Prologue

The town of Great Cross was named for a towering monument that never existed. The founders had talked of making a bid to become the state capital, and the cross was meant to be a declaration of their ambition. The ambitious talk was more fun than the actual work of building would have been, however, and no great cross ever materialized. The town reached a stable population of about four hundred, which varied up or down by only a few dozen as decades and generations came and went. Few who lived there would have traded their quiet, close-knit town for the founders’ dream of a metropolis. Anyone who harbored that kind of dream had long since moved away.

Besides, there was a four-way intersection with a traffic light, which was arguably a pretty good cross, if not a great one. Everyone called it “the cross,” in any case. The old country store stood on its southwest corner. On a fine day, if you sat on the bench there and waited, sooner or later you might see one of the characteristic sights of Great Cross: a collie with saddlebags padding up the sidewalk, around the corner, and through the swinging doors into the store. A few minutes later, you’d see him emerge again and return the way he came.

Rex, the big rough collie, would most likely continue down the sidewalk and across the green, then turn onto a narrow footpath along Little Jordan Creek, the waterway which defined the western boundary of the town. This path would lead him a mile and a half upstream to a field of apple trees bounded by a split rail fence: home.

Rex could not remember the time before this had become his home, but his owner could. Helen Auer still had pictures of the starved, muddy, matted and burr-ridden creature who had come home with her on a plaid blanket in the back of her station wagon. In those pictures, the only sign of the dog that Rex would become was the undimmed light in his dark brown eyes. Helen had given him fresh goat’s milk, good food, shampoo, and hours of patient brushing and combing. Over the course of months, his body grew strong and his coat luxurious, a cascade of mahogany, white, and orange-gold.

She had also given him his name, and as he matured, she gave him increasingly complex jobs to do. He learned to open and close gates, carry buckets, drag the hose to the garden and turn on the water, pull a cart, and move goats from one pen to another. Eventually, he was trusted to carry a shopping list to the store in town and bring home a few items in his saddlebags. Rex could appreciate quiet moments in the shade of a tree, certainly, but he was happiest when he had a task to complete, or a problem to figure out.

There were not many salaried, nine-to-five jobs in Great Cross. Helen, like many who lived there, knitted together a living from various lines of work. She was a painter and illustrator, and had learned how to maintain a steady flow of commissions without getting buried by them. At certain times of year, she assisted Dr. Hartman at his veterinary practice. Goat’s milk and garden produce brought in a few extra dollars, and in a good year, the apple harvest brought in quite a bit more than that.

She, too, enjoyed work, and she took pride in maintaining the land, the buildings, the animals, and the machinery. She was grateful for her parents’ occasional help, and that of her neighbors; there were times when extra hands were indispensable. Four paws could be put to a lot of uses too, though, when creatively applied. It was a constant, pleasant puzzle to think up new jobs for Rex, and a joy to watch him study and master them. He was a dog, of course, and there were limits to what he could do. But she didn’t feel they were anywhere close to exhausting the possibilities yet.

For his part, Rex also felt the world was full of possibilities. He awoke each morning expecting the day to bring adventures. Perhaps due to his own boundless curiosity, he was rarely disappointed.