looks at me, then at Dad. Dad still wonât say nothing, makes me do the talking. While the doc leans over Shiloh and slowly inserts the needle in his side, I get up my nerve.
âItâs Judd Traversâs,â I tell him. I got to start practicing the truth sometime.
âJudd Traversâs ? This the dog heâs missing? How come you brought it in?â
âI had him,â I say.
Doc Murphy sucks in his breath, then lets it out a little at a timeâ huh, huh, huh . âWhew!â he says, and goes on about his work.
Donât know how long weâre there in Docâs kitchen, Dad standing over against the wall, armsfolded, me with my hands cupped over Shilohâs head while Doc Murphy washes the wounds, dresses them, and starts stitching the skin back up. Once or twice I feel Shiloh jerk, like it hurts him, but when he lays too still, I donât know if itâs because heâs numb or if heâs dying.
âThe next twenty-four hours, weâll know if this dogâs going to live,â the doc says. âYou check with me tomorrow evening; weâll have some idea then. I can keep him here for a day or two, Ray. Then, if he makes it, you can take him on home.â
I put my face down near Shilohâs again, my mouth next to his ear. â Live , Shiloh, live! â I whisper.
Hardest thing in the world is to leave Shiloh there at Doc Murphyâs, the way his eyes follow me over to the doorway, the way his muscles move, like heâs trying to get up when he sees me leaving. Second hardest thing is to crawl in the Jeep with Dad afterward.
There isnât a word passed between us till we get home. Once Dad turns the motor off, though, and Iâm all set to get out, he says, âMarty, what else donât I know?â
âWhat?â I ask.
âYou keeping Juddâs dog up there on our hillâgot a place for him all built, never letting on. What else you keeping from me?â
â Nothing, Dad!â
âHow do I know thatâs not another lie?â
ââCause itâs not.â
âYou saying so donât make it true.â
I know then what Ma meant. But itâs not all so black and white as Dad makes it out to be, neither. And sometimes, when I get mad, it clears my head.
âYou would have thought more of me if Iâd let that dog wander around till Judd found it again, kick the daylights out of âim?â I ask. âThat what you want me to do, Dad?â
âI want you to do whatâs right.â
âWhatâs right?â
For once in my eleven years, I think I have my dad stumped. Leastways, it seems to be thirty . . . forty seconds before he answers:
âYouâve got to go by the law. The law says a man that pays money for a dog owns that dog. You donât agree with the law, then you work to change it.â
âWhat if there isnât time, Dad? Shiloh could be dead by the time somebody looked into the way Judd treats his dogs.â
Dadâs voice is sharp: âYou think Judd Travers is the only one around here hard-hearted toward his animals? You think heâs the only one who starves âem or kicks âem or worse? Open up your eyes, Marty. Open your eyes! â Now Dad half turns in his seat, back resting against the door, facingme: âHow many times have you walked to the school bus and seen a chained-up dog in somebodyâs yard? How many times you ever put your mind to whether or not itâs happy, its ribs sticking out like handles on the sides? Suddenly youâre face-to-face with a dog that pulls at your heart, and you all at once want to change things.â
I swallow. âThereâs got to be a first time,â I answer.
Dad sighs. âYouâre right about that,â he says.
Iâm pushing my luck, I know. âIf Doc Murphy donât tell Judd about Shiloh, can we bring him back here and keep him? I could build him a better