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“I know that,” I said. “But how else am I supposed to get him? He won’t come out when I call him.”
“Well, he went under the porch to get away from people,” Ian said. He stood up and started looking around.
“What are you looking for?”
“A stick or something.”
“You’re going to poke him out?”
He looked at me. “Just watch me work.” He looked around and went to pick up a long branch that had fallen from the pear tree on the side of the house. “You got something of your father’s? Like a shirt or jacket?”
Grammy Annie-Lou walked around to us with a napkin and peroxide in her hands. I knew she’d seen Ian because she’d changed into a baby blue sweatsuit and had on her church wig.
“I got some of his old clothes still in his room,” she said.
“Good,” Ian said. “Just get one of his shirts. A dirty one if you have it.”
Grammy Annie-Lou set the things in her hand on the porch and went back into the house.
“What do you need my father’s shirt for?” I asked.
“I figure the old dog probably misses his master. It’s almost a year since your father passed away. Right?”
I thought about it and Ian was right. It had been eleven months.
“If King smells your father, that might make him excited enough to come out,” Ian said. “It’s worth a shot.”
Grammy Annie-Lou reappeared with an old denim shirt in her hands. It was my father’s favorite.
I stood up and watched Ian wrap the shirt around the stick.
He pushed the stick under the porch and Grammy Annie-Lou and I started calling King again.
“King! King!”
“Here, boy! Here, boy!”
“King! King!”
There was rustling. Ian pulled the stick out and we waited. King didn’t come out.
I kept calling, though.
“Here, boy! Here, boy! Papa came back for you. You better come on and see him. Here, boy! Here, boy!”
There was more rustling. No King.
Ian was about to push the shirt wrapped around the stick back under the porch again, but then King crawled out and we cheered li
ke he was just being born.
“Here, boy! Here, boy!” I said, setting the shirt on King’s shoulder.
He didn’t lick at me or wag his tail. He looked like an old country dog who’d been hiding under the porch and not eating. He was shaking and dirty. So cold. I could feel his ribs. Smell something like death in his mouth. I was crying, but smiling. Holding him in my arms. I looked up at Grammy Annie-Lou and Ian. They had worry on their faces.
“Ian and I are going to take him to the vet,” I said confidently. “He’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.”
“Pop out, I know you is sad because that’s your daddy’s dog, but he don’t need no doctor,” Grammy Annie-Lou said. “He needs his rest.”
