The old dog lies sleeping near the fire. His paws twitch in rhythm to his dreams. In his dreams, he leads a pack of wolves over the snow. He covers the ground effortlessly, ahead of the other wolves. His dominance is acknowledged by them all. As he sleeps by the fire his grey muzzle twitches as he anticipates the snarl that would greet any challenger.
He is brought back to himself by the increasing urgency in his bladder. He yawns and stands. Stiff in the hips, with his left hock swollen from a trampling by a horse some years ago, he moves slowly towards the door. The man smiles at him as he stands to let the dog out into the night. The man's dreams are not so different from those of his dog.
He too twitches in his sleep. He too relives the struggle for life and death. But for the dog, his dreams are the memory of his species - what is sometimes called instinct.The man's dreams come with the crump of mortar shells and the burst of machine gun fire. His dreams are not the memories of his long dead ancestors but are echoes of his own past which seem to become louder as the years pass rather than fading away.
The dog feels the blood of the wolf pounding in his veins. His ears are pricked, his black coat heavy. A thick ruff protects his vulnerable throat. He is large bodied and his bark is deep and loud. Even now, with his stiff hips and grey muzzle he has been known to start the odd dog fight. And he always wins. Not because he is larger, or stronger - increasingly he is not. But he is more aggressive. More willing to risk hurt. More keen to press every advantage. And being old and wily and a veteran of numerous fights he knows many ways to win. But more than all of that it is because he refuses to lose. He will not - cannot - submit. He would rather die fighting.
The man feels the blood of the warrior in his own veins. He often wishes he had died fighting. That, he could accept. Indeed, he had accepted it. How had he ended up alive, but unable to fight?
The man leans his chair back against the wall. The dog lies down again beside him and sighs. It is a companionable sound. The man tilts his head so that it too rests against the smoothness of the wall behind him. He closes his eyes and thinks of the woman. The woman is the mother of his children. But she is not his woman. Not now. She said he was changed when he returned from the war. How could he be the same? And now after all these years he is no longer sure how he feels about the woman. There are too many emotions attached to her. He opens his eyes again when the girl comes into the room.
He thinks of her as a girl, although in truth she too is a woman. Thinking of her as a girl helps the man keep his distance. He is fond of her, but there is a hollowness, an emptiness inside him that cannot be filled. Not by the girl, not by the woman. Not by drink, although for a time the man tried that.The man struggles to remember what it felt like not to be empty inside. He knows he was not always this way, but if he tries to think about who he was before he was a soldier his head starts to ache as washes of memories flood his mind.
The pup lies on the other side of the fire. She is more hound than wolf. When she barks it becomes a baying howl towards the end. Her small paws twitch in her sleep as well. All of her dreams are the same. In every one of them she is running. Chasing a smell. She does not know what the smell is - only that she must follow it, she must run it down. She cannot pause even for a moment because her prey may escape. Despite the fact that she very young - only recently separated from her mother and litter mates - she knows how to use the wind, how to use topography, how to stalk. She has practiced on chickens and rabbits. Both of which have resulted in severe scoldings from the man. She vaguely knows that neither of those are what she is supposed to hunt. If she were human she would wonder about this mysterious prey that haunts her dreams, wonder what it is the man seeks when he takes her out and commands her to find. But she does not wonder. She simply trusts that her instincts will serve her when the time comes.
The girl looks over at the man sitting in between the dog and the pup. Her eyes follow the curve of the muscles in his chest and arms. Her eyes follow the length of his legs, then dart to his hands resting on the arms of the chair. She sees the grey hair at his temples and the scar on his right cheek bone. She knows little of the battle which left the scar. He is not nearly so old as he feels. In fact, he looks younger than his years. He is fitter and stronger than most men his age - most men half his age. But he has suffered for his profession both physically and mentally. The dog's swollen hock is reflected in the man a thousand fold. His left ankle broken in a parachute drop, his right knee - surgically repaired. His shoulders and back and hips permanently damaged from too many miles carrying too heavy a pack.
The girl adores him. Even though she knows he is merely fond of her. She loves the feel of his hands on her body, his arms around her. The smell of his skin and the taste of his kiss. To her he does not seem hollow - he seems more alive than anyone she had ever met.
Yet, by the time the pup has grown into a hound the girl will also feel hollow. In her efforts to fill the void in the man, she will empty herself.
He is brought back to himself by the increasing urgency in his bladder. He yawns and stands. Stiff in the hips, with his left hock swollen from a trampling by a horse some years ago, he moves slowly towards the door. The man smiles at him as he stands to let the dog out into the night. The man's dreams are not so different from those of his dog.
He too twitches in his sleep. He too relives the struggle for life and death. But for the dog, his dreams are the memory of his species - what is sometimes called instinct.The man's dreams come with the crump of mortar shells and the burst of machine gun fire. His dreams are not the memories of his long dead ancestors but are echoes of his own past which seem to become louder as the years pass rather than fading away.
The dog feels the blood of the wolf pounding in his veins. His ears are pricked, his black coat heavy. A thick ruff protects his vulnerable throat. He is large bodied and his bark is deep and loud. Even now, with his stiff hips and grey muzzle he has been known to start the odd dog fight. And he always wins. Not because he is larger, or stronger - increasingly he is not. But he is more aggressive. More willing to risk hurt. More keen to press every advantage. And being old and wily and a veteran of numerous fights he knows many ways to win. But more than all of that it is because he refuses to lose. He will not - cannot - submit. He would rather die fighting.
The man feels the blood of the warrior in his own veins. He often wishes he had died fighting. That, he could accept. Indeed, he had accepted it. How had he ended up alive, but unable to fight?
The man leans his chair back against the wall. The dog lies down again beside him and sighs. It is a companionable sound. The man tilts his head so that it too rests against the smoothness of the wall behind him. He closes his eyes and thinks of the woman. The woman is the mother of his children. But she is not his woman. Not now. She said he was changed when he returned from the war. How could he be the same? And now after all these years he is no longer sure how he feels about the woman. There are too many emotions attached to her. He opens his eyes again when the girl comes into the room.
He thinks of her as a girl, although in truth she too is a woman. Thinking of her as a girl helps the man keep his distance. He is fond of her, but there is a hollowness, an emptiness inside him that cannot be filled. Not by the girl, not by the woman. Not by drink, although for a time the man tried that.The man struggles to remember what it felt like not to be empty inside. He knows he was not always this way, but if he tries to think about who he was before he was a soldier his head starts to ache as washes of memories flood his mind.
The pup lies on the other side of the fire. She is more hound than wolf. When she barks it becomes a baying howl towards the end. Her small paws twitch in her sleep as well. All of her dreams are the same. In every one of them she is running. Chasing a smell. She does not know what the smell is - only that she must follow it, she must run it down. She cannot pause even for a moment because her prey may escape. Despite the fact that she very young - only recently separated from her mother and litter mates - she knows how to use the wind, how to use topography, how to stalk. She has practiced on chickens and rabbits. Both of which have resulted in severe scoldings from the man. She vaguely knows that neither of those are what she is supposed to hunt. If she were human she would wonder about this mysterious prey that haunts her dreams, wonder what it is the man seeks when he takes her out and commands her to find. But she does not wonder. She simply trusts that her instincts will serve her when the time comes.
The girl looks over at the man sitting in between the dog and the pup. Her eyes follow the curve of the muscles in his chest and arms. Her eyes follow the length of his legs, then dart to his hands resting on the arms of the chair. She sees the grey hair at his temples and the scar on his right cheek bone. She knows little of the battle which left the scar. He is not nearly so old as he feels. In fact, he looks younger than his years. He is fitter and stronger than most men his age - most men half his age. But he has suffered for his profession both physically and mentally. The dog's swollen hock is reflected in the man a thousand fold. His left ankle broken in a parachute drop, his right knee - surgically repaired. His shoulders and back and hips permanently damaged from too many miles carrying too heavy a pack.
The girl adores him. Even though she knows he is merely fond of her. She loves the feel of his hands on her body, his arms around her. The smell of his skin and the taste of his kiss. To her he does not seem hollow - he seems more alive than anyone she had ever met.
Yet, by the time the pup has grown into a hound the girl will also feel hollow. In her efforts to fill the void in the man, she will empty herself.
