Page 220 of Everything Under the Sun

I sat down on the grass again.

“Where have you been boy?” Thais coddled the dog, rubbing his belly. “Yeah, you’re a good boy, Trick. Yeah—he’s a good boy.”

I shook my head and lay down against the grass.

“What do you think this means?” Thais asked. “I really can’t force myself to believe we’re still that close to Lexington—Atticus, I won’t believe that. I won’t.”

“I don’t think we are,” I said. “I’ve heard of dogs traveling across the country to find their owners before.”

“But we aren’t his owners,” Thais pointed out; continuously she scratched the dog’s head, and rubbed his belly when he would lie on his back because he couldn’t decide which he enjoyed more.

“Maybe his owners are dead,” I offered. “Maybe he didn’t have anybody to go home to, so he picked up our trail.”

“Yeah, he’s a gooood boooy, yes he is!” she told the dog in a playful voice, and the dog licked her all over the face.

I sat upright—regretting the swift movement afterwards as pain tore through my sides—stung by a realization.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Maybe we won’t go hungry tonight, after all.”

Thais rose into a tall stand over me, and pushed Trick behind her; she glared down into my face with the fury only a mother protecting her child could possess.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.

“Huh?” I took a second, but soon I realized.

I made a breathy sound, brushing off her assumption. “I don’t mean that,” I reassured her, and stood up.

I reached out a hand, snapped my fingers and said, “Come here, boy!”

The dog came right over to me, tried to lick my face, too, but I gently swatted him down.

“Sit,” I commanded.

Immediately, Trick sat on his haunches, tail wagging back and forth, sweeping the grass.

(I knew then what Atticus meant to do, and I thought it a wonderful idea.)

“But we don’t have anything to tempt him with,” Thais pointed out.

“Still might work,” I said, hoping.

I reached into my pocket, and Trick’s eyes followed the movement of my hand.

With the other hand, I pointed into the field and shouted, “Go! Bring one back!” just like David Doakes had done on the farm.

But the dog did not move; he started to, but half a second before his rear end came off the ground, he stopped, and became still again, his gaze focused on my pocket; drool dripped from one side of his snout in a long, snot-like string that jiggled and dangled as it hung there.

Thais and I shared a worried look.

I tried again.

“Go!” I shouted, and pointed into the field. “Bring one back!”

But still, the dog did not move.

Getting agitated, I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “He might want to reconsider,” I mumbled, “before he becomes the meal.”

“Atticus!”

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