Chapter 7

I was lying on the bed chewing a piece of old yellowish rawhide, long and round and super tough until my teeth could work my saliva into it. Then it was just really tough and I could almost dent it. My mates chewed the stuff all the time to keep their teeth clean, but that didn't work for me. I still brushed my teeth twice a day, although I sort of resented it and wished it wasn't necessary. It was September maybe, and it was raining, but it wasn't the start of the long wet winter yet. Just a rainy day like everyplace gets sometimes. The boys were with me, nearby on our blankets. Bush was sleeping, Bandy chewing his own much larger piece of leather, and Barley grooming himself lazily.

We all lifted our heads when we heard the truck pulling up to the house. It didn't have a muffler, or more likely it had a big rusty hole in the one it had, so it growled and sputtered until whoever was driving shut it off. The boys were outside quickly and I followed them into the drizzling rain, stepping onto the cold gravel and combing my fingers through my long black hair just to get it out of my face. I sat down on the narrow strip of grass that grew alongside the house, sheltered somewhat from the rain, but not minding it either. We'd enjoyed a long hot summer and this was the first visitor we'd had in over a month, probably two, since all I had to keep track of time was my cycle and the moon's.

A thin man stepped out of the truck, old and stiff and red as a sunset. A real Native American, dressed in Levi's and a button down western shirt of blue and yellow. He had a wide brimmed hat, dust colored with some dark eagle feathers stuck in the leather band, two of them sticking up and a half dozen hanging down, all in the back so that they seemed woven into his long, milk-white hair.

He had no fear of the dogs either. I could sense his approach like a great calm and even Bandy stopped barking as the old man stood there in the rain, just looking at them like he knew a secret. He glanced at me and then looked again, hard with narrow eyes, and I looked back, curious and unafraid. He had thin compressed lips and a strong jaw to go with his big straight nose. Big ears too, like old people get because everything else stops growing but the ears, the nails, and the hair.

My mates padded back towards me and we all went back into our room. The old man had gone around to the front porch and our Master would deal with him. The boys were damp and their feet dirty, but so were mine and we didn't really care. We lay back down and gave each other little growls as each of us sought our most comfortable spot. I was on my stomach, with my arms folded under my chin, my face a few inches from Bush's and I smiled, watching him watching me until his eyelids drooped and finally closed. Bandy had his head on the small of my back, lying between my spread legs with his soft neck along the rounded crack of my ass. That had become their preferred position and my mates fought over it sometimes, much to my own amusement.

I'd fallen asleep by the time our Master entered our room with the old man and we all woke up, but didn't move except to look at them. My brothers were satisfied that the old man was neither a threat nor a friend, but something else, like a part of the world. Like a tree or a rock, or a cloud perhaps. It's a difficult concept to put in human words, but enough so you'll understand that we were in harmony with him.

My Master whistled sharply and called me, "Dare. Come here, girl..." and I roused myself, slipping out from under and between my mates so that I could crawl eagerly across the floor to lick my Master's hand.

The old man smelled like smoke, which I found a little irritating at first, but his hands were warm and gentle, although hard so I could feel the bones of each finger as he touched me. He felt like he was carved out of wood. They didn't speak, my Master and the Indian, and I knelt there, rather enjoying the way the old man was touching my face and hair.

"She's Onijwa," the man finally said in a solemn voice, surprisingly deep and soft. "A spirit guardian," he decided, as if passing some sort of judgement on me and the old man sounded a little satisfied, perhaps even smug about it and I wondered what that meant.

"A spirit guardian, eh?" My Master seemed to consider that.