Lady

Chapter 11

The winter I was born, Dad got a white-haired English Pointer as his next hunting dog. Her name was Lady.

By the time I was old enough to remember Lady, she lived in a pen in our backyard with a single light bulb for heat. Her big, sad eyes drew me into the pen, where I pressed my nose against her neck and breathed in her sweet dog scent. She was always thin, and I could feel every rib beneath my arms when I hugged her.

None of us was supposed to play with Lady. Bird dogs were for work, not play. Dad insisted she wasn’t cold, sad, or lonely. He said she didn’t love people—she loved work.

I loved her anyway. I stood beside the pen, crying and begging Dad to let her come inside.

I finally wore him down during an Oklahoma snowstorm. All I could do was sit at the window and stare at the tiny glint of light shining from her doghouse. The wind shoved against the windows that day, and I remember thinking even the weather wanted her indoors.

After that, whenever the weather turned bitter, Dad brought her inside. I thought I’d won—that she was my dog. But when hunting season came, she became his again.

During hunting season, Lady was just as eager to hunt as Dad was. She wore her orange vest, and when the temperature dropped below freezing, her black rubber boots. Dad had been right about one thing. She loved the work.

Lady lived between my affection and his purpose.

One day she was gone, and I never knew what happened to her. A new dog, an Irish Setter named Big Red, lived in her pen. Dad often traded hunting dogs.

Other hunting dogs came and went, but I never loved another one.

Lady and Robin

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