Dad isn’t getting much sleep. I know, because I’m awake too, lying in bed and replaying the accident over and over again in my head. It doesn’t help that I can still hear kids vrooming by in their snowmobiles. Dad shuffles to the living room, talking in a low voice to Tarksalik. “It’s okay, girl. I know it hurts. Sure it hurts.”
I must doze off at some point, because the smell of coffee and the blub-blub sound of the percolator wake me up. I stumble out of bed. Mathilde is at Dad’s door. She brings the cold air from outside with her into the apartment. She rubs her hands together to warm them up. Her fingers are red and chapped-looking.
“I know I’m early,” she says, “but I’ve got to be at the clinic by seven thirty and I wanted to have a look at our girl first.” She pets Tarksalik behind the ears. “How are you, ma belle?” she asks the dog, looking into her eyes as if she’s expecting an answer.
Dad is busy pouring Mathilde a cup of coffee. “Milk, no sugar, coming up,” he says. I figure Mathilde must come over for coffee a lot. How else would Dad know she doesn’t take sugar? I take a better look at Mathilde. She’s not bad looking, a bit pudgy, but she’s got nice hazel eyes, and she’s obviously good with animals. Then I look over at Dad. He’s handing her a mug, and for a second their hands touch. Could the two of them be having a thing? I decide it’s a definite possibility. But if I’m right, why hasn’t Dad told me about it? It’s not like I’d mind.
Tarksalik has arranged herself so we can’t see her wound. But that doesn’t stop Mathilde. She gulps down some coffee, then reaches over and lifts up one of Tarksalik’s hind legs. Tarksalik makes a low moaning sound. “Careful,” I say, “she bit me yesterday.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Dad calls from the kitchen, where he’s gone to make toast.
Mathilde looks up at me. “Did she break the skin?”
“Nah,” I say, “not really.” I show her my hand. It’s still a little sore.
Mathilde examines my hand. “She did break the skin. But it looks okay. Did you rinse it out and put on some antibiotic cream?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Be glad it wasn’t a person who bit you. Germs tend to be species specific, you know. Human bites can be a lot more dangerous than dog bites.”
“I guess I had it coming,” I mutter under my breath.
Mathilde pats the outside of my hand. Then she turns back to check Tarksalik’s eyes. “Her pupils don’t seem to be dilated,” she says. “I don’t think there’s any intracranial bleeding.”
Mathilde gets up from where she’s been kneeling on the floor and claps her hands like she’s a kindergarten teacher letting us know playtime is over. “Eh bien! Tarksalik needs some exercise. Let’s get this girl outside!”
Dad is juggling three plates of brown toast. His jaw drops. “Exercise?” he says. “You’ve got to be kidding. What this dog needs now is rest.”
Mathilde puts her hands on her hips. I can tell right away she’s upset. “Who’s the nurse?” she asks Dad. “Me or you?”
Dad grimaces. “It’s true I’m not the nurse. But my instincts tell me Tarksalik’s not ready to go outside. Not yet, anyhow.”
My instincts feel a lot like Dad’s. Maybe it’s genetic. Anyway, Tarksalik looks like she’s been run over by a truck. Which, in her case, she has. “Don’t you think maybe we should wait a while before we drag her outside?” I ask.
Mathilde glares at Dad and me. When she speaks, I can tell she’s making a big effort not to lose her temper. “If you two insist on treating this dog like an invalid, she’s going to stay an invalid. I spent most of my career working with orthopedic patients. I made them take a few steps the day after they had surgery on their knees or hips. They didn’t always like me. Some of them swore at me. But I’ll tell you something: they thanked me for it afterward. Each and every one of them.”
Dad sighs and gives Mathilde a nervous smile. “Okay, then,” he says. “I see your point.”
Dad doesn’t usually give in so easily. Maybe they are having a thing.
I’m still not sure dragging Tarksalik outside is the best idea though.
Mathilde tries to get Tarksalik to stand, but the poor dog just collapses back on her blanket. When Tarksalik looks up at Dad and me, it’s as if she’s trying to say, “Would you please get that woman to quit torturing me?”
Dad must be picking up the same message, because he turns to Mathilde and says, “Maybe we could try again tomorrow.”
Mathilde ignores him. “Let’s carry her outside,” she says, directing Dad and me to each take an end of the blanket. Together, the three of us carry Tarksalik down the hallway, then down the steps and into the front yard. It’s not an easy job with the poor dog wobbling in the middle of the blanket.
When we finally get her settled, Tarksalik’s nose twitches in the cold, but that’s the only part of her body that moves. Was it only yesterday I took her out for a run?
The sun is just beginning to rise over the George River, making the sky a purply orange. “Come on, Tarksalik,” Mathilde says, tugging on the scruff of the dog’s neck.
Tarksalik whimpers.
“Ouch,” Dad says, wincing as if he’s the one who was run over by a truck.
I know how Dad feels. For me, the worst part is looking into Tarksalik’s eyes. They still have that milky, glazed-over look they had after the accident.
Tarksalik whimpers again. Mathilde has no sympathy. She tugs even harder on Tarksalik’s neck. This time, I’m the one who says ouch.
Mathilde gives me a scowl.
Then, just like that, Tarksalik stands up on all four legs. “Tarksalik!” we say, all of us calling out her name at the same time. For a moment, the heaviness I’ve been carrying with me like a suitcase since yesterday morning lifts. Surely this means Tarksalik will be able to walk—and run—again.
But then, just as suddenly as Tarksalik got up, she drops back down on the blanket, landing with a heavy thud. She didn’t even manage to stay up for three seconds. How is she ever going to run again?
Mathilde is not discouraged. “Good work!” she calls out. “Beautiful dog! Smart dog! Wonderful dog!” I notice Mathilde looks prettier when she’s not being so bossy.
Tarksalik’s tail shifts a little on the blanket. I get the feeling if she had more strength, she’d wag it. I guess even dogs like compliments.
“Up you go, Tarksalik!” Mathilde insists, tugging again on the scruff of the dog’s neck.
This time, Tarksalik refuses to budge. And when Mathilde tries again, Tarksalik makes a low growl and bares her fangs. I back away from the blanket.
“I told you she isn’t ready yet,” Dad mutters.
Mathilde glares at Dad.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “You’re the boss.”
Down the road, a snowmobile makes a chugging sound. A minute or so later, it pulls up in front of Dad’s place. The driver is so bundled up inside his parka I can’t see his face.
Whoever it is turns off the engine but doesn’t get off the snowmobile. He just sits there, shaking his head while he watches Tarksalik and us. Though the stranger hasn’t said anything, I can feel his disapproval. The dog is still refusing to stand up.
“Joseph!” Dad says, getting up from the snow and heading for the snowmobile. “I guess you heard about what happened to Tarksalik.”
The man named Joseph raises his eyebrows. On my first night here, Dad explained how sometimes the Inuit use body language instead of words. Raising your eyebrows like that means “yes.” Then the man lifts one mittened hand so it covers his mouth. In Montreal body language, that means there’s something he’s trying not to say. I don’t know what it means here.
Mathilde nudges Dad and then looks over at me.
“Uhh, right,” Dad says. “Joseph, this is my son, Noah. I think I mentioned he’d be spending the term with me. Noah, I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about Joseph. He runs the Individual Path of Learning program over at the school. He works wonders with some of our kids. If it weren’t for him, there’d be a lot more kids out of school in this town.”
I feel Joseph sizing me up. “You’re going to need better mitts than those ones,” he says to me, “if you’re coming winter camping with me and my students this weekend.”
Winter camping? I don’t have a problem with summer camping. Summer camping is great. You get to hang out in nature, roast marshmallows and pee in the woods. But camping in minus-thirty-degree weather is another story altogether. Why would anyone want to go out and suffer on the frozen tundra? I mean, what’s the point?
Dad and Joseph exchange a look. “Uh,” Dad says, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Noah about the winter camping trip yet. He doesn’t know you invited the two of us to come along. I’ve been so darned busy with this dog.”
When Dad says the word “dog,” Joseph looks over at Tarksalik and shakes his head again. She’s still sprawled on the blanket, only now she’s started panting, probably from all the exertion. Her belly shakes with every breath. Mathilde is rubbing behind her ears and calling her “beautiful dog” over and over again. If I had to have my knee replaced, I wouldn’t want Mathilde for a nurse, not even if she kept telling me what a good-looking guy I was.
Joseph doesn’t say a word, but I watch his eyes land on Tarksalik’s rump, where the fur is still tufted and encrusted with dried blood. He doesn’t ask how the dog is doing. I’m sure he’s thinking what everyone else in town besides Dad and Mathilde and me seems to think: that Tarksalik would be better off if we put her out of her misery. That we’re making her suffer for nothing.
I think of the vet clinic near my house in Montreal. In the mornings, there’s often a lineup of worried-looking people waiting to get in. They’ve got their cats in carrier cages and some of the dogs wear special dog boots to protect their paws from the snow and salt. Joseph would definitely not approve.
“Listen, Joseph,” Dad says, “I’m not going to be able to go camping this weekend. I’m going to have to stay here with Tarksalik. You know, keep an eye on her, make sure she gets her meds.” Dad catches Mathilde’s eye. “And her exercise.”
“Uh-huh,” Joseph says. “What about you, Noah? You coming winter camping this weekend?”
A picture of me and Dad—me on the couch, Dad in his armchair with a pile of essays at his feet—flashes through my mind. Tarksalik is lying next to us on her diaper-bed. And Mathilde comes over first thing in the morning to make sure Tarksalik is getting exercise. I can see Tarksalik baring her teeth, then moaning in pain as Mathilde forces her up.
Winter camping is about the last thing on earth I want to do.
No, second to last. The very last thing I want to do is spend a weekend in Dad’s dog infirmary.
“Do you think you could manage without me?” I ask Dad.
“Sure thing, Son. No sense in both of us being cooped up here all weekend.”
“In that case,” I tell Joseph, “count me in.”