way home.
Tam and the coyote worked their way steadily south, descending into the flats of the Otter Creek drainage. The hunting was good, the weather cool and fine. Tam felt stronger than he had since the accident.
Â
After crisscrossing Otter Creek for several miles, they arrived at the banks of the James River. This was no narrow, tumbling creek. Tam had grown used to crossing those. The James River was wide and slow. And deep. Tam had never seen anything like it.
The coyote trotted along the riverbank, investigating odd pieces of garbage. She rolled with delight on a dead fish. She stood, shook herself, and trotted back over to Tam, nipping him playfully on the ear.
Tam growled the annoying creature away. He did not feel like playing. The way south, the way he must go, was across the river, and Tam saw no way to cross. Heâd grown accustomed to hopping stone by stone across smaller creeks and streams or crossing a fallen tree. But this river was far too wide for even the tallest hemlock to span.
After an hour of searching for a place to cross, Tam collapsed in the shade, tired and disappointed. He sighed and watched, brown eyes full of misery, as the river lumberedpast. A hawk circled lazily above a small spit of land in the middle of the river; a squirrel chattered in the branches above Tam. The coyote stretched out beside her friend as close as she dared and closed her eyes.
And three miles to the west, a raven called from the top of the James River Bridge, arching easily across the river.
Â
Late afternoon. Tam rose. The need to go south was stronger than ever. He whined. It was time, time to see his girl. Time to hear her call, âTam! Come on, Tam!â
The coyote woke and followed the dogâs gaze across the river. She shook herself and then waded into the water.
The coyote was a natural, fearless swimmer. Her mother had taught her and her brothers early and well. She paddled easily in the deep water, back high, tail streaming behind like a rudder. She scrabbled back up to shore and called to Tam.
Tam whined and took one tentative step toward the river. He raised his nose to the wind. Surely the coyote was wrong. Surely there must be another way to cross.
The coyote called to him again and then waded out in the river. She swam out and circled back.
Tam took two steps closer to the waterâs edge, whimpering. There is no more pitiful a thing in this wide world than a dog torn between what he needs and what he fears.
The coyote struck out for a small spit of land in the middle of the river.
Whining, crouching to a belly crawl, Tam crept into the water.
Tam was not a natural swimmer. His back and hips sank below the surface. He strained to keep his head above the swirl and slap of water. His long, thick coat billowed around him. Still, it was not as bad as heâd feared.
Until the current caught him.
Tam thrashed with all his might to keep his head just above the surface. His front paws beat against the current. He cried out. Where were the rescuing arms of his girl? Where was his safe home?
The coyote had just pulled herself onto the shore of the small island when she heard Tamâs cry. The coyote sat on the shore, head cocked to one side. Why was her friend not coming to the island? The coyote yipped. Perhaps he didnât see her.
The current quickened. The placid river became a turbulent concoction of water and rocks. The current caught Tam like a piece of discarded paper, swirling and plunging his body downstream. Water rushed up his nose, bringing back a flood of memories from that day weeks and many miles ago. Again and again, the roiling water grabbed him in a fierce hold, dashing him against rocks and boulders. But no matter how the river tried to deceive him, Tamstayed true to his southern journey.
His shoulder clipped a rock, spinning him downward. Water filled his lungs. Grayness closed over him. He could no longer tell the murky river depths from the sky. His
Tam and the coyote worked their way steadily south, descending into the flats of the Otter Creek drainage. The hunting was good, the weather cool and fine. Tam felt stronger than he had since the accident.
Â
After crisscrossing Otter Creek for several miles, they arrived at the banks of the James River. This was no narrow, tumbling creek. Tam had grown used to crossing those. The James River was wide and slow. And deep. Tam had never seen anything like it.
The coyote trotted along the riverbank, investigating odd pieces of garbage. She rolled with delight on a dead fish. She stood, shook herself, and trotted back over to Tam, nipping him playfully on the ear.
Tam growled the annoying creature away. He did not feel like playing. The way south, the way he must go, was across the river, and Tam saw no way to cross. Heâd grown accustomed to hopping stone by stone across smaller creeks and streams or crossing a fallen tree. But this river was far too wide for even the tallest hemlock to span.
After an hour of searching for a place to cross, Tam collapsed in the shade, tired and disappointed. He sighed and watched, brown eyes full of misery, as the river lumberedpast. A hawk circled lazily above a small spit of land in the middle of the river; a squirrel chattered in the branches above Tam. The coyote stretched out beside her friend as close as she dared and closed her eyes.
And three miles to the west, a raven called from the top of the James River Bridge, arching easily across the river.
Â
Late afternoon. Tam rose. The need to go south was stronger than ever. He whined. It was time, time to see his girl. Time to hear her call, âTam! Come on, Tam!â
The coyote woke and followed the dogâs gaze across the river. She shook herself and then waded into the water.
The coyote was a natural, fearless swimmer. Her mother had taught her and her brothers early and well. She paddled easily in the deep water, back high, tail streaming behind like a rudder. She scrabbled back up to shore and called to Tam.
Tam whined and took one tentative step toward the river. He raised his nose to the wind. Surely the coyote was wrong. Surely there must be another way to cross.
The coyote called to him again and then waded out in the river. She swam out and circled back.
Tam took two steps closer to the waterâs edge, whimpering. There is no more pitiful a thing in this wide world than a dog torn between what he needs and what he fears.
The coyote struck out for a small spit of land in the middle of the river.
Whining, crouching to a belly crawl, Tam crept into the water.
Tam was not a natural swimmer. His back and hips sank below the surface. He strained to keep his head above the swirl and slap of water. His long, thick coat billowed around him. Still, it was not as bad as heâd feared.
Until the current caught him.
Tam thrashed with all his might to keep his head just above the surface. His front paws beat against the current. He cried out. Where were the rescuing arms of his girl? Where was his safe home?
The coyote had just pulled herself onto the shore of the small island when she heard Tamâs cry. The coyote sat on the shore, head cocked to one side. Why was her friend not coming to the island? The coyote yipped. Perhaps he didnât see her.
The current quickened. The placid river became a turbulent concoction of water and rocks. The current caught Tam like a piece of discarded paper, swirling and plunging his body downstream. Water rushed up his nose, bringing back a flood of memories from that day weeks and many miles ago. Again and again, the roiling water grabbed him in a fierce hold, dashing him against rocks and boulders. But no matter how the river tried to deceive him, Tamstayed true to his southern journey.
His shoulder clipped a rock, spinning him downward. Water filled his lungs. Grayness closed over him. He could no longer tell the murky river depths from the sky. His
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