upon a startled, unwary bear.
At least they had the dogs. Their keen noses would smell bears from a long way off. Twice the dogs began barking and bolted into the forest, only to emerge later with their tails wagging. Perhaps, the girls thought, they had merely smelled a grouse or a rabbit or a moose.
In the late afternoon, the dogs raced down the trail and began barking madly. Millie nervously checked the rifle chamber, certain that they were tangling with a bear. They walked slowly, Maura staying behind her sister. Millie held her breath as she approached the ruckus, her hands trembling, the shaking rifle aimed toward the noise. But it was only a porcupine, standing still with its rump turned to the dogs. Blueâs snout was full of quills, which served only to increase his ferocity toward the motionless creature.
It was the way of all dogs, a kind of innate, endearing stupidity. Millie had seen her father and uncles pull quills from dogs only to watch them rush right back for more.
The girls knew how to kill and clean porcupine. They had helped their father and their uncles. They liked its dark meat, especially boiled into its own soup. There was no need to waste a bullet. Aside from the sharp quills, which porcupines do not throw or shoot at attackers, despite the myths, the creature was defenseless. A simple clubbing would kill it almost instantly. It had no protection against the club.
Millie found a stout stick, and while Maura pulled the two barking dogs away, Millie clubbed its head. It took three tries, but she killed it. There are no quills on a porcupineâs feet, so she rolled it over with the stick and pulled it by a leg. She dragged it down to the riverâs edge. The dogs cautiously sniffed at it and growled before joining the sisters as they gathered kindling and firewood. Most of the wood on the ground was soaked from the morningâs wet snow and drizzle, but they were able to gather great armfuls of dry twigs and branches from the undergrowth of spruce trees. The upper boughs had concealed them from even a hard rain. They built a large fire, and when it was ready, Millie rolled the porcupine onto the flames, turning it with a stick until all the quills had burned away. With the quills gone, it is as easy to quarter a porcupine as it is to quarter a rabbit or beaver.
While Millie cut up supper, Maura carefully pulled quills from Blueâs swollen snout. It was a difficult task. The dog flinched and whimpered and tried to wriggle free, but he understood what the girl was doing and did not bite. No doubt he had encountered porcupines before. He tried to be brave. Tundra lay near the fire, watching the commotion. Using a trick learned from her father, Maura used two flat skipping stones to grip each dark brown-and-white needlelike quill, pulling fast and hard until all the quills were gone.
Blue licked her face when she was done and then ran off to play with Tundra along the river.
Millie roasted some of the meat on sticks; some she tossed into a pot of boiling water. She cooked the entire porcupine, giving the dogs a fair share. After all, it was they who had cornered it. There was enough cooked meat to last for several days, especially now that the weather was turning colder and the meat would not spoil quickly.
While Millie tended to the boiling soup, stirring it with a twig, Maura sat on a boulder, whittling bark from a stout stick, making herself a walking cane, which came up to her shoulders. Listening to the river, Maura thought of Mother and Father and of all the dead people back in their village. She couldnât forget their faces, the burned bodies, the scavenging dogs and bears, the smell. She tried to put the images out of her mind. It all seemed far away and unreal, even though they really hadnât traveled so far.
Since it was already late in the evening, the sun resting on the lip of hills, the sisters made camp. For the rest of the night, the four travelers sat around a
At least they had the dogs. Their keen noses would smell bears from a long way off. Twice the dogs began barking and bolted into the forest, only to emerge later with their tails wagging. Perhaps, the girls thought, they had merely smelled a grouse or a rabbit or a moose.
In the late afternoon, the dogs raced down the trail and began barking madly. Millie nervously checked the rifle chamber, certain that they were tangling with a bear. They walked slowly, Maura staying behind her sister. Millie held her breath as she approached the ruckus, her hands trembling, the shaking rifle aimed toward the noise. But it was only a porcupine, standing still with its rump turned to the dogs. Blueâs snout was full of quills, which served only to increase his ferocity toward the motionless creature.
It was the way of all dogs, a kind of innate, endearing stupidity. Millie had seen her father and uncles pull quills from dogs only to watch them rush right back for more.
The girls knew how to kill and clean porcupine. They had helped their father and their uncles. They liked its dark meat, especially boiled into its own soup. There was no need to waste a bullet. Aside from the sharp quills, which porcupines do not throw or shoot at attackers, despite the myths, the creature was defenseless. A simple clubbing would kill it almost instantly. It had no protection against the club.
Millie found a stout stick, and while Maura pulled the two barking dogs away, Millie clubbed its head. It took three tries, but she killed it. There are no quills on a porcupineâs feet, so she rolled it over with the stick and pulled it by a leg. She dragged it down to the riverâs edge. The dogs cautiously sniffed at it and growled before joining the sisters as they gathered kindling and firewood. Most of the wood on the ground was soaked from the morningâs wet snow and drizzle, but they were able to gather great armfuls of dry twigs and branches from the undergrowth of spruce trees. The upper boughs had concealed them from even a hard rain. They built a large fire, and when it was ready, Millie rolled the porcupine onto the flames, turning it with a stick until all the quills had burned away. With the quills gone, it is as easy to quarter a porcupine as it is to quarter a rabbit or beaver.
While Millie cut up supper, Maura carefully pulled quills from Blueâs swollen snout. It was a difficult task. The dog flinched and whimpered and tried to wriggle free, but he understood what the girl was doing and did not bite. No doubt he had encountered porcupines before. He tried to be brave. Tundra lay near the fire, watching the commotion. Using a trick learned from her father, Maura used two flat skipping stones to grip each dark brown-and-white needlelike quill, pulling fast and hard until all the quills were gone.
Blue licked her face when she was done and then ran off to play with Tundra along the river.
Millie roasted some of the meat on sticks; some she tossed into a pot of boiling water. She cooked the entire porcupine, giving the dogs a fair share. After all, it was they who had cornered it. There was enough cooked meat to last for several days, especially now that the weather was turning colder and the meat would not spoil quickly.
While Millie tended to the boiling soup, stirring it with a twig, Maura sat on a boulder, whittling bark from a stout stick, making herself a walking cane, which came up to her shoulders. Listening to the river, Maura thought of Mother and Father and of all the dead people back in their village. She couldnât forget their faces, the burned bodies, the scavenging dogs and bears, the smell. She tried to put the images out of her mind. It all seemed far away and unreal, even though they really hadnât traveled so far.
Since it was already late in the evening, the sun resting on the lip of hills, the sisters made camp. For the rest of the night, the four travelers sat around a
Similar Books
