A Dog's Way Home by Bobbie Pyron Page A

peace.
    She stepped out onto the porch and squinted up into the winter sky. “Still,” she said, “I suppose they mean well.”
    The sun touched the top of the ridge across the hollow.New snow sugared the trees. She watched the ridgeline grow brighter and brighter. When Ivy was a child, she’d stood on this same porch every morning with her daddy and watched this same sight. “It’s coming alive, baby girl,” he’d say. And it was true.
    Beyond that ridge, thirty or forty miles to the east, wound the Blue Ridge Parkway. She and her husband used to drive up to the craggy balds where the best blueberries grew. Ivy smiled. “That man was a fool for blueberry pie,” she said to the brightening sky.
    First she walked the fence line along the high pasture. The snow from two days before had melted in the open sun. A cardinal, bright red and black-masked head, watched Ivy from a fence post. Her husband used to say there was no prettier sight on God’s green earth than a cardinal in the snow. That was true too.
    Ivy picked her way down into the forest, careful of her footing. She followed the winding line of dogwood and redbud trees. Ivy reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the plastic bag of stale bread crumbs. “Come get breakfast,” she called to the birds as she scattered the crumbs upon the snow.
    The ground leveled as she approached the bank of the river. The water was narrow and shallow here. Her children had spent many a summer day on these banks looking for salamanders and crawdaddies. Farther down,where the river widened, the children had caught trout. Ivy knew where wild onions were plentiful in the spring and where the wild asparagus grew.
    The old woman walked along the river, careful of slippery rocks buried beneath snow and dead leaves. Lids of ice capped the water pooled in the small, still places.
    As she started up the gentle slope leading away from the river, something caught Ivy’s eye. It looked like a pile of old leaves or perhaps some garbage washed up from the river. She was about to walk on when a raven landed on the ground right in front of her. It cawed in agitation.
    â€œWhat do you want, you noisy old thing?” Ivy knew this particular raven by his oddly notched tail feathers.
    The bird hopped over to the pile on the riverbank, raised his wings up and down, and cawed louder. Ivy watched the raven’s strange behavior. Finally she said, “Oh all right, all right,” and made her way back down the bank.
    â€œOh my,” she breathed, bending down to get a better look. “What happened to you, you poor little fox?” Her daddy had hated foxes because they ate the chickens. But Ivy hadn’t had chickens on the place for years. She took great pleasure in watching the foxes slip quietly through her front yard and hunt the fields.
    An ear twitched at the sound of her voice. An eye opened and locked on her face. Without thinking, Ivylowered herself to the ground. “Why, you’re no fox,” she gasped. “You’re a dog!” She ran her hand carefully along the wet, matted coat. Bones rippled beneath her hand. Blood stained her glove. The dog whimpered. Tears stung Ivy’s eyes. “You poor, poor thing,” she whispered.
    Snow drifted down around her as she stood. She looked up. The sky had turned from blue to lead gray. A gust of wind blew open her coat. “I’ve got to get you up to the cabin,” she said. She studied the size of the dog and the distance to the cabin. She heard her daughter’s voice, “ Honestly , Mama! What are you thinking ?” She heard the raven call from the tree above.
    Ivy set her jaw, dropped her walking stick, and scooped up the dog. “Why, you’re nothing but skin and bones,” she said as she carried Tam up the slope to the cabin.
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    In no time, Tam lay on a wool blanket in the leather chair before the fire. The snow came down hard