Lost & Found - Jacqueline Sheehan [46]
“Do it again,” he said without further comment about the shot. “There’s no bow season on your island. There was a special deer season declared a few years back to bring down the deer population, but it wasn’t a bow season. So who shot the dog?”
“Nobody knows, or nobody is saying. Isaiah thinks it might have been a tourist.”
“Who’s Isaiah?”
“My boss, longtime resident, public works director, minister. Older Black man. There’s probably more that he does but I don’t know everything. He’s a little sour on tourists these days. The last renters trashed his house.”
Hill’s jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Anyone who is a skilled archer is not going to mistake a dog for a deer. There’s no excuse for idiots like that who forget that they are working with a major weapon. Or worse yet, someone doing it on purpose. If someone was trying to shoot a dog on purpose and the dog lived, then they were a lousy archer to begin with.”
“The dog is recovering. I’ve taken him in until his owners can be found, but that is looking less likely all the time. Usually, owners are either frantically searching for a dog or they don’t want to be bothered. There’s not much in between.” Rocky paused, suddenly noticing the lack of something at Hill’s house. No dog sounds, no dog barking inside. Wouldn’t a guy like Hill have a dog? And his wife was never here, or if she was here, she was the quietest woman on earth.
“Do you have a dog?” asked Rocky.
Hill picked up the next weight bow with the twenty-five-pound draw, and handed it to Rocky without comment. “Used to. My wife and I are separated and the dog went with her. We had that dog for five years. She was a good strong mutt, smart as anything. Julie said I’m not home enough to have a dog. Let’s see you try that bow,” he said.
She was less accurate with the next size bow, but not bad, and she knew she’d be better by the next lesson. She knew she’d do even better if she could get more sleep, which still eluded her.
The dog’s recovery was remarkable, flesh grew back with flesh, muscle accommodated, bones meshed. He had a limp that grew less noticeable, his large black body tweaking less to the left. But Rocky noted that his early-morning restlessness continued. She woke everyday by 4:30, pulling herself reluctantly from her dreams where she searched for Bob, scoured the land where souls of the dead live to catch a glimpse of him turning a corner, catch a scent of him. When she woke, exhausted from her journey into the land of death, the dog was always there, standing near her bed, his ears up in alarm, and with a whine coming from his throat.
As soon as she peeled back the covers, the dog appeared to relax, his ears settled down, and he put his nose into her hand.
“You too, big guy? Looks like neither of us can sleep.”
She made coffee and they went outside to walk the beach. Walking brought her back into her body and she knew the dog needed to keep moving to get stronger. Tess had told her that physical therapy for the dog was important and Rocky added in a few more minutes of his walk every day.
In mid-December she left the island for one night, meeting with her brother about details of her house that had been rented out for the year. The temperamental furnace needed to be repaired or replaced. She knew Melissa would be at her father’s house so she asked Tess to keep Lloyd for the night.
“Tess, will you keep Lloyd with you while I’m gone? It’s easier if he stays on the island.” She forgot to warn Tess about the dog’s restlessness. When Rocky came back she said, “You’re probably never going to take him again, are you? He’s a restless guy at 4:30 in the morning. Sorry.”
“What do you mean?” said Tess. “This guy didn’t budge until I got up at seven. I’m not one of those old farts who gets up at dawn.”
“No way. This dog is