The Flying Dog

Step One of Bobby Skully’s weekday daily routine was SCHOOL and at the age of twelve, Step One was an obligatory grind that he tolerated. His grades were pretty good, and he got a kick out of learning something new, particularly in the sciences, history, and English classes.

The kids all called him Skully, which he secretly adored; they teased him about having a wooden leg and often threw in plenty of ‘arrrrrs’ and yarrrrrs’ when speaking to him. He wished he had a parrot but drew the cliché line at wearing an eyepatch. Kids mostly avoided him, he was ‘the stix-boy’. Needless to say, he was a target for bullies. Ironically, two of the three most assholey ones also lived in the sticks, though not one kid would EVER call those two, ‘stix-boys.’

Moochie, Tank, and Puffer were mostly just big blowhards who poked fun at him for his pants being too short, floods, they were called, and for his shoes with the holes in the soles, and for the eyeglasses held together with duct tape. The three Tweedles---he called them that in his mind: Tweedle-Dee, Tweedle-Dum, and Tweedle-Dinkus---avoided the library like the books were rats carrying the bubonic plague and that suited Skully just fine. You could say it was a win-win.

So sure, he got a bit lonely now and then, but he knew he’d be smart enough to get scholarshipped and pretty much be whatever he chose to be…maybe even pirating as a side gig, heh heh.

Step Two was HOME LIFE. This section was divided into three sub-categories: 1. Homework, which never took more than an hour because he spent so much time in the library. 2. Chores and Supper, and although supper was the only time in the day he spent with his mother, he was always anxious to finish so he could get to Step Three. His mom was great, she knew that her son had a fire lit under his butt and she was so cool with it, she always said, “Go on to Step Three. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

Step Three was THE WOODS. It was the middle of May so the sun would set around seven. Skully packed his flashlight and a hoodie in his pack and carried his father’s old shotgun and his Scout’s compass in his pocket. He could never ever shoot another living creature. The woodland animals that had big teeth and sharp claws also had superb sniffers, even if the scent of sweet young boy flesh was appealing, the scent of gun oil and shot was not.

Sometimes he was an explorer, sometimes a biologist or archeologist. And naturally, sometimes…a you-know-what. He studied beetles, frogs, snails, and dead things. He marked new paths with string tied at eye level to branches. He collected old skulls, fallen bird nests, and interesting rocks.

On this evening the wind had picked up, and clouds darkened the sky prematurely. Skully felt a sudden pang of loneliness. This had always been his favorite time of the day, just like it had been his father’s. Sudden tears burned behind his eyes and he let them come, no one to see them but the bats. In the growing darkness more and more of them flitted like miniature Nosferatu through the beam of his flashlight. The tears dried as he stared in awe at the leathery winged creatures swooping and diving over his head.

After a few minutes Skully saw the pattern in their flight and followed their departure with the light beam, curious to see where they nested. The beam revealed only patchy darkness between the boughs which were swaying briskly in the increasing wind, the leaves fluttering like emerald moths preparing for flight. As the first raindrops splatted the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his vision, he spied upon two glowing orbs high in the branches. ‘Fireflies? No, never in this part of California.’

Splat, splat.

“Dangit!” He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on the tee under his hoodie. When he looked up again the small round spots were gone. ‘Eyes. They looked like eyes.’

The Bear.

I watched the boy leave just as I’d seen him do countless times before. I’ve inspected the strings he ties to find his way; the boy is small but clever. He makes me curious. I thought that humans were pack animals, especially in the forest, normally in the company of at least another human. The boy used to come with a bigger human up until a year ago; they had the same scent. I sensed a loneliness about the wee lad and deduced that had something to do with the absence of his father. My heart burned with tears just as the boy’s eyes had. A year ago, my Bubby had been taken from me.

I blame myself. I was his mother. It had been my only job---to see him safe and warm and fed until he could care for himself. I had failed. And now the only joy…no, joy is too strong a word…the only lightness I feel is watching the boy.

Skully.

I found my way easily back to the tree the next evening thanks to my string markers, hoping to see what surely had to have been an owl. A big one. No such luck. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light. Twilight light can be magically deceiving. This time I remembered my friggin hat so when it drizzled again my glasses wouldn’t blind me.

“Blimey!” I said out loud and laughed. I recalled the first time I’d been on Step Three by myself. I’d been a pirate, my father’s shotgun a blunderbuss, and a foolish eyepatch strapped over the left lense of my glasses. I had ended up tripping over a branch and fallen headfirst into a clump of stinging nettles. I laugh about it now. Oh, how I’ve grown up in just a year. One stinking, miserable year.

It had started drizzling even before mom told me she’d do the dishes, so the bats weren’t out. I nevertheless searched the trees for them, hoping to see a hollow, or better yet, a big fat owl---the owl.

My light beam lit up the fine droplets like an undulating light curtain, and it was impossible to see into the darkness beyond it.

“Arf!”

I swung the light upwards again towards the sound that I had heard. Didn’t sound like an owl. It sounded like a…dog? I headed for home with my brain spinning like the rinse cycle in our old clunky machine with sneakers in it...Stop. Go. What in God’s name is in that tree?

The Bear.

Although I lack the facial muscles to make expressions like humans do, I do feel the same emotions. The boy’s confusion unexpectedly pierced my heart. Have I grown to love---no! Have fondness for? Sure---the boy.

A year ago, I had my Bubby by my side. He was also small for his age, but I knew he could be fierce with the right guidance, nutrition, woods-smarts.

We had been foraging for berries, found a nice cache. Then, the smell. Cougar.

I told Bubby to stay under the ferns, in the shadows, we were black, shadows are black.

I went back to seek the cat but couldn’t find him. Bubby’s high-pitched wail sounded and cut off too quickly. The soft ground where he’d been hiding was ripe with his blood and urine; he’d been so frightened he’d shat a great stream of watery feces. The cat had outsmarted me. I had roared with the entire anger/shame/sorrow that had overcome me. I felt black and rotten inside and wanted to die. I wanted to tear that cat from limb to bones and cartilage! If I had human facial muscles and ducts, I would have wept a sea for me to drown in.

Then the boy had come along. I could eat him. Just take out my anger. But my despondency would still rule the blackness. In fact, I was positive that eating the boy would make me feel worse. Observing the boy’s joy lightened my heart just a smidgen. He made me think of Bubby and when tears streamed down his soft pink cheeks, I felt like crying along with him. Oh, to feel that release.

He didn’t cry as often as he used to, and I realized that my heart had been healing alongside his. Last night he’d aimed his torch up into the tree where my new friend was hiding. I had held my breath as his had quickened.

Tonight, my friend had spoken to the boy. I had been ready to leap from the hemlock to…to…what? Scare him off for good perhaps? Get myself shot? I willed my friend in the tree to stay quiet and he did; we seemed to have some sort of mental connection. Yes, sounds like a silly human belief…but it is a fact that our species are ancient distant cousins. Then again, I could be full of shit.

In any case, he stayed quiet and averted his eyes from the light like I had told him to. Good boy. In my mind I heard him smiling.

Skully.

The night was clear. It was now June 3rd. We had in the mornings what west coast Californians call June Gloom. Basically, foggy weather until after noon-oneish. And then hot.

Step Three. The evening was clear and mild. Twilight was approaching and I smiled, welcoming it. I used my flashlight to follow the bats’ flitty-flighty paths. As usual, they were elusive and secretive when it came to their hidey-hole.

I had decided that it must have been a mockingbird I’d heard last month. I’ve read that they can imitate any bird, as well as car alarms and sirens. So why not a dog? Made more sense than anything else. If I could find the bird I could cross it off in my Sibley Birds book, it would make number one hundred and thirty-two.

’Stop! There! In the tree…about 30 feet up…the eyes! The eyes! It’s them!’

I froze. I stared, wishing my glasses would magically become binoculars. ‘Hmm, there’s an idea there for future thought. My birthday is coming up…’

The eyes in the tree 30 or 40 feet over my head glowed for a few seconds more, then blinked. In the light I had seen…a dog. Pointed ears. Smallish, pointed face. Definitely a dog. As I watched, the eyes blinked again, I swear I saw a pink tongue loll from a grinning mouth. ‘Blink.’ Then it was gone.

I felt dizzy and like I was going nutso. ‘A dog. In a tree. Whaaat…?’

The Bear.

The look on the boy’s face was priceless. I had grown fonder of the boy during all the vicarious days spent spying on him. It was because of this fondness that I felt his perpetual loneliness; I recognized it all too well. Twilight wouldn’t descend for an hour or so, the dog was clearly visible.

We bears instinctually steer clear of humans. It was bred into us from the very beginning of our existence. It keeps us from becoming extinct. I shuddered at the thought of extinction then hunkered farther into the bush, aware that the boy may have heard my involuntary little chuff of a sigh.

But he was still staring up at the dog in the tree, his mouth hung open so long and wide I was afraid bees would come make a nest in it. Then he swallowed and licked his lips and smiled like a big goofy clown…just priceless. Then he frowned and waved at the dog who had no name.

“Arf arf arf!” the little black terrier mutt’s tail wagged so furiously, I was afraid he’d wiggle right of the crook of the branch he was standing in. He was about 45 feet off the ground and tremendously elated.

“Whatchoo doing up there, little guy?”

“Arf!”

“How the heck did you get up there? Can you fly? No…that’s silly. But I’m not dreaming, am I?”

The little dog stepped out onto the branch.

I was amused by the boy’s conversation with my friend. I did not understand either one’s language, but I got the gist of what was being said by both. When the dog stepped out onto the branch I panicked and without another thought in my big fat head, I leapt from my hiding spot to the base of the tree. Just as pee squirts uncontrollably from a scared squirrel, a roar escaped my lips…

The Dog.

I had first seen the boy from high in the branches of my tree. The long black stick he carried was just as Momma Bear had said and it smelled like death. Like extinction.

Her real name was Paullica but she’d been so pleased when I called her Momma Bear.

I didn’t really remember my own mother. Memories of sweet, milk-scented skin and warm wiggling bodies all around me were all I could muster in my little brain. That was okay because those memories came with pain and the sadness of loss: one minute we were a blissful furry pile of canineness---no telling if that was my leg or the tail of a sister---the next minute I was alone. Then I was alone in the dark with trees and stuff all around me.

Momma Bear says I must have blocked out my memories. She says it happens when very bad things happen; she calls it traumatized. That made me sad to know I had mental issues. But she said it wasn’t my fault and I should be glad not to have those memories. Her eyes were so kind and warm that I had a sudden memory of my mother’s eyes---big and dark and loving. So, I trusted her.

She showed me what I could eat to survive. Plants, roots, berries. She said my kind, my species, lived off stuff like this a thousand years ago, even though I made a face of ick when it came to fungus. She tried to teach me to hunt but I was no wolf and all I did was scare the meat away. She knew I needed protein so hunted for the both of us. Rabbits were the best. I felt so much stronger after a couple of days of eating rodents.

The day she made me fly was really scary.

We had been hunting a big fat rabbit; it was getting dark, but I was hungry, so Momma Bear insisted we catch it. I smelled something unusual and whined for her attention. She chuffed at me a scold but after a minute she froze and turned her nose to the air. Her thick black fur was raised along her back, and I grew more frightened by the second.

Then I smelled it again, that unusual scent that apparently meant danger. The forest had become silent. I was scared. My ears were at full mast, listening for normal sounds---any sounds--- but hearing only the rushbeat of my panicking heart. Then…breathing. Heavy breathing. Big lungs. I had a sudden flash of memory: a big black dog. ‘My father?’

‘Stop daydreaming child! There’s a cat stalking you!’ I heard her in my head because we did not speak the same language out loud. We had bonded through the ancient language of our ancestors.

I said, ‘Cat?...’

‘BIG cat.’ I heard tears in her mind and a whispered, ‘Bubby…’ and that’s when I really got scared.

She said, ‘I’m going to make you fly now little one. Don’t be scared.’

She firmly gripped the loose pelt behind my neck and another brief flash of memory flitted through my mind but was gone just as fast as my feet left the ground. It didn’t hurt at all and I was scared sure…but excited too. As Momma Bear climbed the tree, it felt like I was flying! Waaaay high up she tucked me in the crook of a branch, then she herself just about flew back down.

It was then I saw the cat. It was HUGE. I didn’t know cats could get that big. It had started up the tree. But Momma Bear’s descent was furious, her claws furrowing deep grooves in the bark of the pine, hallway down, she let go…

…and landed upon the cat, pulling it off the bark with a ripping sound.

I was so worried I’d lose her too, that I’d nearly jumped down on top of them…but that was dumb puppy thought. I’d be dead and all her effort would be for nothing. All I could do was root her on.

“ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!!!”

I needn’t have worried. The cat was slinky and fast and wickedly sported giant claws and teeth…but so did Momma Bear. The cat swiped at her eyes, trying to blind her, but she ducked lightning fast and dove underneath…then chomped her long snout over the cat’s throat.

Blood was in the air! Spurting and…and smelling good.

The cat swiped feebly as it died. I whined my concern for Momma’s injuries, but she shook her big head then rose on her back legs and howled, her nose pointed at the stars now winking into view.

She said, ‘Stay in the tree. You’re safe in the tree. I’ll be back in a little bit.’

I watched from above as she dragged the cat’s body away.

She eventually came back after dark, climbed the tree, and gave me the most delicious supper ever---the heart of the cat.

The boy pointed the long gun at Momma Bear and I screamed. He lowered the gun as Momma Bear climbed the tree. She brought me down and placed me by the boy. Then she turned and left with lightness in her big paws as her heart had healed just a little.