of them, kicked his boots off on the porch and let them into the house. They ran into the living room, growling and snapping at each other, knocking into furniture. Oh no, he thought, I should’ve left him outside. But it was too late and he waited in the kitchen for Della to begin yelling. After he had listened what seemed to him a long time to the ruckus and the curtains being pulled down from the windows, Della came out. “Take off those wet pants,” she said, and went upstairs. He crossed the kitchen and looked into the living room, expecting it to look as if a drunken army had spent the night. But it was all right. Quickly he got hold of Josh and took him out onto the back porch. He could hear the sewing machine running upstairs. She must be getting very slow, he thought. He had everything under control before she came down.
“I thought I told you to get out of those pants,” she said. “Put on your coveralls.”
That evening Wilson listened to a talk show on the radio and ground coffee. He managed to smuggle Josh into the basement where it was warmer and set water and food down for him. Just before going to bed he let Cindy down for company. Sleep came quickly and he yielded up to it.
In the middle of the night, Wilson heard them both barking and howling and carrying on to no end. The ticking clock said it was 2:30. Della remained asleep next to the window. He got out of bed and went downstairs. Burglars, he thought. There must be burglars. He took the flashlight from off the top of the refrigerator and let both dogs upstairs. Immediately they squared off against the back door. Wilson went over and listened. “Keep quiet,” he said to Cindy and Josh. “I can’t hear anything with you carrying on so.” They were quiet and he could hear scraping noises against the wood. Very strange, he thought, and opened the door. On the porch was a large yellow-and-black dog. “Hey, you,” he said, “you get away from here now, you—” Then he saw the torn ear and scarred left side. The dog was lying down, trying to crawl into the warmth of the kitchen. “Duke,” he said. “Duke! My God, get in here, you look like you’ve been buried in a snow-bank. Get back there, Cindy, Josh; let Duke get in here.” Josh was jumping on him and knocked him back against the table. Upstairs he heard Della’s relentless footsteps coming down the hallway, heading for the stairs. “Quick now,” he whispered. “All of you in the basement. Get going now. Get! There’s food and water down there. Get.”
He had them down and the door shut in time. The upstairs door opened and Della came into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I thought I heard something. I got up to check.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No,” he said. “No, just the usual.”
“Well, come back to bed. Your feet will freeze.”
They went up together.
In the morning Wilson could remember hardly anything about the day before. Something unusual . . . yes, something unusual. Now, what was it? Halfway through his poached egg he remembered it and could hardly wait until Della took the car into town to pick up Sarah and go to the grocery store.
Then he let them up and took them out to run rabbits. They went off into the trees and down the hill. Wilson followed them. When he came up he had Jumbo with him too, running and jumping in the prime of her age. What fine dogs, he thought, looking at them. What fine dogs. Look at Cindy run! He felt very strong and even ran several steps uphill.
Two nights later, lying awake in his bed, watching the stars out the window, he had all of his fourteen dogs safely locked in the basement. New-fallen snow covered everything. He felt too good, he decided, to go right off to sleep, so he just lay and watched the stars, saying little prayers for the well-being of his wife, his children, some neighbors, and daydreaming.
“Wilson.”
It’s my imagination, he thought. Everyone knows I’m asleep now. Then he heard it again, more clearly.
I should know that voice, he thought, got up, put on his pants and shoes and went downstairs. In the kitchen it was deathly silent, only the faraway tick of the clock above. He went over to the cellar door and opened it. More silence welled up and around him—but no sounds of any kind from below. He went back to the table and sat down, then got up and recrossed to the door. “Hey,” he said softly. “You all still down there?”
Nothing. He had a feeling that strange things were astir.
“Cindy, Spark, Jumbo, hey,” he began a little louder, though hardly above a whisper. “Get up here, you dogs.” Without his hearing a sound, as though they had materialized out of the darkness, all at once they were at the foot of the steps, ascending and clamoring. “Good,” he whispered, “but don’t be so noisy.” The kitchen filled with them. They’re being pretty quiet, he thought, considering how they could be. He let them outside.
If there’s something out there, some burglars, he thought, they’ll wish they weren’t. At the kitchen door he watched them leave the porch and hit the snow without a sound and flash off into the dark of the barn and yard trees, as quickly and quietly as a cloud’s shadow. No barking. Strange, thought Wilson, but then no one ever knows exactly why dogs do anything. Then he heard his name again: “Wilson.”
“Who said that?” he said and switched on the outside light, holding the door ajar. He saw his dogs running silently at the edge of the light, moving slowly toward him, running in a large circle, dipping to and fro out of the darkness. Then two gray figures stepped into the light. Both of them wore hats and their faces were dark and without definition. They carried what looked like long, thin reeds bending at the tops, with winking spots of silver. They came up to the door and stopped. There was no light in the house. “Wilson,” one said.
“Step up closer,” he answered. “I can’t see you clearly. I know that voice. Step closer, I can’t see you.” He went through the door onto the porch. They came up the steps and just inside.
“Step closer,” said Wilson. “There, now I can see you. Dave . . . Sam . . . What are you doing here?”
“We thought you might want to go fishing,” said Sam.
“We came to see,” said Dave.
“The river’s frozen over,” said Wilson.
“We’ve got a hole chopped in the ice. Sam made it, clear down to the water.”
“Why are you whispering?” said Wilson. “It’s too cold out there.”
“It’s not so cold,” said Sam.
“ You’re right, it’s not too cold,” said Wilson almost to himself, looking down at his pajama tops and bare ankles, not feeling the slightest discomfort.
“They’ll be biting tonight,” said Sam. “The big ones.” The dogs were sitting silently outside. Frequently one would jump up and dance around in anticipation of going for a walk, but noiseless in the snow.
“I can’t go, really,” said Wilson. “I don’t have my poles any more. Della locked them up.”
“We brought one for you,” said Dave, and held it out to him, the light from outside glistening off the silver eyes.
He looked at it. “It’s sure a nice one,” he said. “Feels like you could really bring them in with this one . . . I don’t know, though. I better not. Della would worry.”
“No she won’t,” said Sam. “She’ll
