A Year Of Good Eating Read online

  Harold’s urge to answer a challenge with a challenge surged past his inclination to caution and drowned it.

  “You know, Officer,” he drawled, “judging a book by its cover has always been considered unwise. Now, your doggy pal has a certain look of ferocity, but I can see his teeth from here, and they’re all perfect, which tells me that he’s never been in a serious scrap in his life. As for yourself, your obvious youth to the side, you’ve got to be a rookie or next to it, because a cop with experience would know better than to bait a civilian, at least not without first finding out everything there is to know about him. So I’ll tell you what: You turn around right this minute, get yourself and your dog back in your wagon and skedaddle, and I’ll let you walk away. But if you say one more word I don’t like, I’ll make a crusade out of taking your badge. And if your hand moves one millimeter closer to your sidearm, you’ll be leaving here on a gurney.”

  The cop’s eyes went wide.

  The police dog jerked free and arrowed toward Harold.

  Bruno leaped and met the other dog in midair.

  Their collision was followed by a swift and furious struggle. Though smaller, the Shepherd was the more skilled combatant. Despite Bruno’s weight and greater size, he was no match for the police dog’s training and ferocity. Within seconds the Shepherd had Bruno by the throat. A single bite would sever the arteries along the Newf’s neck.

  Galatea darted forward and clamped her teeth upon the Shepherd’s genitals.

  The police dog’s jaws opened reflexively as it screamed in agony. Bruno immediately reversed their positions and pinned the Shepherd with his bulk. Galatea kept a firm grip on the police dog’s privates.

  The cop went for his service pistol.

  Harold charged.

  No more than five seconds had passed before Harold had the cop helpless on the macadam, one knee pressed deep into the young man’s gut and fingers pincered along his windpipe in a tactical chokehold. He bore down with all his strength, and watched as the young cop gradually turned cyanotic blue from oxygen deprivation.

  “The inside of the book’s not quite as bland as you thought, is it, Officer? I was a Ranger before I entered law school, and I do what I can to stay current.” With his free hand he snatched the gun from the cop’s hip, tearing away the retaining strap, and flung the weapon a good thirty yards into the woods. “I wonder, are you smart enough to beg my pardon on your own initiative, or must I suggest it to you while you’re still conscious?”

  The cop croaked a barely audible “sorry.”

  Harold relaxed the pressure of his fingers slightly. “Louder, please.”

  “I’m sorry, damn you!”

  Harold released him and backed away. The cop was a while getting to his feet. He clapped away the road grit and straightened his uniform as best he could.

  “Bruno, Galatea,” Harold called softly, “it’s okay, you can let go now.”

  They did, returning at once to their master’s side. The Shepherd remained prone, his belly against the street, whimpering softly.

  “Maybe you should travel with two dogs from now on, Officer.” Harold casually stooped to collect Bruno’s and Galatea’s leashes, straightened and produced his best evil grin. “I always do.”

  * * *

  The winter was hard even by the standards of central New York. As adapted to the cold as he was, the heavy snowfalls and sub-zero temperatures took a toll on Bruno. He limited his time outdoors to the bare minimum required to do his business, not even pausing to bury his deposits in the snow.

  It was much worse for Galatea. Elderly, single-coated, and robbed by her trials of reserves enough to withstand such conditions, she deteriorated steadily. By the time April was done and May had brought the first hint of tolerable weather to Onteora, her breathing was a tortured gasp, she was stiff in all her joints, and she lacked all vitality, as depleted as she’d been when Bruno first found her.

  The Corens knew there was nothing more they could do for her. Yet they resisted the decision they knew lay before them. The love they bore her clashed with their awareness that the time had come to let her go. The thought of taking her from Bruno, who remained as attached to her as ever, made it infinitely worse.

  A day came when it was clear beyond their power to resist that the event could be postponed no longer. Whether from a peaceful, painless injection or the ravages of incipient cardiovascular collapse, Galatea’s life was at its end.

  Harold stood silently by as Phyllis made the appointment. When she’d replaced the headset in its charging cradle, he wrapped her in his arms, and they surrendered to tears.

  Bruno watched from Galatea’s side. The Newf’s somber gaze said more than any words could have expressed.

  * * *

  They returned home in complete silence.

  Bruno led them into the kitchen. As they took seats at the island, he went to his water bowl, slurped up a considerable amount, and returned to settle on the floor beside them.

  Presently Phyllis said “That was hard.”

  Harold nodded.

  “I never would have thought...” She trailed off and glanced up at the television, for once dark and silent. “I should have, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yeah. We can’t help it. It’s what they are. What they’ve been bred to do to us.” He glanced down at the Newf. “It won’t be the last time, Phyl.”

  “I know.” She shuddered. “So we’re a one-dog family again. Do you think...?”

  “Not just yet. Let’s take some time to get over this and then think about it.” He rose, went to the cupboard, and looked over his shoulder. “Highball?”

  She nodded. He mixed the drinks, set one before her, and returned to his perch.

  After a brief silence he said “We had a year with her, and she had one with us. A year of love and comfort and good eating.”

  A year she wouldn’t have had except for Bruno.

  She nodded. “He saved her life.”

  And she saved his. Maybe mine, too.

  “Do you think,” Phyllis said, “he’ll miss her the way we do?”

  He glanced down at Bruno again and found the Newf looking back. His two soft brown eyes were replete with the grief of loss, coupled to the natural creature’s visceral sense for inevitable necessities no matter how painful.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  ====

  About The Author

  Francis W. Porretto is an engineer, fictioneer, and commentator (and a Newfoundland owner and enthusiast). He is also the proprietor of the Liberty’s Torch Website (https://bastionofliberty.blogspot.com), a hotbed of pro-freedom, pro-American, pro-Christian sentiment, where he and his Esteemed Co-Conspirators hold forth on every topic under the Sun. You can email him at [email protected]. Thank you for taking an interest in his fiction.