A Dog's Way Home by Bobbie Pyron Page A

hopes. She’s been through enough.”
    â€œThe child asked for my help, Holly,” Meemaw said gently.
    Meemaw and Mama stared long and hard at each other. Finally, Mama said, “Abby, I need you to take that pail of veggies out to the llamas.”
    I purely could not believe what I was hearing. “But Mama… ”
    She ran her hand over the top of my head. “Go on now, Abby. I need to talk with your grandmother.”
    I stormed out of the house, letting the screen door bang behind me. Which I just happen to know drives Mama crazy. “‘I won’t have you filling up her head with nonsense and false hope,’” I said in Mama’s Ice Queen voice.
    I stomped into the barn. Six long-necked, big-eared, wonderfully fuzzy llamas stopped chewing and looked at me.
    â€œSince when is hope and believing in miracles nonsense ?” I said. Six pairs of huge brown eyes blinked back at me. Sterling, Boo, Patches, Jet, Pearl, and Bambi shifted nervously.
    I took a bunch of deep breaths to calm myself down. Llamas are a lot like shelties: They’re real sensitive. And if a llama’s afraid or mad, it has the unfortunate habit of spitting.
    I waited for my head to clear, then offered each of the llamas carrots. Their soft, split lips scooped the goodies off my palm like velvet spoons. I stroked the wiry hair on their necks until one or two of them started to hum. Llamas hum when they feel safe and content—kind of like how a cat purrs.
    I leaned my pounding head against Pearl’s neck andburied my fingers in her thick fleece. Her hum came deep and low. It worked its way through my skin and into my broken heart.
    â€œCome home to me, Tam,” I whispered. “Come home.”

CHAPTER 14
Tam
    T am traveled always south, staying miles from the road. And like a gangly shadow, the coyote followed close behind.
    At first it worried the dog, having this wild, unpredictable creature at his heels. She did not smell of the usual scents that mark a dog as belonging to someone: the touch of hands, foods cooked in a warm kitchen, rugs slept upon at night. This coyote smelled of leaves and wind and fresh blood.
    Still, Tam watched with great curiosity as the coyote hunted the fields for mice and voles and dug the burrows of rabbits. Although there was nothing of the hunter in him, he did understand food.
    At moonrise, while Tam slept, the coyote left his side. She slipped silently through the night, listening and sniffing. After she had eaten her fill, she carried a fresh kill…rabbit, squirrel, groundhog…back to Tam. She covered it with dirt and leaves and then stretched out next to him and slept.
    In truth, the little coyote had been lonely when she came across Tam’s scent that night. When she was five months old, a car on the Parkway had hit her mother. At first, the young coyotes stayed close to the den they had shared all their lives; eventually, though, her brothers drifted away. For weeks, she stayed close to the den and waited for her brothers to return. As the days and nights passed, her howls of calling became howls of loneliness. The night air grew crisp, and the days grew shorter. The coyote struck out from the den and all she had known.
    For a time, she searched for the scents of her brothers, and called their names at night. As days turned to weeks, she lost the specific memory of her family. She knew only that she was alone, and the desire not to be alone drove her.
    In this way, she followed Tam along the narrow deer trails, day after day, always heading south. It didn’t matter to her which direction they traveled, as long as they were together. Oh, there was still the puppy in the coyote. Often she would circle wide around Tam, just out of sight, and wait hidden from him. As Tam passed, the coyotepounced from behind tree or bush. When Tam stopped to rest, she nipped and bowed in an invitation to play. Tam rebuffed her every time. He was a dog on his