Henry II and the Gypsy Wagon
“Don’t… Henry don’t go in. Wait… we’re gonna get in trouble….”
Henry turned to look back at the house, then turned his attention to me.
“Firstly… (Henry liked to use lists to justify his behavior)… Rancher is out in the field with Carli. Secondish, Mom is in the kitchen with his wife. Thirth, our two sisters are asleep on the porch and can’t see us from there. And forthest, I will save the day, and be a hero. You with me or not?”
Henry didn’t give me time to answer as he crept closer to the tool shed’s half open door. “There’s a new scent over here, and we are going in to investigate.”
I could see no reason to repeat my warnings.
Here I was again, following Henry, even though the chances that I would be blamed (collectively with big brother), for anything that “bucked sideways.”
The mornings were cool and dry now, and the smell of fall had greeted us first thing and left us energized. Henry and I were up for adventure after breakfast.
Our two sisters, Kimber and Stella, went off to sun themselves on the porch and wait for Mom to be finished in the kitchen with the rancher’s wife. Since our weaning, Mom had resumed her close companionship duties and left us to ourselves in the cool of the day.
Afternoons were busy around here lately, and Mom had been dutiful in rounding up her four remaining puppies to the back yard. Big trucks would come and go, delivering livestock, or feed, or hay. Mom would herd us to the back yard to our shaded spot below a large apple tree.
Not long ago there were seven puppies, plus Carli—if she was in from the field. Mom had gotten really good at keeping us in a group under the tree as equipment, vehicles, hoomans, and large livestock found their places and finished their tasks.
Henry was always the one that shot off like a missile when Mom gave us the all clear. He’d check every foot path of man, beast, truck or tractor, circling and checking again.
My brother—my only and very large brother—always had to be first, would eat the most, and charge into any situation with no caution whatsoever. My Mom, Sophie, had named Henry after her own brother. She called him Hank when he was close and calm, and she tried her best to talk some sense into him after each crisis he caused.
The only time I saw him lose his bravado and composure was the day I stood behind him at the open tool shed door.
Tail straight out, right paw lifted slowly and placing its footfall just past the threshold to the dirt floor inside, Henry took a nearly silent test of scent. His left front paw was just about to follow the right when the fir along his back stood straight up, tail instantly curled underneath body and his whole upper body leaned back forcefully while paws stayed in place.
Trying to peak around him through the half-open door put me square in the path of Henry’s large behind when he jerked backwards.
“What now, Henry. What is it?”
He didn’t answer, he was stock still, trying to breathe ever-so-quietly.
“Don’t move Tuck… Don’t talk.”
Having never seen Henry like this before made my hair stand up too, and I instinctively started to step backwards. I’m glad I did.
“WHAT ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH ARE YOU TWO UP TO NOW!!??”
The way Henry and I were wound up at that very moment made the rancher’s wife’s unexpected shout a very high-voltage affair.
Henry shot straight up in the air, swung left to escape, and smacked his muzzle into the open door. When paws met ground, he ran straight into the doorframe. But he recovered and still managed race past me.
Whatever Henry saw, it (and the surprising jolt) made him run to porch and force his way under it, rear legs sticking out, scrambling and throwing dirt.
I found myself standing alongside the rancher’s wife, shaking.
“Sophie, get over here and get your charges in order. For Pete’s sake, you critters get on my last nerve sometimes.”
My Mom came around from behind and herded three of us to the back yard, then headed back to the porch to get Henry.
The tool shed door shut and latched now, Mom got her shortbread cookie as she crossed paths with the Rancher’s wife, with dirt-covered Henry now in tow.
Henry placed himself on the far side of the tree’s shadow, putting the greatest distance between himself and the tool shed. He would not take his eyes from the tool shed door.
Mom went over to wash his face, but he would have none of it.
I found a pretty decent apple on the ground to noodle with and fell asleep.
I woke to alertness surrounding me. The distant crunch of gravel from tires, and the growling of an unknown engine approaching. Five pairs of ears and eyes (Carli, now back from the field) focused only on driveway.
We watched as a loudly complaining old, curved-nose pickup make its way to a squeaky stop in front of the barn. The truck’s paint must have succumbed to the sun and wind long, long ago.
The bed of the truck had some sort of short cabin built over it, making the rust-covered truck look like some kind of gypsy wagon. Two big bales of hay were precariously strapped to the roof of the cab, the strap running through the open windows of the truck doors. This made the driver exit the truck through the door’s open window.
The woman effortlessly came out torso first, holding the strap above her, then swung her legs out and down to the ground. Henry gave me his “Did you see that, Tuck?” look.
The woman that greeted the Rancher and his wife was very interesting from a dogs point of view. Red hair (with hay highlights), overalls (dog-hair highlights), heavy work gloves in hand, and boots to match.
“Is she in the barn John?”
Shaking his head, the Rancher explained that, while checking the west pasture fence-line, he’d found something big had run clean through the fence without stopping.
“She wasn’t so lucky trying to follow and got tangled in the broken post and barb wire.” He pointed to the tool shed.
I turned to Henry to ask him what they were talking about, but his eyes were locked on the woman going into the shed.
We heard her inside the shed repeating, “Easy girl… easy.”
The Rancher followed her, and when they both reappeared, I saw what had startled Henry enough to knock himself senseless and make his escape to hide under the porch.
Spread out across a blanket carried by four arms was a large timber wolf. She stared directly at us as the hoomans carefully lifted her into the bed of the truck.
“I’ll keep you posted John. I think she’ll heal up fine, barring infection. You did good for her, considering how tangled she was. And considering your occupation.”
The Rancher shifted his weight a bit. “Miss Shelly, I would appreciate you releasing her far away from here… when she’s ready.” The woman nodded in response.
“No guarantee she won’t make her way back. Well… should get going. Goodbye, Mrs. Riordan.”
When the woman’s goodbye floated across the breeze to our ears, Henry said below his breath, “That’s the bravest hooman I have ever seen.”
With that, he made a beeline to the truck, barked, and made a perfect “Sit” in front of her as she was reaching up for the strap.
“Well, who is this bundle of trouble?”
She looked down at the dirty face with a bit of dried blood on the nose, then bent down to do a full inspection. Ears, teeth, coat, tail, eyes.
“Yours if you want him, Shelly.” The Rancher was smiling, probably at the thought of Henry leaving.
“What shall we name you… ? I had a very busy and very troublesome dog when I was young. And looking at you right now, you sure are the spittin’ image of that rascal. I think I have just the name you might live up to. So… you wanna go for a ride… Hank?“
~ Tucker Oso… (Brother) ~
