The Last Dog in England

By Jill Zeller

The second World War nearly wiped out England's treasured Mastiffs, but a dog from the States is ready to revive this nearly extinct breed.

World War II changed everything for Kitty Rose. A war widow running both a California ranch and winery, Kitty barely has time for regret and loss. When her father brings home two English ma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Zeller
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869140807

Jill Zeller

The author of numerous short stories and novels, Jill Zeller lives in Albany, Oregon with her patient husband, and a venerable cat and her thralls, two adult English Mastiffs. Her works explore the complex geology of reality. Some may call it fantasy but there are rarely swords and never elves.

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THE LAST DOG IN ENGLAND

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Jill Zeller

Book View Café edition

February 1, 2022

978-1-63632-029-8

 Copyright © 2022 Jill Zeller

www.bookviewcafe.com

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Table of Contents

Part I The Summer the Wars End

1945

Tuesday, May 1st

Tuesday, May 8th

Wednesday, May 9th

Thursday, May 10th

Monday, May 14th

Tuesday, May 15th

Monday, May 26th

Wednesday, May 28th

Thursday, May 29th

Wednesday, June 6th

Saturday, June 9th

Monday, June 10th

Part II Dog Days

Saturday, August 18th

Wednesday, August 22nd

Friday, August 24th

Monday, August 27

Wednesday, August 29

Saturday, September 8th

Monday, October 1st

Thursday October 11th

Part III The Last Dog in England

Monday, February 11th 1946

Tuesday, February 12th

Monday, February 18th

Tuesday, February 19th

Wednesday, February 20th

Saturday, February 23rd

Saturday, March 30th

Read a Sample from The Last Dog in England Book 2

Tuesday, April 2nd1946

Friday, April 5th

Monday, April 8th

Books by Jill Zeller

About the Author

Copyrights & Credits

About Book View Café

Part I

The Summer the Wars End

1945

Tuesday, May 1st

Through the kitchen windows the softening night promised dawn and another hot day. Before the war, June Katherine—Kitty to family, friends and the entire town of Livermore, California—used to think about the future on mornings like this. Futures like marriage to Rusty Lukas. Helping Rusty run the winery. Children. Being something more than a rancher’s daughter. Then the war came, and she began to think about other things, like keeping the Lukas winery alive and running Rose Ranch single-handedly—or nearly so. The war took the cowhands, and her brother Danny, and Mom’s death knocked Dad off his pins, so to speak.

Expressing continual regret at having to retire from her job, Mom mourned her job as a nurse before she married Dad. Mom had many regrets, and probably died from the weight of them.

So Kitty was running two businesses now. Who had time to think about anything else? These thoughts ran through Kitty's mind every early morning as she entered the kitchen, welcomed by the aroma of bacon and thick black coffee.

Before Kitty could begin to count her own volume of regrets she asked Berte, Dad up?

At the stove Berte supervised bacon in one pan and eggs in the other spewing steam like two small volcanoes. Her silver hair, wrestled into a bun at her neck, glimmered in the kitchen light suspended over the table. Berte had come to live with them in the aftermath of the deaths of Kitty’s mom and Berte’s son. And now she was one of them, the hard-working ranchers of the Rose family. The Rozézs, she would say at the Haygood Market. "I need flour for the Rozézs."

He went out. Drove down the road. Truck is not back. Berte’s voice was always a clipped slurry with her French accent.

Kitty dipped her finger into her coffee. The sharp burn would help her wake up. Dad would do what he did best, leave without a word and return with a new used pick-up, or a load of peach trees, or a wading pool for Dickon the big black cattle dog to stand in during the hot days. Sighing, Kitty swirled her coffee, then, walking to the open kitchen window, she sighed again. Through the screen she smelled the mild morning as the sun sent a message to dawn about holding back, and there was the deep cool smell of alfalfa bales that needed to be moved to the west pasture, and the manure that needed to be swabbed out of the stable. Confused crickets persisted with night songs. But the geese were up and honking at invisible intruders. A possum, headed home, trotted across the lawn. She could hear coyotes at the creek. And cattle lowing at the gate, waiting for the day to begin.

Kitty needed to change the oil in the Farmall. She needed to get more feed for the hens. And there was the letter to her brother from the United States Army sitting on the table before her.

She heard Dad’s truck rattling up the road and slide to a stop outside the kitchen door. Just then Berte poured a pile of scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, a freshly baked biscuit slathered with Rose Ranch butter onto Kitty’s plate. And then a similar steaming mound on Dad’s.

Dad burst into the kitchen, carrying under each arm two of the biggest puppies that Kitty had ever seen. They were pale blond, but the fur around their broad faces was the color of fine mink. Dad’s face was red, as if he had been running.

He dumped one of the dogs into Kitty’s lap, and handed the other to Berte, who grunted at its weight.

The one in Kitty’s lap struggled against her. She wrapped her arms around it, cradling it. Its body weighing heavily on her knees, it went limp, noisily breathing against her shoulder.

Dad? What is going on?

The dog smelled like wheat dry from the sun, and radiated warmth. It squeaked a little, then twisted its head to lick her cheek.

"Mon Dieu, they are huge!" Berte shoved aside a chair with her foot and plopped into it.

Both dogs appeared to be snuffling and sneezing, and the breaths of the one in Kitty’s lap came fast, as if it was having trouble breathing.

Dickon, who felt deserving of some respect in the size issue, began sniffing the dogs, starting with their butts and moving along their bodies to their noses. They licked the big black mutt, too. Then he sat between them, tail wagging, looking up at Kitty as if asking her if these house guests were going to stay.

The puppy on Kitty’s lap spread warmth, melting away her devoted family of regrets that stood around her, as if banished by a spell cast by the good witch.

Well, Dickon, I guess you have a couple sisters now. Kitty smoothed the fur on her pup’s head. Oh, she feels very hot! Feverish, ill, squirmy and whining.

Dad raised his hand, half-closed, and waved it at Kitty, his way of saying he would explain later. Dad had mostly given up speech the day Mom died. But Kitty had learned to read his face, body, feet, even the way his hair was combed.

Kitty nodded. You’re going to get help? Dr. Walt?

Kitty thought he would nod assent, but his eyebrows came down, lips thinned. Both hands came up, palm out, in his way of denial.

Shrugging, he left.

Berte muttered something that sounded like cursing in French. Kitty knew how she felt.

"Monsieur Rose, what about your breakfast?" Berte called after him. It was a complaint, not a question.

As she listened to the pickup grumble to life and drive away, Kitty’s mind began to spin.

Berte, we have to keep them warm, and make certain they have lots of water.

Nodding, Berte, a true French soldier like her son, was always ready for action. Laundry basket. Blankets—

Too small for the sisters, Kitty heard herself say. She knew, somehow, that the two were from the same litter and that they were both female, by the clear similarity between the two dogs: fur the color of pale toast, a circle of chocolate around their buckwheat honey eyes.

What kind of dog do you suppose they are?

Berte rose from her chair with difficulty, still holding the pup. "Mastéque Anglais."

What?

Berte shook her head. Her face began to shrink, and Kitty knew that when Berte’s face grew tight and small it was time to just let the subject alone for a while.

There had to be a bigger box, a snuggle-den of a place. Kitty ran through the inventory of her mind, seeking the file—and there it was, a crate in the barn—she had just seen it from her bedroom window this morning, through the open barn doors. The new rake had arrived in it, and they would never get rid of the box—it could be used for firewood, or something.

And now, a nice little kennel.

Wait, she said, getting up. Is Danny home at least?

Berte nodded fiercely. Then she sat down again, cradling the pup in her lap.

Carrying her dog, Kitty ran up the stairs to pound on Danny’s door.

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Normally Captain Doug Marsh didn’t go on local calls because he was still in the Army and working for the military, but Mother insisted. She knew the rancher, apparently, because she knew, as she always did, about all the dogs in Alameda County and their breeders, and who had which dogs and the particular breeds they favored. There had been an outbreak of a respiratory illness running through kennels and killing puppies. Mother was worried it had infected the rancher’s new young dogs.

So he took the ancient Ford with barely enough gas in it, and one of Mother’s hoarded coupons for the emergency fill-up, and drove east through Crow Canyon, following a winding road through brown hills dotted with California oaks, along the creek bed just going dry as the hot California summer began. He loved this part of the Bay Area, far from Berkeley with it’s intrusive fingers of fog and into hot farmland where walnut, peach and cherry orchards thrived and struggled, thirsty for the water being pumped from the canals to the Army and naval bases for their priority uses.

It took nearly forty minutes to reach Rose Ranch. It was a large one, Mother had told him, spreading over 2000 acres in rolling hills of open ranch land just east of Livermore.

The war had treated Livermore well. Doug remembered it as a dusty cow town, a place of belligerent cowboys. Its two redeeming factors in Doug’s view was the yearly Rodeo and multiple vineyards. Especially the vineyards. The road took him through town—banners announcing the June Rodeo were strung across First Street. Then it was a straight shot on East Avenue past the Livermore Naval Air Station, where row upon row of shiny Navy trainers lined the runway, and the metal roofs of the Quonset huts glinted in the newly risen sun.

But Doug could see, as he turned into Rose Ranch’s entrance, that the place had seen better times. One of the ‘R’s had lost its right leg, and the sign arching over the entrance badly needed a new coat of paint.

But the drive was lovely, passing through oak and eucalyptus hugging a creek. Quail darted across the road and turkey vultures patrolled the clear blue sky. A long bridge spanned the creek, still shuffling water along in this early summer. Everything smelled of sage and acorns and drying grass, and Doug left the window open despite the dust.

The house was a mission-style, single story. Sycamores and walnut trees shaded it and the drive. A large weather-stained barn stood across from the house on his right. Two bay horses and a milch Jersey cow watched him from a paddock next to the barn. Chickens and geese fluttered across the dusty expanse between the house and barn. An ancient Chevrolet coupe and a newer pick-up were parked outside a good-sized garage, also of stucco and red-roof tile.

As he pulled up next to the pickup a movement in the rear-view mirror caught his eye. Two people were crossing the yard behind him. Turning, he watched a woman in dungarees and a plaid shirt pull a young man in rumpled trousers and an undershirt toward the open barn door. Barking excitedly, a big black lab-like mutt followed them. Doug sat for a moment, feeling both embarrassed and amused, watching them disappear inside the barn. This reminded him of something, a memory from England of him and Pen running into a sheep shed at the farm where she was working during the war to snatch a moment together. Her body pressed against his, and he could taste her lips again. His face became warm, and he turned back to the task at hand, putting his hand on his leather bag and opening the car door.

As he got out, he saw the woman and man emerge from the barn carrying a huge wooden crate. It appeared to be very heavy, and they struggled with it. The young man, who looked strong, nearly dropped his corner.

Putting down his satchel Doug came to the rescue, catching the crate before it crashed to the ground. The three of them carried it through a picket gate to the rear of the house and onto the back porch, and at first it seemed as if it wouldn’t fit through the screen door.

God dammit, I told you it wouldn’t fit, the young man grumbled. He had black hair and scowling black eyebrows.

No, wait. The woman bent down, brushed a lock of long hair, the same color as the boy’s, from her face. If we turn it on end, then I’m sure it will go through.

Doug saw that she had a point. Without a word he helped her place the crate upright. She glanced at him, and smiled, and with some pushing and much cursing from the woman’s brother, because that was who he had to be, they got the crate inside.

Danny, help me carry it to the kitchen. The woman’s voice was sharp, and, still scowling, Danny obliged, picking up the crate by himself and, banging against walls and keeping up a running monolog of complaints about his sister and life in general, muscled it into the kitchen.

Doug stood near the door while all this went on. The spacious kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and bacon for breakfast. Plates still loaded with untouched scrambled eggs sat on a round oak table. At the table was an older woman, silver hair and sharp, dark eyes taking him in under startling dark eyebrows. One of the mastiff puppies Mother had told Doug about snuggled in her lap.

Doug nodded at her, gave her a smile she didn’t return. I’m Doug Marsh, the veterinarian. Dr. Walt was busy. He felt his voice drifting away as the woman gazed at him in an unreadable way. Is this Mrs Rose? Why doesn’t she speak?

His face growing warm, he glanced at his shoes. Under his feet was broad dark planking and the plaster walls were painted a soft pearl color. To his left was an arch leading to a wide hallway. The girl must be the rancher’s daughter. Having vanished while her brother battled with the crate, she now appeared through the arch carrying a load of blankets and towels.

Are you the vet? We were just getting the puppies settled. She looked at him eagerly, as if he was the best thing she had seen all day. Her eyes were deep green and her skin pale, but flushed with sun. She seemed a normal height and weight, and was maybe, he guessed, around twenty. But she seemed large, busy and strong—and in charge.

Doug nodded; she gazed at him, and he saw a smile lift one corner of her mouth. And he realized that he was staring, because she was beautiful, well, no, very pretty, not classically or Hollywood, but smart and bright and lovely and suddenly, uncomfortably, very familiar.

To do something, anything to hide his interest, Doug stuck out his hand. Doug Marsh. My mother, she knew about the dogs and called me.

The woman laughed because her hands were full of wool and linen. Glad you were able to get away, Captain. I’m Kitty Rose. That unpleasant young man assisting me is my little brother, Danny.

So she recognized Doug’s uniform, even without his cap, which he had taken off and tucked under his arm.

You said both pups are in the kitchen? Doug looked around for his satchel, then realized he’d left it sitting on the ground in the yard.

Kitty Rose nodded. The crate is for them. To keep them warm, you see.

Turning away abruptly, she dropped her bundle into the crate that Danny had positioned beside the stove. Doug forced himself not to watch her and went to fetch his satchel. He stood in the drive for a minute, looking east to hills burning quickly from green to brown in the June sun. She didn’t recognize him. She wouldn’t have known him as different from any of the mass of boys at the Hayward swim meet that year. She wouldn’t remember them standing side-by-side when the awards were handed out.

And here she was, all these years later. And he still nursed the biggest crush of his life.

Kitty Rose. I should have known.

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After stuffing in the blankets and lifting the puppies into the crate, Kitty knelt beside it and ran her hand over their velvety fur. Bending down, Berte also touched the dogs—it was as if they were meant to be touched, their warm softness better than the finest lanolin to human hands.

She wished she had at least wrapped the scarf around her hair, which was still wet from her shower.

Dr. Marsh’s youth surprised her. Dr. Walt, who usually serviced the family animals, was older than Dad. In the past few years, the local vet had been busy with the military, inspecting beef for the Air Station mess. Maybe she felt surprised because it was so normal now to live among older men. All of the young ones had been swept up by the war.

As the pups settled into the blankets. Kitty stroked their broad heads, one hand on each, feeling their silky ears. They whined, coughed, drew snorkeling breaths. At first glance they seemed ugly, with their shortened muzzles and big clumsy paws, but now she saw beauty in their eyes and sweet wrinkles.

That one is Bonnie, and this one is Bessie, she said, and was surprised it came out that way. These were the names of Mom’s favorite Jerseys.

Berte set a cup of coffee on the floor beside Kitty. I will watch them.

From one of the kitchen chairs Danny said, They look like lion cubs. Maybe we’re going to start a zoo. He stretched his legs out before him.

Kitty shifted on kitchen floor. She just wanted to sit here beside the dogs. Maybe she’d climb inside there with them.

Danny stretched his arms behind his head. What were those names again? Bossie and Boney?

Berte, will you tell my little brother Dummy that he should go pick up a pitchfork and take it to the stable? That is if he remembers where it is.

"It’s Dan. D-A-N. Got it?"

Turning sideways, Kitty saluted him. Got it, Corporal Dan.

Sargent Rose, to you, madam.

Kitty shifted around. Danny. You got a promotion!

Her brother scowled, crossed his arms. Yeah. My Marine Corps loves me.

When will this damn war end? Soon, everyone said. Any day now in Europe, Edward R. Murrow said. But the Japanese were still as belligerent as ever. Danny would have to go back in a week, ship out to god-knows-where in the Pacific. That was what the letter was about.

A silence fell, broken only by the clink of dishes as Berte washed the plates. When the vet appeared in the doorway, it was a welcome distraction from Kitty’s little brother having to go back to whatever horrors he had already seen.

Setting his satchel beside him, Dr. Marsh knelt down and began to pet Bessie, lighter in color and with a more rounded head. He spoke to the dog in a soft lilting tone. Bessie was the sicker one, and he reached for her as if he knew that.

Taking a stethoscope from his bag he listened to Bessie’s chest. Then he slid a thermometer into her bottom, stroking her, while Kitty held her quiet. Repeating the same procedures with Bonnie, and looking at their eyes and nostrils, Dr Marsh sat back.

Even Danny leaned forward, waiting to hear the diagnosis. Berte held her drying towel and stood still. Kitty drew up her knees, and wondered where Dad had got to.

It’s kennel cough, an influenza virus. Normally not serious and we just let it run its course, like a cold in humans. Dr Marsh ran his hand through his brown, curly, and rather long-for-the-military hair. He had big hands, and very clean nails.

He ran one of those big hands along Bessie’s flank, the one with a ribbon of gray down her back But this one—

Bessie, Kitty said.

Dr Marsh glanced at her, and smiled. Bessie might have pneumonia. She has a fever. I could give her some penicillin—

Is that safe for dogs? The new drug to fight infection. It was saving soldier’s lives right now, the papers said.

Nodding, Dr Marsh put his hand into his satchel. Well, you know, it was tested in animals before it was ever given to humans.

Kitty felt her cheeks warm. Of course. How stupid. Was there a tone of condescension in his voice? Her stomach tightened, because to her it sounded just like the way Rusty used to speak to her sometimes. Or maybe she let Rusty and all that nettle her too much.

Getting to her feet, Kitty watched the vet draw a clear liquid into a syringe and inject it, quickly, into the pup’s haunch. The dog squirmed a little, and Dr Marsh soothed her, rubbing her ears, talking softly. Bonnie, seeing Bessie getting all the attention, stumbled over her sister to get an ear-rub too.

These are beautiful dogs. Dr Marsh closed his bag and got to his feet. My mother says their pedigree is from champion lines originating in Canada.

He took a slip of paper out of his pocket. Mother told me to give you this.

Kitty read aloud, "The bitches’ names are Angeles Princess Margaret (silver fawn) and Angeles Boadicea (silver fawn with ribbons)". The handwriting was neat and precise.

Jesus. Danny took a cigarette out of the pack in his pants pocket. At the sound of Berte clearing her throat, he laid it on the table. Sounds like royalty.

Kitty said, I don’t know where Dad got them from. He just disappeared and came back, dumped them on us this morning. Dumped. That was a dumb thing to say.

Some lady in Santa Rosa, Danny said. She got them from somewhere in Canada but couldn’t afford to keep them. He yawned. Dad felt sorry for her, I guess.

Kitty wondered how Danny knew all that. Was it only to her that Dad had stopped speaking? Also, Dad knew a lot of ladies. This woman in Santa Rosa. Apparently Dr. Marsh’s mother, too.

My mother called your dad about them. Mrs. Lapore was desperate. She’d just lost her son and— Dr. Marsh looked at the dogs and the only sound was Berte running water in the sink.

He said to Kitty, You’re lucky. We’ve always had dogs. But right now—

He looked a little wistful, Kitty thought.

Dr. Marsh added, You know, in England, there’re almost no mastiffs left. The English Mastiff. A dog bred in England and nearly extinct.

Ah, she had heard the name, but had never seen one before. Mastéque Anglais. English Mastiff.

Why? Kitty wanted to know, despite the fact that she thought Dr. Marsh a little arrogant.

He shrugged, standing there, holding his satchel, not at all in a hurry to leave, it seemed. Lack of food, money, kennel-space. People over there had to give up a lot in the war. A lot more than we have. And there’s a lot of suffering there.

You were over there? In England? Danny asked the question Kitty wanted to ask.

Dr. Marsh nodded. Veterinarian Service Corps. Food supply. He said it with a slight grimace, as if he were embarrassed.

Nodding, Danny said nothing, and Kitty was grateful. He could be resentful when he met men who had not actually fought on the ground, in the jungles. Gotten wounded or killed. At least Dr. Marsh was alive, had lived through it. So many had died. Animals, too.

She didn’t want to think about how people in England had to get rid of their dogs.

Dr. Marsh started toward the door. Well, I’ll come back Thursday or so to check on Bessie. You’ve got everything well in hand by keeping them warm, making sure they have all the water they need. I’d feed them chicken broth and warm cereal.

Kitty gazed at him as he lingered. What is he waiting for? He seemed to be looking at everything else but her.

The phone fractured the silence. She thought she saw Danny shiver. It was a loud, shrill ring, a double ring, and that meant that this party-line call was for the Roses. Kitty couldn’t get used to the kitchen phone. Dad had just installed it for Berte, after she complained about having to go all the way down the hall and into the living room only to find that the call was for the other residence, and she spent most of her time in the kitchen anyway.

Answering, Berte said a few words in a frustratingly low tone of voice. One of the puppies began to bark but Kitty made out the unmistakable words.

Just a moment, I’ll see if she’s here.

Twisting her chair Kitty gave a quick glance toward the hallway opening, but it was empty. Dr. Marsh had already left.

Berte cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. It’s Mrs. Lukas.

Her mother-in-law. Rusty’s mom. Was she still her mother-in-law, now that Rusty was gone? She had been since February 19, 1945 when his bomber was shot down over Iwo Jima. Without warning, her eyes began to burn. And it wasn’t because she didn’t miss Rusty anymore.

She’ll just call again if you don’t speak to her and then I won’t answer the phone. Berte held out the receiver, soap dripping off her hands.

All right, all right. Kitty rose slowly. I’ll take it in the living room.

From the back hallway, Kitty glanced out the window at Doug Marsh walking slowly back to his car, gazing around the ranch as he did so. There was something lonely about him, she thought.

Picking up the receiver, she waited until she heard the soft click that Berte had hung up the kitchen phone. Gloria Lukas was drunk again. Being the owner of Oak Creek Winery, one would think her drink of choice would be wine, but she preferred gin in orange juice. In the first few weeks since Rusty was killed, she was perpetually on the bottle, and now she couldn’t seem to stop. Even in her alcoholic haze, she could dial the Rose Ranch number. It was probably the only number she could remember without having to look in the book.

And now, Kitty had disappointed Gloria again. First she was not able to keep Rusty alive. Second she hadn’t gotten pregnant. There would be no more of Rusty anywhere. They didn’t even know where his body was, except that his plane had been shot up and crashed into the Pacific Ocean.

Are you coming over this weekend? Gloria’s words were careful, not as slurred as they would be later in the morning. There is so much to do.

The Ranch needs me too. She had tried to be firm with Gloria but the work at the winery of sorting out orders and sales and overtime payments had to be done.

I will come by and get the books straightened out.

It’s just that I miss you. You used to sing as you worked, and I liked hearing your voice.

Right. You love me. It took you two years to trust me with my own ink pen.

After Mom died, Kitty took on Mom’s job of running the ranch books. She got pretty good at it, and liked the puzzle of making numbers match. She took night classes at the high school in bookkeeping, earned high marks, and so it was fairly easy to move into the job at the Lukas winery. The only problem was Gloria Lukas.

How’s Mr. Lukas, I mean, Dad? Have you gotten any news?

Sighing, almost impatiently, Gloria rattled on about her husband's work as a civilian at Pearl Harbor, supplying warships and such with human comforts, if scratchy blankets and powdered eggs could be called comforting. Kitty firmly believed Artie Lukas was enjoying himself in more ways than just keeping the Marines in food and blankets. She’d had firsthand experience with his interest in women.

Gloria’s voice took on an edge when she spoke of her husband, and this time was no different. He shouldn’t have bought the new macerator just as the war broke out. He should have bought those 100 acres from Fiorello when they came up for sale. He should have stayed home after Rusty died.

Finally, after hearing repeated clicks on the line meaning the other residence needed the phone, Kitty was able to end this call which would have gone on all morning. Ending a call with Gloria was a lengthy process of reassurances and oh, last minute news and yes, I’ll call you. And yes, I’ll come on Saturday, and yes, I’ll take care of myself and Gloria, try to get some sleep. Kitty put the receiver on its cradle and sat for a moment in the silent, darkened room. A few seconds of peace felt as good as floating in the pond after she had swum laps. And she found herself smiling as she thought about Doug Marsh. She would be sure to be at the house when he came out on Thursday.

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Standing just outside the picket fence, under a massive cherry tree, Doug took a cigarette out of his pocket. The brilliant day pleased him, and the smells of oak and sage made him want to linger. He held his unlit cigarette in his hand and inhaled.

When he heard Kitty Rose’s voice from somewhere in the house, for a moment he thought she was coming to see him off. He wasn’t sure she liked him very much, as she wouldn’t look at him and seemed distracted. But as he started to turn back he realized she was talking on the phone, from the front room, windows open to catch the morning breezes and only a screen in place.

It was rude to listen. Stepping into the gravel expanse before the barn, Doug lit his cigarette and walked to his car. That pup Bessie would probably pull through, if she would eat. The penicillin he’d given her was actually Army property meant for livestock, but it didn’t seem fair to deprive pets if they could benefit from it.

It was already growing warm on this early, May Day and he was glad of the shade of a huge oak in the Rose’s back yard’. As he started the car, he remembered to check the fuel gage, and saw that it was lower than he liked it to be. The drive out here had taken more juice that he expected. There was a fuel pump standing near the barn.

Doug checked his cash. Not much, but enough to buy a gallon or two. As he got out of the car he saw Mr. Rose appear from the garage, circle to the back of the pickup, and try pull down a bale of hay. Doug remembered his mother’s remark that Mr. Rose had fallen off the barn roof a couple years ago, and broken his back and leg.

Walking over, Doug helped Mr. Rose muscle the alfalfa through the gate and dump it into the paddock where the mares and the cow waited patiently. After cutting the wires, they spread it around, tossing sections toward each animal. Doug loved the odors of horses, and the cow, and the stamp of hooves, swishing breaths, and the sweet pop of the mare’s lips as she mouthed the hay.

Nice animals, Doug said to Mr. Rose. They look healthy.

Mr. Rose was a small man, firm and wired together with sinew under skin browned from the