Free A Dog's Way Home by Bobbie Pyron

tapped on the tin roof.
    Tam heard scurrying from under the feed bags. Without thinking, he pounced and grabbed. His mouth filled with fur and warm, fresh blood. Tam dropped the rat as if it were a hot coal, took a step back, and whined.He pawed at the rat. Why didn’t it move? The smell of blood made Tam’s mouth water. He licked at the bloody body, growing hungrier.
    The coyote snatched up the rat, the tail hanging out one side of her mouth, the head out the other. Tam growled, flashing his teeth. The rat was his. Despite the fact that she had fed him all these weeks; despite the fact that she could maim him with one slash to the throat, the young coyote dropped the rat, trotted to the corner of the shed, and watched as Tam ate his first kill.
    That night, as rain changed to sleet and sleet to snow, as the approaching winter beat back the remnants of fall, as Tam and the coyote slept pressed against each other amid the remains of the rat, blood speckling the white ruff around Tam’s chest, the old Tam slipped away. Away went the Tam who slept in a warm bed, who had his food served to him in a dish. All that remained of that Tam was the girl: the sound of her voice, the feel of her hands, her smell. And the drive to go south.
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    For two days wind howled and pushed against the shed as the temperatures dropped. Tam and the coyote slept close together for warmth, only leaving the shed to relieve themselves or drink from a nearby stream. The rats that had made the shed their home had scattered.
    On the third morning, Tam was awakened by thesound of a wet whump . For the first time in days, a shaft of sunlight streamed through the doorway. Tam rose, arched his back, and yawned. He looked to his side for the sleeping coyote. She was gone. Tam sniffed the old feed sack the coyote slept on and followed her scent to the doorway.
    White, white snow blanketed the meadow, sparkling in the morning sun. Above, a raven cawed, landing on the branch of a tall spruce and sending the snow to the ground with a loud whump. The coyote’s tracks cut the smooth blanket from the doorway to the split-rail fence on the edge of the meadow.
    Tam followed her tracks, lifting each paw distastefully. It may have been white, and it may have been frozen, but it was still water.
    Just as Tam was halfway across the meadow, he heard a yip and saw, from the corner of his eye, a brown blur barreling toward him. The thing knocked him on his side and rolled him onto his back. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the wet, heavy snow held him fast. He was stuck, belly exposed.
    Above Tam, grinning wide, tongue lolling out one side of her mouth, was the coyote. She nipped at his forelegs waving uselessly in the air, then nipped at his back legs.
    She pounced at his head and pulled hard at the white ruff around his neck. Tam snapped at her, tried to right himself, but it was no use. Every time he almost got hisfeet under him, she knocked him over again. Tam was furious.
    Finally, Tam’s claws found purchase in the ground beneath the snow. He scrambled to his feet and knocked the coyote to one side with his broad chest. He whirled, grabbing the coyote’s back leg. She yelped, nipped his ear, and took off across the meadow.
    Tam tore after her. They leaped over the split-rail fence. They shot around snow-laden laurel thickets and moss-covered boulders. The coyote lost her footing. Tam grabbed the end of her tail and pulled. The coyote whipped around and grabbed the side of Tam’s face. They tumbled down an icy bank in a tangle of fur. They broke through the laced ice on the edge of the creek, into the cold water.
    The two pulled themselves up onto the bank, shook the water from their coats, and panted happily. The coyote licked a small, bleeding wound on the side of Tam’s face. Tam’s tail waved back and forth. He couldn’t stay mad at the little coyote.
    They drank side by side from the stream, then followed the scent of a