Free Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing by Sonny Brewer Page A

it?”
    “I expect it would,” I said. I thought of Diana’s entreaty to drop the talk of Irish kings. It seemed unavoidable. “But he likes his name. You hear him talking, don’t you? He told me himself he likes to be called Cormac.” I could not have known this talking thing I kidded about would one day help me ID him, and help the negotiations to get him home.
    John just shook his head. “Come on, man,” he said to his partner. “We don’t get to diggin’ my truck payment be callin’ me Nate the Late.”
    The wire was laid in less than two hours. I thanked the men, who told me the trainer would be along soon after they left. “We supposed to call quick as we hit the driveway. He be right along with the bill.” John bent to rub Cormac’s head. “You just take good care of old King here,” he said. “He a good dog.”
    I called Cormac away from his inspection of the newly turned earth lining the edge of our yard. I lay down on the warm grass. Closed my eyes against the morning sun. Cormac came to stand right above me. He stood still, his handsome head poised above me. He looked down at me for a long minute. Then he shook his head, his ears and lips flapping, and walked away like he had business and couldn’t lollygag around with me. Already taking over security. I was so proud of him.
    Turns out, he was on his way to say good morning to Bailey, the neighbor Golden. I like to think our neighbor Janet so loved our Cormac that when her Cocker Spaniel died of old age, her first thought for a new pet was a Golden.
    The trainer soon showed up and went right to work putting little white flags into the ground every few feet along the trench around the entire perimeter of our property. He installed the transmitter on the wall of the barn. I was beginning to think I’d have to learn on my own how to train Cormac, when he came walking toward me with a green collar that had a receiver attached to it about the size of a box of matches.
    “My name’s Ken,” he said. “You’ll want to listen up here while I tell you how to do this.” He instructed me matter-of-factly to walk my dog along the flagged perimeter, but away from the shock zone that extended five feet on either side of the wire. “A smart dog,” Ken said, “is gonna get it with only two, not more than three ‘corrections.’ He’ll hear that little beep and bounce away.” Ken grinned for the first time.
    “And what about our morning walks down Moseley Road?” I asked. “Do I take off his collar and lead him across the wire buried under the driveway?”
    “Oh, no. You can’t do that,” Ken said abruptly. “That would just confuse him. You’ll have to load him into your car without the collar and haul him to the end of the drive. That way he thinks the only way across is in a vehicle.” It sounded bothersome, but it made sense. That’s the way we’d do it.
    Ken had me snap a leash on Cormac and walk him near the flags but outside the shock zone, now activated. He told me to walk the entire line slowly. “Should I let him get a correction?” I asked, frowning.
    “No. You never lead him into the shock zone,” Ken said. “Never call him into the shock zone.”
    “I’d never do that,” I said.
    “Some people are stupid,” Ken said, looking away. He told me to take the leash off Cormac. “The dog’s curious. He’ll check it out, and learn his first lesson. It’ll take more than once, probably.”
    Cormac, brilliant animal that he is, got it with one zap. Afterwards, he refused to go within twenty-five feet of those angry white flags, though he could not figure out why Bailey could wander around the flags with impunity.

TEN
    IT WAS A twenty-minute walk from my house to the round house where the idea for my new book was conceived. I put my laptop in the leather and canvas bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and took my cap from one of the pegs on the old hat rack near the front door. From one of its hooks, I took down Cormac’s