.
The tail wagged. '
He laughed again.
"Mi-cro, ceph, al-ic, id-i-ot," he said.
The tail continued to wag.
He laughed.
"Good dog, good dog, good dog, good dog, good dog."
It ran in a small circle, lowered its head between its front paws and looked up at him.
He bared his fangs and snarled. Then he leapt at it and bit it on the shoulder.
It made a yelping noise and ran away.
"Fool!" he growled. "Fool, fool, fool, fool, fooll"
There was no reply.
He howled again, a sound like that of no other animal on earth.
And then he returned to the car, nosed the door open and climbed inside.
He leaned upon a button on the dashboard and the engine started. The door swung itself all the way open, then slammed. With a paw, he pressed out the necessary coordinates. The car backed out from under the tree, then moved up the lane toward the road.
It hurried back onto the highway and then it was gone.
Somewhere a man was walking.
He could have worn a heavier coat this chill morning, but he was fond of the one with the fur collar.
Hands in his pockets, he walked along the guard-fence. On the other side of the fence the cars roared by.
He did not turn his head.
He could have been in any number of other places, but he chose to be there.
He chose to be walking on this chill morning.
He chose not to care about anything but walking.
The cars sped by and he walked slowly, but steadily.
He did not encounter anyone else on foot.
His collar was turned up, against the wind, but it did not stop all of the cold.
He walked on, and the morning bit him and tugged at his clothing. The day held him, walking, in its infinite gallery, unsigned and unnoticed.
Christmas Eve.
... The opposite of New Years:
It is the time of year for family reunions, for Yule logs and trees blazing—for gifts, and for the eating of special foods and the drinking of special drinks.
It is the personal time, rather than the social time; it is the time of focusing upon self and family, rather than society at large; it is the time of rimed windows, star-coated angels, of burning bushes, captured rainbows, of fat Santas with
two pairs of trousers (because the youngsters who sit upon their laps are easily awed); and the time of cathedral windows, blizzards, carols, bells, manger scenes, season's greetings from those far removed (even if they live but a short distance away), of broadcast Dickens and holly and candles, of poinsettia and evergreen, of snowbanks, firs, spruces, pines, of the Bible and Medieval England, of "What Child is This?" and "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem," of the birth and the promise, the light in the darkness; the time, and the time to be, the feeling before the realization, the realization before the happening, the trafficking of red and green, the changing of the year's guard, of tradition, loneliness, sympathy, empathy, sentimentality, singing, faith, hope, charity, love, desire, aspiration, fear, fulfillment, realization, faith, hope, death; a time of the gathering together of stones and the casting away of stones, of embracing, getting, losing, laughing, dancing, mourning, rending, silence, speaking, death, and not speaking. It is a time to break down and a time to build up, a time to plant, and a time to pluck that which is planted...
Charles Render and Peter Render and Jill DeVille began a quiet Christmas Eve together.