Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
"Shiloh," I tell him, as though he knows it's his name, "Judd Travers isn't never going to kick you again."
And the way his eyes look at me then, the way he reaches up and licks my face, it's like it seals the promise. I'd made a promise to Judd Travers I wasn't going to keep, Jesus help me. But I'm making one to Shiloh that I will, God strike me dead.
I set him down at last and go over to the creek for a drink of water. Shiloh follows along beside me. I cup my hands and drink, and Shiloh helps himself, lapping it up. Now what? I ask myself. The problem is looking me square in the face.
I got to keep Shiloh a secret. That much I know. But I'm not going to keep him chained. Only thing I can think of is to make him a pen. Don't like the idea of it, but I'll be with him as much as I can.
I take him back to the shadbush and Shiloh lays down.
"Shiloh," I say, patting his head. "Stay!"
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He thumps his tail. I start to walk away, looking back. Shiloh gets up. "Stay!" I say again, louder, and point to the ground.
He lays back down, but I know he's like to follow, anyways. So I pull him over to a pine tree, take the belt off my jeans, loop it through the raggedy old collar Shiloh's wearing, and fasten the belt to the tree. Shiloh don't like it much, but he's quiet. I go down the path and every so often I turn around. Shiloh is looking at me like he won't never see me again, but he don't bark. Strangest thing I ever see in a dog, to be that still.
Ma's still on the back porch. When she washes, it takes her near all day. Dara Lynn and Becky's stuck to the TV. So I go to the shed by the side of the house and I take the extra fencing Dad used when we had us more chickens. I take me a piece of wire, too, and go back up the hill.
Shiloh's still there, and he don't try to get up while I set to work. I string the fencing around the trunks of three small trees, for corner posts, and then back to the pine tree again where I fasten it with wire. Pen measures about six by eight feet.
I go back down to the shed again, and this time I get the old rotten planks Dad took out of the back steps when he put in the new. Pick me up an old pie tin, too. I take the planks up to Shiloh's pen and
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make him a lean-to at one end, to protect him from rain. Fill the pie tin with water so's he'll have something to drink.
Last of all, I take the lard bread from my pocket and feed it to Shiloh in little pieces, letting him lick my fingers after every bite. I wrap my arms around him, pat him, run my hands over his ears, even kiss his nose. I tell him about a million times I love him as much as I love my ma.
The worry part is whether or not he'll stay quiet. I'm hoping he will, 'cause he was a silent dog to begin with, but all the way back down the hill to the house, I put my finger to my lips and turn back.
"Shhh!" I say.
Shiloh, he don't make a sound. Like he had the bark beat out of him when he was a pup and it just never come back.
I'm tense as a cricket that night. Tense when Dad drives up in his Jeep, afraid the dog will bark. Tense when Dara Lynn and Becky are out in the yard playing after dinner, squealin' and yellin', afraid that Shiloh will want to get in on the fun and maybe dig a hole under the fence. He never comes.
I manage to take a piece of potato and some cornbread up to him before it gets dark. I sit down in his pen with him, and he crawls all over me, licking my face. If he'd been a cat, he would have purred, he was that glad to see me.
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Tell him I'm coming back tomorrow with some kind of leash for him. Tell him we're going to run all over that hill, him and me, every day. Tell him he's my dog now, and I'm not never going to let anybody hurt him again ever, and then I leave, wiring that fence good. I go home and sleep a full night, first time in a long while.
CHAPTER 5
Igot to take one problem at a time, I tell myself.
Problem number one: where to keep Shiloh hid. Solved.
Problem number two: Would Shiloh be quiet? Yes, he would.
Problem number three: How am I going to get food out of the house, enough to feed Shiloh twice a day, without Ma noticing?
The next morning before breakfast, as soon as Dad's gone, I take a biscuit from the kitchen and a rope from the shed outside, and run up the far hill before Ma and Dara Lynn and Becky get out of bed.
This time Shiloh's on his feet waiting for me, tail going like a windshield wiper, fast speed. A soft yip of pure joy cuts off quick when I say "Shhh!" but as soon as I'm in the pen, Shiloh's leaping up almost shoulder high to lick my cheek, nuzzling my hands, my thighs. He gulps down the biscuit I give him. Wants more, I can tell, but he don't bark. Seems to know he's safe only as long as he's quiet. I tie the rope to his collar.
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"Shiloh, boy, we're goin' for a run," I tell him.
To get in and out of Shiloh's pen, I got to unfasten the piece of wire that holds the fencing against the trunk of the pine, then move the fencing aside long enough to slip out. Shiloh lets me go through first, he follows, and then we're both together, like a six-legged animal, pounding along up the path, legs bumping, Shiloh leaping up to lick my hand. I let go of the rope and let Shiloh run free for a while. If he goes ahead even a few steps, he stops and looks back to see if I'm coming; if he stops to sniff at a tree or bush and I go on by, his feet pound double time to catch up.
Just out of the woods on the other side of the hill, there's a meadow, and I slump down in the grass to rest. Shiloh's all over me, licking my face sloppy wet. I giggle and roll over on my stomach, covering my head and neck with my arms. Shiloh whines and nudges his nose under my shoulder, working to roll me over. I laugh and turn on my back, pulling Shiloh down onto my chest, and for a while we both lay there, panting, enjoying the sunshine, belonging to each other.
"What'd you do today, Marty?" Dad asks as he gets out of his Jeep late that evening.
"Oh, looked for ground hogs up on the hill. Fooled around," I tell him.
"How's the can collecting coming?"
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"Found some a couple days ago."
"Saw some bottles in the ditch down near Doc Murphy's," Dad says.
"I'll go take a look," I tell him, and set out with my bag. I have to keep on collecting cans, enough to cover some money for meat and bones from the grocer down in Friendly. The bigger Shiloh grows, the more he'll eat.
When I get back home, supper's on the table, and I slip into my chair just as Dad asks the blessing: "Dear Lord, we thank you for the food you've provided for our table. Bless it to nourish the good within us. Amen."
Ma picks up the meat loaf and passes it around, and the meal begins.
I eat about half my supper, then say, "I been getting this sort of full feeling at dinner, Ma, and then I'm hungry again before I go to bed."
Ma don't even look up. "Well, don't eat so much at dinner, then, and eat again before bedtime."
"Food'11 be. all gone by then."
"There's always cornflakes or something."
"But I get hungry for meat and potatoes later."
"Save some back, then."
"Dara Lynn'll eat it."
"For goodness' sake, Marty!" says Ma.
"Who wants cold meat loaf?" Dara Lynn says.
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Forks continue clinking on the table; Becky keeps on digging her fork in her boiled potato. No one looks up. No one pauses. No one even questions. Easy as falling off a log.
I get up from the table finally and put some of my meat loaf and half a potato on a saucer.
"I'm puttin' this in the fridge, Dara Lynn," I say. "Don't you go pickin' at it."
"I won't, I told you!" she says.
I go into the other room and sit down on the sofa. So far, so good.
"You seem restless, Marty," Ma calls.
"Me? Heck, no. I got lots to do."
"Where's David Howard this summer? Haven't seen him around."
"Think he went to Tennessee to visit his uncle."
"Fred? Michael?"
"Haven
"You're not lonely?"
"How can I be lonely with the whole outdoors to play in?" I answer. Wish they'd get off my back.
"You can ride along to work with me again anytime you want," says Dad.
I pick up the comic book I bought a few weeks back. "I want to go, I'll let you know," I tell him.
Gradually the kitchen clatter dies down. Dad
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belches and goes out on the back porch to look at the sky, same as he always does. Becky's fooling with her food, and Ma sends her away from the table. Dara Lynn giggles at Becky and gets asked to clear the dishes.
I wait until everyone is out of the kitchen and sitting around on the back porch to catch the breeze. As usual Becky and Dara Lynn whoop and tumble around in the grass, glad for an audience, and after I sit a respectable amount of time, I say, "Think I'll take my .22 and go up the far hill awhile."
"What you figure on shooting this time of evening?" Dad asks.
"Just workin' on my aim," I tell him. "See how good I can hit when the light's dim."
"Don't you ever, never, aim your gun toward this house or yard," Ma says.
"I'll point it dead away," I promise. I go back inside for my gun, slip the leftover food from the saucer into a little plastic sack, and set off up the hill, the sounds of my sisters' shouts and giggles'behind me.
Again, as I get near the pen, I hear soft, happy yips. But soon as I say, "Shhh!" the noise stops. The only sound you can hear is the swishing of Shiloh's tail, hitting the fence, the soft pad of his paws as he leaps up in the air in sheer, pure happiness; the sloppy slap of his jowls together as he gobbles down
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the supper I've brought him and then he commences to slobber love all over me as well.
I unhook the wire, push the fence open, and lead Shiloh to the stream for a drink, filling the pie pan with fresh water. When I lead him back to the pen again, I can tell he's disappointed, wanted to go for a run, but I give him enough hugging and squeezing and petting to last the night, with the promise of another run through the meadow the next day.
I'm halfway down the hill when I remember I haven't fired my gun once, and wonder if Dad will say anything. By the time I reach the back porch, though, the whole family's facing down the driveway, 'cause there's the sound of a truck motor growing louder and louder.
I stop in my tracks, fingers tightening around my gun.
Dad, sitting on the edge of the porch, leans forward so he can see. "Looks like Judd Travers's pickup," he says.
My chest feels tight, like I'm having trouble breathing.
The truck pulls up by the side of the house, and the door swings open.
" Evenin'!" Dad calls out as Judd, wearing his old western-style boots with the sharp heel, gets out and comes over.
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" Evenin'," he says.
"You had dinner?" Ma asks. "I got some leftovers I could heat up real quick."
"Had me some ribs already," he says. "Ain't looking for a meal, Mrs. Preston, I'm looking for a dog." He sure don't waste any time getting to the point. Now my heart's really pounding.
"That new dog of yours run off again?" Dad asks him.
"I swear to God I find him this time, I'm goin' to break his legs," Judd says, and spits.
"Oh, come on, Judd. A dog with four broke legs ain't no dog to you at all."
"He's no dog to me at all the way he keeps run-nin' off. It's the fourth time he's left the pack when I had him out huntin'. I got to teach him a lesson. Whup him good and starve him lean. Wondered if you'd seen him."
"I sure didn't see him on my route today, and you know if I had, I'd have put him in the Jeep and brought him to you straight away," says Dad.
"What about that boy of yours? Think he's seen him?"
Dad had heard me coming back from the hill, and he turns around. "Marty?"
I stand rooted to the ground at the side of the house. "What?"
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"Gome on around here. Judd's dog's missing again, and he wants to know have you seen him."
"H-his dog? Here in this yard? Haven't seen any dog of any kind in our yard all day," I say, coming a few steps closer.
Judd is sure studying me hard. So is Dad.
"Well, how about when you went out looking for bottles?" Dad asks. "You see him then?"
"Nope." My voice is stronger now. "Saw that big German shepherd of Baker's that gets loose sometimes, and saw a little old gray dog, but sure didn't see that beagle."
"Well, you keep an eye out sharp," Judd says, "and if you see him, you throw a rope around him, drag him over. Hear?"
I only look at him. Can't speak. Can't even nod my head. I wouldn't never promise him that.
"You hear what he asked you, Marty?" says Dad.
I nod my head. Yes, I heard, all right.
"Okay, then," Judd says, and gets back in his pickup.
"Have any luck hunting yesterday?" Dad calls after him.
"A rabbit. Saw a groundhog but didn't get it. That new dog hadn't run off, he would've got it for me. He wasn't such a good hunting dog, I would have shot him by now."
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"Sheriff would get on you if you do somethin' like that, Judd."
"Law never told me before what I could do with my dogs, won't be tellin' me now," Judd says. He laughs, waves his hand, starts the engine, and the pickup pulls away.
CHAPTER 6
Night in West Virginia is as dark as black can be. No car lights sweepin' across my walls or ceiling like when I stay overnight with David Howard down in Friendly. No street lamps shinin' in the windows, no lights from next-door houses. Where I live, there ain't no street lamps at all, no house close enough to see from our windows.
My eyes are open, anyway. I stare up into the darkness of the living room and the darkness stares back.
I'm remembering how once, several years ago, when Ma bought milk chocolate rabbits one Easter for me and Dara Lynn, I'd finished eating mine, but Dara Lynn took only a nibble of hers every day or so, keeping it up on her dresser in its pink and yellow tinfoil, driving me nuts. And one day I just crept in there and ate off one of that rabbit's ears. Dara Lynn, of course, threw a fit, and when Ma asked me if I'd done it, I said no. I could feel my cheeks and neck burning red.
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"You sure, Marty?" she asked. I'd only nodded and left the room. It was one of the worst days of my life.
About an hour later she come out on the porch where I was pushing myself slow in the swing and sat down beside me.
"You know, Marty," she said, "Dara Lynn don't know who ate the ear off her candy rabbit and I don't know who did it, but Jesus knows. And right this very minute Jesus is looking down with the saddest eyes on the person who ate that chocolate. The Bible says that the worst thing that can ever possibly happen to us is to be separated forever from God's love. I hope you'll keep that in mind."
I just swallowed and didn't say anything. But before I went to bed, when Ma asked me again about that rabbit, I gulped and said yes, and she made me get down on my knees and ask God's forgiveness, which wasn't so bad. I honestly felt better afterward. But then she said that Jesus wanted me to go in the next room and tell Dara Lynn what I'd done, and Dara Lynn had a fit all over again. Threw a box of Crayolas at me and could have broke my nose. Galled me a rotten, greedy pig. If that made Jesus sad, Ma never said.
Now as I study the darkness in the room around me, I'm thinking about lies again. I hadn't lied to
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Judd Travers when I said I hadn't seen his dog in the yard today. That was the honest-to-God truth, because Shiloh hadn't been anywhere near our yard. But I also know that you can lie not only by what you say but what you don't say. Nothing I'd told Judd was an outright lie, but what I'd kept inside myself made him think that I hadn't seen his dog at all.
"Jesus," I whisper finally, "which you want me to do? Be one hundred percent honest and carry that dog back
The question seemed to answer itself, and I'm pretty proud of that prayer. Repeat it to myself so's to remember it in case I need to use it again. If Jesus is anything like the story cards from Sunday school make him out to be, he ain't the kind to want a thin, little beagle to be hurt.
The problem's more mixed-up than that, though. Im lying to my folks as well. I'm not eating the leftover meat loaf I've put away. Every bit of food saved is money saved that could go to buy Dara Lynn a new pair of sneakers so Ma won't have to cut open the tops of her old ones to give her toes more room. Every little bit of food wasted is money wasted. If we ever have the least little bit of money to spare that doesn't have to go for the care of Grandma Preston,
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first thing we all want is a telephone so we don't have to ride down to Doc Murphy's to use his. But the way I figure, if it's food from my own plate I would have eaten myself but don't, what's the harm in that?
Next morning when I get up to see Shiloh, I put the rope on his collar and lead him to the other side of the hill again, out of sight of all but God. Then I let him go, and we race and tumble and laugh and roll, stopping now and then just to lie in the clover, me on my back, Shiloh on his stomach, both of us panting and nuzzling each other.
Don't know if Shiloh's gettin' more human or I'm gettin' to be more dog. If Jesus ever comes back to earth again, I'm thinking, he'll come as a dog, because there isn't anything as humble or patient or loving or loyal as the dog I have in my arms right now.
We eat our Sunday meal, but by late afternoon, storm clouds roll in, and the rain beats down on the tin roof of our house, streaming down the window glass, making a small pond in the side yard.