Little Ely

            Two men, cousins, in a truck on a field trip, bumping along abandoned roads, stopping in ninety-degree-plus heat to survey playas, checking for evidence of the geological history of these Nevada wild lands. It’s a sere rock-strewn landscape, with traces of past volcanoes, the uplift and folding of old lake beds. As this day wears on, clear skies washed blue, sunlight on the hood and raking across the open barren stretches, they talk about the day, family, food, and where to spend tonight.

            “How’d you get the bandage on your left hand?”

            “Nikki. No inhibitions, but you think of where he comes from….He may not be a good dog, but we’re trying,” Dick says. “He’s better. Really.”

            “There’s an old camping spot I remember off this side road,” Jim says. “Haven’t been there in years.”

            “Sure. Let me know when it’s time to turn.”

            They find the right dirt road and their white truck grinds its way along. As they drive, the landscape changes, signs of recent wildfire coming up lapping against the road like a blackening tide, scrub is shorn away, a few skeleton fingers of brush all that remain. Though the fire passed months ago, a tarry sooty smell daunts them. When the cousins reach their campground, they find a good turnaround, the beaten down evidences of their old refuge in a series of broken rings of past camp fires. But there’s no pleasure in being here.

            “Ugh, let’s head up that mountain,” Dick says. “Got to be a better site somewhere towards the ridge. Plus we’ll get some elevation; it’ll be cooler.”

            They’re getting tired, conversation becomes more erratic.

            “How long has it been with Nikki?” Jim says. “The shelter gives you support?”

            Dick thinks before he answers. Longer than he should.

            “Two months yesterday. He’s learning,” he says. “He seems to be liking us more. But no impulse control. He’s still heading out after the cats, and though he’s sorry after, if I weren’t keeping a grip on his collar, I don’t know. That’s what happened when he bit me,” Dick raises his bandaged fingers. “He does get it that we don’t want him hurting them– still he can’t make himself stop. It’s more like an attack than chasing. I need to see that change.”

            “You’re keeping them apart?”

            “You bet. We don’t need more vet bills.”

            “Well, Nikki had a hard life. Street dog from Tijuana.”

            “We’re trying to work it out, but gosh, some days I don’t know why the shelter staff ever took him on. He’s maybe capable of getting an idea of what we need, but can he actually do it? Does he care?” Dick shrugs, worried. “I guess we just keep trying.”

            The two find a good spot well up the mountain, maybe 8,000 feet, with dusk reaching and deepening below across the vast bare valley. They spade out a hollow and surround this makeshift fire pit with rocks. From up here under a few twisted pinyon pines the grandeur of the deserted land is glorious, the low wind constant. If you squint down, the marks of the past wildfire around the old campground they left down behind are a mere detail, hardly visible any more. They cook a simple meal, hamburger and rice with onions and a tin of tomatoes. It’s hot and good and they eat well. The night has securely fallen, sleeping bags spread on the ground near their fire pit which has burnt down to a glow of embers and an occasional fall of burnt charcoal. They raise their beer cans to the open sky, but Jim hears a funny noise behind him.

            He turns, localizes the rustle as it repeats. He flicks on his headlamp, and there, in the circle of brightness is a small black puppy butt, with the busy part of the puppy inside the camp kit box.

            The puppy is the dirtiest, likely the scrawniest, puppy either of the guys has ever seen. Here at about 8,000 feet elevation as close as most folk ever get to nowhere, its presence inexplicable. The puppy seems interested rather than dismayed by their attention. Jim reaches and his hand gets a wet lick, the pup lets him touch it, pat it. Dick is first to make the logical assumption.

            “Water. Poor thing must be perishing of thirst.”

            They use one of their bowls, rinsed out, and fill it with water. The puppy plunges in, and doesn’t stop for anything until it’s licked out the last drop.

            “And hungry– look at those ribs.” Jim fills another bowl with cooling leftovers from dinner. This disappears almost as fast as the water did.

            “But how in dickens did you ever get here?” Jim marvels as the puppy comes over hopefully to see if the magical source of food has more.

            “She’s a pretty little thing under all the dirt. Part Border Collie, maybe?”

            “Yeah with some other stuff mixed in. Never wore a collar, look at the neck fur.”

            The pup will take petting, if no more food is immediately going to appear.

            “No injuries I can see. She’s still hungry, you know.”

            “Do you think it’s safe to give her more? That was a lot of food on an empty stomach…”

            The guys make it about ten minutes before they give in and fill another bowl of leftovers. The puppy makes sure that vanishes quick as the previous load did.

            They sit in silence, Jim’s experienced hand finding exactly the best scratch points behind the pup’s half-pricked ears.

            “I have a dog,” Dick says defensively.

            “I know,” Jim says. “And my job has me travelling more weeks than not, to reserves where I can’t bring a pet. I’m no good home for a dog.”

            “Well, maybe we can figure out where she’s from.”

            Jim gazes past the glow of the fire pit out across the valley. There are no lights until near the horizon, how many long miles away.

            “I don’t even see ranches,” he says. He puts another handful of branches on the fire, kicking up the flame by a few puffs.

            “How did she end up here on our side of a mountain? Think she saw or heard our truck?”

            “Come to that, how’s it that she’s still alive? Been hungry a while. A puppy maybe two, three months old, out on her own? Odds are, she shouldn’t have made it.”

            “Yeah, odds are. A lot of hungry coyotes out here. Rattlers, accidents.”

            They offer her more water, which she appreciates. She makes her way over to one of their sleeping bags and curls up on the toe of it. Her tummy is round with food. She lifts her ears at them, brown eyes reflecting the light of the fire.

            “Bet she’s full of fleas,” says Jim.

            There’s enough connectivity that Dick calls his wife Trish on the cell and of course he tells her about the pup. Then he goes pretty quiet, only making a few agreeing noises, though these get slower as the phone call goes on. He’s not inclined to talk after that call, but opens another beer.

            “Everything okay with Trish?” Jim says too brightly.

            “Yes. It’s all good,” Dick says.

            They both look at the dog who has settled by Jim’s feet and is tracking them and their talk with lifted eyebrows. She sits up at the sound of a distant coyote calling in the night.

            “Watch it you little pup,” Jim says. “You stay close by, tonight, you hear?”

            There’s no problem with that. The only time she leaves the guys is when she goes off to do her business, when they can hear her paws scratching to cover up.

            “Almost like a cat,” Dick says.

            “We should go to sleep, miles to cover tomorrow.”

            Later in the night the thought of fleas doesn’t stop Dick when an investigating cold wet nose pokes his cheek and a requesting paw pulls at his sleeping bag when the air has gone cold. The puppy snuggles down well tucked into his sleeping bag against him for a couple of hours before she moves over to Jim’s bag.

            When Jim wakes sometime around four, he feels the warm knot of puppy curled up against his stomach. The stars are magnificent with the slightest hint of lightening at the East, if you use your imagination. He falls asleep again in no time, the crisp dry cold air contrasting with the coziness inside the sleeping bag.

            She’s there in the morning when they roll out of the sleeping bags at dawn. Looking hopeful, though in the early light they can see she’s not only dirty but she has her rather long black tail with its white tip tucked well between her legs. She receives some bread and canned turkey they were planning on for lunch, and when she goes off to do her necessary business, Jim notices how careful she is, thinking she acts as though discretion is important. Maybe it was, he thinks. A puppy out on her own doesn’t want predators to know her location. She’s back fast, as though she wants to be sure of where they are, all the time.

            “That’s a cute pup,” Dick says.

            “Sure is,” Jim says.

            “I have a dog,” Dick says.

            “That’s true,” Jim says.

            They pack up, load the truck, check that the fire is well and truly out, dug over and drowned with some of their precious water. The dog sits waiting by the passenger door to the truck. When they open it, she tries to hop up, but she’s weak, and scrabbles when she tries, so they lift her in and she curls herself at Dick’s feet, because Jim’s driving this morning. She’s dead asleep in no time and sleeps whenever they are driving. Dick wonders, watching her, if she dared to rest when she was out on her own.

            As the lack of lights last night indicated, there are no ranches, no farms, not little houses or big in this huge wild place. It’s some hours before the cousins come in to the dusty town of Ely, Nevada, and they have by then firmly decided that they are not leaving this pup at an unknown animal shelter about whose policies and behaviors they know nothing. They stop at the pet store and supply themselves with dog kibble, a harness, a collar and a lead.

            “Little Ely,” Jim says. “How’s that?”

            “Yeah,” Dick tries the harness on Little Ely, who does not think this is a good idea. But she merely goes limp and looks at them with those big brown eyes, her white chest and paws surrendering to their bad plan. Once the blue harness is fastened in place she sits up with a clear expression of resignation, but then she smiles up at them, hopefully, tongue lolling, and of course it’s time for a bit more food for the dog.

            The rest of the long morning as the men do their work, stopping at playas and taking rock samples, Little Ely shows she doesn’t really need a collar or a lead, much less a harness. She is with them; she knows, apparently, she doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Neither man has ever had a dog so sensitive to what they are doing, nor so silent. She already looks much better, and either their frequent pats or her own tongue has made of her quite a neat little dog with her too long puppy tail still tucked, her big white paws, and a streak of snow down her forehead widening over the muzzle with its black nose.

            In the late morning Little Ely makes her first sound, a tiny whimper.

            “What do you think, Dick?” Jim says. “Let’s stop and see if that’s a request.”

            Apparently it is– Little Ely trots off barely far enough for politeness and does what must be done, covering the spot in proper dog fashion by kicking up some dirt. The she’s back at the truck, ready to go on.

            “You suppose she came from some ranch — you know how they often have a passel of dogs and puppies, and when they take hay bales out to the steers in the back of beyond some dogs just pile on for the ride, get off and have some fun when they’re there, and hop back on when they’re whistled up?”

            “Mmhm,” Jim says.

            “A puppy can get too excited to get in the truck on time. or someone might forget to whistle.”

            “Yeah,” Jim says. He bends down and strokes the smooth black head with its tiny stripe of white. “Could be.”

——————————————————————————————————–

            The cousins are due to stop by the Granite Mountains station before spending their last night out, and Jim calls ahead to explain the presence of a puppy. It’s okay, the answer comes, since they’re not officially open to the public because of COVID. However there are two mature mutts, both large dogs, in residence already, pets of the staff, who are allowed one each if kept under good supervision. The cousins speculate if Little Ely will be dog shy or stranger fearful when she meets these new elements, but when they set her down on the pebbled drive and the older dogs advance, she is all shy friendliness and dog manners. With the people too, and she seems to settle in without the least hiccup or concern, as silent as ever, meeting noses and beginning to romp with the big dogs.

            “Look at the tail,” Dick whispers to Jim.

            “Wow,” Jim says, because that long tail is finally out from between the small haunches, beginning to twitch a wag.

            The cousins obtain the data they need and after a leisurely time watching the dogs play, they head off to the Granite Mountains cabin on the far side of the range for the night.

            “I have a dog,” Dick says.

            “I’m not the right guy at the right time for this dog,” Jim says. “But she’s not going to some shelter and a random home.”

            “Yes,” Dick says. “You bet.”

            The Granite Mountains cabin is partway structured into and among great granite boulders of rounded rock, in an area of mountains built up as though some giant’s child idled eons away by piling time-rubbed boulders, some the size of trucks or greater, into barely balanced piles. All unfinished. The stones catch light, glowing gold at morning with smoky purple in their shadows, bleaching to white in the flat brilliance of day, then fading to pinks and lavenders as dusk approaches, until in the night they borrow reflections of both moon and stars to shape themselves in the blue darkness. The front of the cabin comprises a great deck cantilevered out between the rocks, without a barrier at the edge, so if you step out at night you need to be very careful, for a fall from that height will have consequences on the unforgiving rocks.

            Night falls as the cousins’ truck trundles up the familiar dirt road to the cabin, and Jim is worrying.

            “I’m going to keep Little Ely in tonight. She could fall off and break a leg,” he says to Dick as they reach the parking place down below the cabin. Looking up at the perched deck above then, Dick agrees.

            “She can have no idea what lies beyond that edge of the porch,” he says. “She hasn’t seen it in the day. She’s going to have to figure out the potty issue, though.”

            “Yeah Little Bit,” Jim says to the pup. “Hope you’re flexible.”

            Little Ely is happy to be with them in the fascinating cabin with its back rooms made of spaces between massive boulders, and she trots all through the place, her nose busy with the fascination of odors. Trade rats and mice, the scent of a ringtailed cat who sometimes comes out to see if human visitors can be persuaded to slip out a treat, or if not, are they careless enough to leave some food where it can be sampled. But not tonight, the presence of a dog, however small will discourage any approaches for sure.

            The men settle down by the wood stove, enjoying its quiet crackling and the warmth which even in the cabin, is extremely welcome. The puppy eats with such pleasure it’s a temptation to overfeed. Dinner warms in a pot, the plop of breaking bubbles sending a fine aroma of chili through the room. Purchased corn muffins wrapped in foil warm on the stove. Beer cans open, Jim and Dick settle down to talk over the results of the trip and what new expeditions this one has suggested for the winter. Little Ely, belly full of kibble, lies between them, an old bathmat under her for comfort, her gaze going from face to face, to her empty bowl, then from face to face. In the darkness she sighs.

            “Where’s Little Ely?” Jim asks about half an hour later as the cousins bestir themselves to fill bowls with hot dinner.

            “I heard her head over there,” Dick says, gesturing to the far corner where a pile of wood is stored.

            Jim flicks on his headlamp and follows Dick’s gesture.

            “Yup,” he says, after a few moments. “She figured out what to do about not going outside. She found the furthest quietest spot she could find. I’ll clean that in the morning before we head out.”

——————————————————————————————————–

            The sun bolts up, transforming the gold of morning to the white of day as though in a hurry. This finds both men subdued; they wash up all pans and bowls, knives and spoons they’ve used, lock down the outhouse after dosing it with a scoop of lime. In the meantime Jim’s flipflop goes missing and they discover Little Ely giving it a good chew by the porch corner in the new shade. They bolt the front door, leaving it as they found it.

            “She figured out the edge of the porch as soon as she could see,” Jim says.

            “She’s not dumb,” Dick says.

            There’s a lot they don’t say.

            The three get in to the truck, and Jim notices that Little Ely is brisk and energetic enough to get herself in now. She’s basically recovered from what must have been days out on her own, and already the black and white coat has a sense of gloss to it. The tail is out and it even wags sometimes, the white tip stirs as they start on the drive out from the cabin back to houses and people and stores.

            There comes a time in the long hours of driving through hot sunlight when without debating it Dick says–

            “We’ll go to my house,” and Jim feels a funny sensation he’s not quite sure of, as though he swallowed something without chewing.

            “Okay,” he says. He carefully doesn’t look at Dick.

            The world changes around them, from the blowing brilliant bleakness of the southwest dry lands to the creeping grayish suburbs of identical houses and straight roads with lanes named after some developer’s girlfriends. The driving slows, the truck looks less as though it belongs, and the silence in the cab grows thicker.

            “What are you thinking?” Jim says.

            Dick stops, reverses neatly up into his home driveway with the front lawn xeriscaped, the green gray of agaves echoing lands through which they have traveled over the past days.

            “Who’s thinking?” Dick says, which makes Jim laugh, a little. “I called Trish at our last rest stop,” Dick says. “She’ll be out in a moment. She’ll bring Nikki, so we can do introductions outside the house, on neutral ground, and we’ll just see what happens, I guess.”

            Jim pulls out the harness, gets it on Little Ely and snaps on the lead. Dick steps out of the truck and stretches. Jim opens his door, takes the pup in his arms and  gets out, setting the puppy on the driveway where she shakes herself as though getting rid of the last of travel. She wags solemnly at him, asking what do we do next, so he walks her away down the street all the way to the corner as Dick’s front door opens and Trish comes out, her arm pulled straight by a straining brown dog no bigger than the puppy. Dick and she manage an awkward hug around the dog, then Dick kneels down to greet it, too.

            “Hi there, Nikki,” he says, and Nikki gives his bristly cheek a quick lick, though he seems distracted by the sight and scent of the puppy down the street. Dick takes over the lead and brings Nikki down onto the neutral territory of the sidewalk and gentles Nikki there, settling him, getting between him and the pup until he calms down and seems ready to pay attention to his human.

            “That’s a good dog, Nikki. That’s the way.”

            In a little time an approach seems possible, so on short lead with a hand on each collar, the two dogs meet, touching noses, looking away, Nikki bristling a little, Little Ely playing politely submissive.

            Puppies are easier, Jim thinks, watching this, still wary. Maybe it helps that Little Ely is female, so there aren’t the same dominance issues there would…

            When it happens it’s so fast that human reflexes can’t possibly compensate. Perhaps Dick’s hand slackens, perhaps not. But Little Ely yips, and her face opens in a slash of wet red blood, and Nikki is raising a sound like a demon as Dick pulls him off. In an instant Nikki slumps in apology, and Jim, his arms full of the bleeding scared puppy, sees exactly what Dick meant. Nikki knows what they want of him, but he simply can’t stop himself.

            “How bad is it? Is Ely okay?”

            “It’s a vet visit,” Jim says, clamping the puppy to his chest. “But missed the eye.”

            Firm and calm, Dick walks Nikki away, takes Nikki back to the house. Trish saw the whole thing from the driveway and her eyes are round, but she says very little.

            “Can you call the vet?” Dick says to Trish. “Let’s take the truck,” and of course, as Jim climbs back into the truck it makes sense, the truck can deal with some dog blood on top of its other adventures, they sure don’t want to take the family car on this expedition. Or Jim’s Subaru, parked out on the street waiting for him. Thank goodness for trucks.

            Also, as Dick says later, thank goodness for a good vet. The puppy endures an exam, a shot, some deft stitches, incarceration in a plastic Elizabethan collar, while the cousins bring the vet up to speed on their field trip and what they know of the puppy, and all that they don’t.

            “Two months, maybe three,” the vet says. “This is one heck of a dog. Quiet, even putting in the lidocaine. No microchip though. Your Nikki who bit her, that’s the brindle tan I’ve seen here a couple of times?”

            “Yes.”

            “It felt like more than a bite,” Jim says.

            “It looks like more than a bite. You were all lucky. Lucky neither of you got in the way and lucky Nikki’s as small as he is. You may have to think,” the vet gives Dick a level look as he strokes the black flank. “To which animal do you owe the most? You have two cats. How has Nikki been with them?”

            “We keep them strictly apart,” Dick says, “even more, after today,” but his face is troubled as he looks into Little Ely’s upraised brown eyes and expectant expression.

            To her it’s as though nothing very important has happened. Her face may be sore, swollen, but she has humans and things to learn and a place to be. This man in white with stern hands whose smell makes her nose wrinkle, may have hurt her, but his touch has gone gentle and she’s willing to be friends anyway, now that he’s stopped and he’s petting her.

            “Did you pick up Nikki from ALL Paws?” The vet names the shelter known in town for its no-kill policies.

            Dick nods.

            “Talk to them. I’m not sure you can ever let Nikki loose in the same space as other pets. They need to know that. There are animals born that way. Others learn it. But once learned, for some they can never let go of the behavior.”

            The cousins say nothing as they leave after settling the bill. Little Ely seems glad to be headed out with her people. Her tail is wagging and Dick watches it as though it’s fascinating.

            Trish meets them at the top of the driveway.

            “Is Little Ely all right? I’ve let Nikki in to the house. The cats are in our bedroom and the den.” But she doesn’t exactly say all this sequentially– it comes out tumbled and yet to both the cousins it’s perfectly clear.

            “I think it’s time for a beer,” Dick says. “It’s too late for you to drive back home, Jim. You stay the night and we can talk this over.”

            But even while they drink their beers and chicken sizzles on the grill, no one seems to want to talk about the black and white puppy who is everywhere in the green back yard with its few orchard trees, and the patio.

            Trish is oddly quiet too, and Jim keeps feeling he’s interrupting when he speaks to her even though she hasn’t said anything. They eat their barbecued chicken and potato salad and string beans, have some ice cream, and no one seems able to talk about Little Ely.

            “I’ll take her to bed with me?” Jim says after dinner.

            “No,” Dick says, “maybe she should sleep with us.”

            In the morning, Trish is setting up coffee when Jim comes out ready for the road, wondering. There is a good smell of muffins in the oven and a smile on Trish’s face. But does it mean anything?  Dick emerges, sets kibble and fresh water for Nikki then opens up the downstairs study. Nikki bristles out, goes straight to Jim, even though he’s met Jim before, sniffs Jim’s socks and legs aggressively with stiff steps and makes a small sound deep in his chest that is not friendly, before turning his shoulder and going to his food.

            “How’s Little Ely?” Jim says, and his heart is sore. He knows one thing for sure, what Dick and he said in the truck traveling, still stands. No random home for this most particular pup named Little Ely.

            “She’s great,” Dick says.

            “We made a mistake last night,” Trish says. “Lost track of the cats and I wasn’t able to find Little Ely. Finally located her under the bed, in her Elizabethan collar, no less. There she was all stretched out and nose to nose with our scaredy cat and he was stretching out to her. I was so pleased. She wasn’t supposed to be in the same space as he. That cat must have squirted past me when I was trying to get the two cats into the den away from Ely. But this morning they’re friends. Sitting together looking out into the back yard.”

            She shakes her head, her eyes bright.

            “I said to Dick, you know I hadn’t realized how much we were giving up to make the relationship with Nikki work. But we’re always going to have to be watching him, guarding him. He’ll never be able to live with our cats, and they’ve been with us longer than he has. If we had grandkids coming to visit, Nikki would have to be locked up. He’s okay with us, but not bonded. He needs a refuge with no pets and no children.”

            “We’ll keep talking this over,” Dick says. “But I think this puppy has a home, here, with us.”

            The air goes out of Jim. He puts his stuff into the Subaru, so Nikki won’t pee on it like he did last visit, and he’s quiet through breakfast.

            “It’s been a great trip,” he says to Dick. “And a great stay. Thanks to you both.”

            “Go see Little Ely before you go,” Dick says. He knows Jim. “Our rescue dog.”

            Jim lets himself into the bedroom and Little Ely comes racing to him, dancing in dog greeting, her tongue lolling in a dog laugh. But then she quiets, perhaps she knows he is a touch sad, and he bends down to hold her paws in his hands.

            “No, Little Ely,” he says. “You’re not a rescue dog. You’re a self-rescued dog.”