The Red Hound

Mid-autumn, I finally found the chance I was looking for, which felt like the only luck I had been given as of late. The last few months, after visiting a career opportunity building to compose and print a resume, I worked as a cashier at a dollar store, which, despite my unimpressive and unprofessional resume, I managed to get. It was a very unglamourous and menial job, and I only made minimum wage, but minimum wage was enough for me since I was used to living on the streets for the last few months and on nothing but a pillow for the last couple years.

The opportunity that I had been looking for was that Cara and her father were looking for a farmhand, as I read in the paper in the pennysaver section. Immediately after I had seen it, I put all of my faith into them and my own abilities and quit my cashier position. Since I had already been some version of a farmhand for them for two years, I hoped that I retained some of that experience as a human. Hadn’t I kept all of my other acquired skills? All of this just to see Cara again. I had to see her again. There was no other option for me; what else did I have left?

I stood at the end of their driveway now, staring down the lane lined by small silver maple trees, their leaves an explosion of fiery reds and oranges reaching towards the cloudy sky in pursuit of the hidden sun. They covered the lane like a tunnel, and I began to walk underneath them in wonderment, staring skyward and pondering the beauty of the leaves’ deaths. When I reached the front of the house, the maples that I so wished to see in the autumn when I was Red brought a feeling of fruition over me, and I sighed contentedly and stood still and silent to observe the vibrancy of the trees and listen to their silent groaning and creaking as their great branches began to lose their leaves that seemed as if they had just bloomed.

I didn’t even notice Cara approaching until I heard her say, “are you gonna come in or just stand there staring at the trees?
”
I closed my eyes for a moment to prepare myself, then looked down at her with a soft smile and softer eyes. She was grinning at me playfully to let me know that the words she spoke were jovial and not impatient, but there was a sadness in her eyes that I couldn’t recognize, and it nearly broke my heart to see. She was still just as beautiful as I remembered, and, despite her sorrow, bore bright colours about her, the likes of which I had the misfortune of never seeing before. Her hair was as black as it had been when I was always by her side, and her eyes were greener than the sea itself, and just as tumultuous, with a passion in them that I had often seen in action before. Her skin was pale, her cheeks like blooming roses, and a faint band of cinnamon freckles bridged across her nose.

“The autumn’s just so beautiful, and these are some nice maples. The colours are just so beautiful, it’s hard not to look at them. I just got a little... caught up in it all, I guess,” I said nervously, feeling more or less like a loser.

“Isn’t it? It’s my favourite season,” she said, seeming not to notice my pitifulness, “anyway, your name is... Dalton, was it? I’m sorry, I can’t seem to remember.”

“Dawson,” I corrected, smiling and reaching out my hand, “and you must be Cara.”

She nodded and we made direct eye contact for the very first time, and it was like looking into a dream. It was like I was the Red Hound and Dawson together as one, at once as passionate and compellingly sentimental as the Red Hound and as newborn and innocent as Dawson. It was like both sides turned from their battle of wills to acknowledge the forest in which they both sat, only to realize that the still and magnificent trees around them were Cara’s eyes. This contact was unfortunately brief, lasting only the time it took to shake her hand, then with a motion of the hand I had just held, she led me towards her house.

“Have you ever worked on a farm before?” she asked, falling into step only slightly in front of me, taking the lead. I struggled to come up with the right answer, because in a way I had worked on a farm, but in a way I hadn’t.

“Um, I guess. I herded sheep, but it was only once in a while. That’s a dog’s job, really,” I answered, tugging at my shirt apprehensively.

She grew silent for a moment, the only sound the crunching of the gravel beneath our feet and the trees’ lamentations, then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, broke it. “That’s part of the reason we’re hiring a farmhand. Our dog ran away. There’s just too may jobs for two people to get done...”

She looked so despondent it was heart-wrenching, and I never really understood the origin of the phrase until then. It felt like my heart had been lashed by some menace and pulled to the front of my chest where it ached and beat out of time, and I knew that her disconsolateness was because of me. I couldn’t help but feel a poignant guilt even though I had no choice but to leave, because the firm line of her mouth and downcast eyes were undoubtedly my fault. I tried to assuage my worries with the thought that I had finally returned, and though I didn’t know how yet, I’d show her that Red—and I—would never abandon her again.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, sincere, “I know how terrible it is to lose a friend.”

She looked at my approvingly, then gave me a reluctant smile and replied, “a friend.”

I’m glad Cara’s father called out like he did so next, for the hush that would be generated by my quiet admiration would have made her feel uncomfortable. “Well, hello there!” he sounded from the front step of the house, stepping down from it to the browning grass. Cara left my side to stand beside her father, both of them turning to face me with amicable and welcoming expressions. I had never noticed their resemblance until I saw them standing side by side like they did then, and it was eery staring into the face of that man and seeing that of the girl I loved. They had the same black hair, (though her father’s was gray at the temples and peppered everywhere else) and the same narrow eyes and thin lips, though her father had eyes like chocolate instead of eyes like the springtime. She had inherited her mother’s eyes, but I had never met the woman nor knew anything about her but that she was not around anymore. “You must be Dawson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand.

I shook it. His handshake was a little too firm. “You too.”

“Come in, come in. No use standing out here in the cold, is there?”

I entered the house with them, and the warm smell of it was faded to my now human nose, but still so familiar it caused a wave of memories to rush over me and drown me in nostalgia. My eyes watered, and it took everything I had not to break down into tears at the millions of thoughts of Cara that suddenly marauded my mind, the thoughts of us against the world. There were so many times where I felt full and complete within the walls of this house, and stepping into it felt like—and truly was—coming home at last.

The interview took place in the kitchen on their sad little table that wobbled on four legs of varying lengths, and I tried to be as personable and as enthusiastic about my relevant skills and experience for the farmhand position as possible. I found being interviewed harder than I had in the past, as being a dog for two years stole my charm and social graces, leaving me defenceless in situations such as these. I used my knowledge of their personalities and the vague ideas of what was acceptable from my human past to essentially bullshit my way back into their hearts.

Apparently my methods were successful because after the interview, Jim said, “I’ll be honest, Dawson, you’re by far the best candidate we’ve had yet, and it’s not exactly a habit of mine to compliment the men I interview. But I’m feeling good about this. You look like an able-bodied boy, and I can tell just by looking at you that you’ll do good for this place. I don’t have to make you fill out any paperwork to see that.

“It’ll be hard work, but rewarding work. You may have to wade through a lot of shit—and I mean that literally and figuratively—to get things done around here, and there are not enough hours in the day for all the things that need doing. You understand that, right?”

“Yes,” I nodded, “I know it’ll be hard work, but it’s work I’m willing to do.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. I’m not saying I’m going to hire you on the spot, you hear, but I’m telling you now that your chances are high. You’ve really impressed me today. It’s like you knew exactly what to say.”

I smiled, maybe a little too confidently, grasped his hand with the same amount of firmness he had shaken mine with earlier, and replied, “thank you, sir. I really hope I work here. You run a fine place, I can tell you that. I’d love to show up to work everyday in a beautiful place like this.”

“Don’t flatter me, now, the interview’s over,” he grinned.

“Oh, it’s not flattery, just the truth. The maples here are magnificent. You really struck gold with this land.”

“I know. It’s a beautiful place. I’m glad to call it home.”

Regretfully, I had to leave, and when I did it was with a heart filled to the brim with acidic rejection. I had returned home, but it had ceased to remember me and greeted me cordially but without any recognition. Despite my feelings of dejection, leaving the house and property was the last thing I wanted to do. I had returned home, no matter how alien it felt, and my stay lasted for a half hour at most. Optimism filled me in regards to the interview, but it was overpowered by my feelings of loss caused by my home’s vexing refusal.

The next few days after the interview were agony. I waited with bated breath to hear back from them, trudging through the monotony of everyday tasks with heavy hands and thoughts only for my family and for my home. More than anything I wanted to be reunited once again with my family and my old bed, the familiar smell of manure and the sharp poignant smell of animals, and even the sheep’s pertinaciousness. I was sick of the prolonged waiting I had to endure to have all of those things in my life once again.

I was wading through the muck of having a human life a second time with its responsibilities that weighed heavily on my shoulders which were braced with the increasing looseness of exhaustion. It was a shock compared to the lazy and worry-free life of the dog I had lived so recently. All of this emotional turmoil for her; only ever for her.

And even more distressingly, I couldn’t help but be worried when I looked to the future, because Cara and her father wouldn’t need me helping out on the farm forever. The position I might get at their farm wasn’t a permanent one, and I was running out of ideas as to how I could stick around. The only effective method would be—and this statement is said with some humour—woo Cara. At the very least, I had to become a friendly and permanent staple in her life. I knew her well enough to recite every physical attribute of her body and every innermost secret locked away in her head, but I knew that wouldn’t help me in the slightest. I never had the chance to have a proper conversation with her, so I knew nothing about providing necessary responses to the things she said nor how she would react to those responses. It was all up to chance, and the thought frightened me. Luck hadn’t favoured me before.

The call I was finally waiting for arrived at the end of the week with a feeling relief so strong that my shoulders dropped and the burden of my responsibilities was alleviated for the smallest of moments. The good news had finally graced me: I had been accepted for the job, and I was to start on Monday. Despite my happiness, a malignant nervousness twisted in my gut.