Munge the Dog

Munge the dog trotted down the long hill through the old leaves, back down into the valley after many days away. He splashed into a creek and drank, then climbed up to a field of high grass. Grasshoppers chittered overhead as he tunneled through. He came out at the road and lay down in a cool bed of dust. His hunger was an ache, but he was used to that. He was used to waiting.

Munge was awakened by the coming of a car. He shot for the weeds and watched it pass. A knowledge arose in him. He launched into a chase. By the time he caught up with the car he was loping. He didn’t run quite like he used to, and the day was very hot. The car was sitting beside the little house, its doors and trunk open.

“Annie, honey, bring in the blankets and pillows. I want to get everything in.” It was the woman’s voice.

“The pump isn’t working, Dad.” It was the boy.

“Let’s get this car unloaded, then you can play.” There was danger in the voice. Munge entered the yard half-ready to run.

“Wolf!” the girl cried. “It’s Wolf!”

“Wolf! the boy shouted.

The children came running and dropped on top of him. He licked the two laughing faces, and he shouted back. He lay down, allowing the hands and faces to put the aching out of his mind. Then the man was squatting among them. His face was red. A big hand settled behind Munge’s skull and massaged him there with strong fingers.

The woman stood a little away from them all, her arms crossed.

“Well, Wolf. We’re happy to see you again,” she said.

“He remembers us!” the boy shrieked.

“Of course he does. He watches our house,” said the girl.

“Can we feed him, Mom?”

“He’s so dirty and shaggy.”

“How’s the free life, boy?” the man said.

“Oh! He’s got big ticks. Take them off, Tim.”

The boy pulled Munge away from the big hand, hurting him.

“Now be careful, Tim!”

“Sorry, Wolf,” the boy said, and began to probe, a very relaxing kind of touch, but then there was a pain and Munge stood, shaking.

“You hurt him!”

“I couldn’t help it!”

“That’s enough for now, son. Let’s leave him alone.”

“Poor old boy without a home,” the woman said. 

“Yeah, poor boy,” the deep voice answered.

Munge did not like what he heard in the voices of the man and woman. Nor did he want more plucking. He pulled away from the boy and headed out.

“Wolf!” Come back here!” the boy commanded.

Munge considered it, but decided he’d had enough for now.

“He’s leaving already!” the girl cried. 

“You kids come back here,” the man said. “Forget about that runaway dog.”

Munge tunneled through the brush, leaving the voices and demands behind. He knew there might still be food later. He would try to get something else in the meantime.

He traveled a little ways to a field where he sometimes had luck. He found a scent and began to trace it. It died in a thicket he couldn’t enter. He went on to another field and hunted there. A breeze came through, breaking up the trail, but he kept on. Sometimes he stopped to listen — the scrambling of a squirrel overhead; a car gnawing along the hard, dangerous, higher road, not the safe, dusty road of the valley; the voices of the family. And finally a movement in the grass. He moved towards it slowly with his back and head low. The desirable thing ahead stopped and was silent, but Munge smelled its exact location and charged. The rabbit unleashed its power. The chase scribbled a looping pattern in the high grass, ending at a wild, dense hedge. Munge barked off some of the energy still racing through him and gave a big sneeze of satisfaction. He bounded for a little distance, then slowed to a proud walk. The chase had been almost as good as a meal, at least for awhile.

By now the day had begun to cool. A good smell drifted through the field. Munge headed back to the house. He was there in a short time, and he lay down in the cool dust beside the car and lay his head on his paws to wait. The day was going fine. He had said hello to the people, he had chased the rabbit, and soon there would be a very special kind of food.

The smell of the meat was so good he cried. But still he waited patiently. He knew his chances were good.

The boy appeared in the doorway.

“He’s back!”

“You’ll finish your meal first,” said the man’s voice inside the house, large and concerning even when it was faint.

“See you soon, Wolf!” 

The day had grown dim and the birds were in trees now, chattering and winding down. Munge was very hungry. But he knew the time was coming.

There was a slam and a bang as the boy jumped out of the house and came running, holding silver paper.

“Wait for me!” cried the girl

“We’ve got supper for you, Wolf! Come on, Annie, he’s hungry!” Munge was on his feet. The boy stood several yards from him. “Here Wolf,” he said. “Here boy.” The boy backed away from Munge, teasing him with the food.

“Just give it to him!” the girl wailed, now standing there, too. Now the food was on the ground and Munge lept. The children shrieked with joy.

“What’s going on out there!”

Munge thrust his mouth into the food and for awhile knew almost nothing but the end of all his waiting. When only the bone remained he lifted his head. The four people were watching him. The children were squatting and the man and woman stood behind them, both of them with their arms crossed. The man’s face was redder than before.

“He must have been starving,” said the girl.

“Poor old fella,” said the boy.

“Don’t we have some more, Mom?”

“That’s plenty for tonight. We don’t want to spoil him.”

“We don’t want him thinking we’re crazy about him.”

“We don’t want him taking us for granted.”

“Tomorrow we’ll get all the ticks off and I’ll comb his fur.”

“You don’t have to make a girl out of him,” the boy said.

“Everyone likes to look nice. Don’t you, Wolf? You’re such a good dog. You can be our dog while we’re here. We’ll be your family.”

“Don’t put your face so close, Annie. Come on now. Get up. He’s a wild animal. Let’s not get ridiculous about it.”

“Don’t you like Wolf, Dad?”

“The kids are having a good time, Bob.”

“I let them swoon all over it, didn’t I? I’m just saying, it’s a dog. A wild animal. Filthy. Who says it even wants this attention? It got a meal, now let it go back to its woods in peace.”

The family was quiet.

“Why are you so mean, Dad?”

“You watch your mouth,” the man boomed, making a movement toward the boy. The boy jumped backward and fell. Munge leapt up, scooting sideways, getting to a safe distance.

“Bob!”

“I told you about that backtalk,” the man said. “Didn’t I. Didn’t I.”

“Bob, you’re going to spoil everything!”

The man’s hand made a sharp sound against the boy’s face. The boy screamed. Munge barked.

“Bob!”

Munge showed his teeth. The man pulled his arms close to himself and stepped back.

Munge didn’t know what he was doing. He only knew he was doing it.

“Wolf, no!” said he girl.

Munge was lost for a moment. He could not think, could not decide. But his senses returned, as they always did. He dashed in, picked up the bone, and headed for the road. 

“You scared him away,” the boy shouted. “Now he’ll never come back!”

Munge ran up the road with the bone in his jaws, the voices fading behind him. He ran until he had rounded several turns, and then continued at a trot. He passed the groundhog den and the mailbox and the rusty car that never moved. The light was dimming now and the air was cooler. The shadows in the road thickened. His feet splashed in the dust. He came to the cement crossing and lay on its warm surface. He let the bone lie while he caught his breath.

Before he was rested he heard the moaning of the car. It rose to a cry. Munge took his bone to the roadside while the car passed, bouncing and making noise. It was the car from the house. He lay on the pavement again while the dust was still settling and went to work on his bone. By the time he had finished it, the world was dark. The night bugs flitted around him and sat on him and the frogs began their singing. A breeze picked up, cooling the air even more. Across the valley he heard the cows bawling. Munge’s muscles were tired and his stomach was satisfied. He moved off the cement crossing to the cool dust and lay almost in the weeds, his head on his paws. The bed would soon warm up. Some of the other dogs were calling from across the fields, but Munge did not call back. He didn’t want to run tonight. He had a good meal inside him and was content. Tomorrow there might be another. The day had been very fine.

In his mind he saw himself chasing the rabbit. The run went on and on. He finally leaped the perfect leap, and this time the chase ended his way. Something hummed too loudly. An instinct dug at him. His eyes sprang open, only to see a frightening light. He jumped towards the weeds where he should have been safe but it came to him there. It was more force and suddenness than he had ever known. A cry tangled in his throat, came out as a choke. His legs were running but he was still on his side.

The pain began to fade. Munge felt very drowsy. Looking up he saw in the glare of the car lights the man from the house. The man was standing a little distance away, a dark shape against the light. Munge was still enough himself to know the man was very afraid. An old knowledge of people woke up in him, and a wish he never could resist. He listened and looked upward for what the man would say, waiting as long as he could, crying once to hurry it along. He knew it was his job to do this. But the man didn’t say it in time.