Fauna Page 6

  He’s been reading up on the subject on sites like wildbabies.ca and littleorphananimal.com. It turns out instinct is only part of the picture. Mammals learn by aping their elders. Like a baby with his first blunt spoon, the kits will need to be shown.

  It’ll be hot by then, the valley brimming with green. One early morning, Stephen will strap the carrier to the old bike’s basket and cover it with a towel. He’ll ride as slowly, as gently as he can, carry the bike down the stairs on his shoulder to spare them the frightening tilt. He has a spot in mind, well screened from the path, the water wide and reedy, a gradual bank. To begin with, he’ll let them watch him through the bars. Crouch down and lower his net into the sluggish flow. If the river brings him a fish, he’ll flip it onto the bank, whack it on a rock until it shows a glassy eye. If he can manage to scoop up a crayfish, he’ll hold it by the tail while beating it senseless, making a show of keeping clear of the claws. Once he has the kits’ attention, he’ll let them out to line up alongside him on the bank. He’ll wet his hands; they’ll wet their paws. Together, they’ll feel for life among the pebbles, clutching at whatever moves.

  Sooner or later—on the third trip out, maybe the fourth—the kits will begin to move off on their own. One after another, they’ll paddle out into the shallows, causing his heart to shrink. The big tan will be the first to scramble carelessly up a tree, but the others will watch and follow suit. Then one day, when they’re sufficiently fat and feisty, Stephen will leave the carrier lying open under some brush, pick up the bicycle and ride away. One or more of them may watch him go, but he mustn’t hope for that. Ideally, they won’t give him a second look.

  He’ll return with supplemental rations for a couple of weeks—less food every day, placed in the carrier at first, then farther and farther afield. He might catch sight of one of them, though the chances of that happening are slim. If he’s lucky, he’ll spot a track in the muddy bank—hind paw like the foot of a long-toed infant, forepaw like the infant’s clutching hand. Tapered release, it’s called, at least according to littleorphananimal.com—the tried-and-true method of the wildlife rehabilitation set. Tapered. Which means something that gets thinner and thinner until it’s gone.

  The air inside the flight cage is special—Guy felt it the first time he set foot in there, a faint, crackling charge. If anything, it’s growing stronger over time, as though the red-tail has been electrifying the space with its repeated passage.

  Stepping all the way inside, he pulls the cage door closed behind him. No plate of poached bodies this morning, only a grey plastic box—the first live mousetrap to get lucky. “Hey, Red,” he says softly, “guess what I brought.”

  The hawk watches him from its branch.

  Guy moves closer, some five or six steps. Crouching down, he sets the box on the ground. His fingers find the catch. “Sorry,” he whispers, lifting its little door.

  It happens in the blink of an eye—the mouse shooting from the trap like a tiny greyhound to run a mad scribble beneath the red-tail’s falling form. In a flash of rodent genius, it cuts left, scrambling for the border of the cage. Guy stumbles back, meeting the mesh door with his shoulders as the hawk angles its caped wings to brake. Feet outstretched, it strikes hard, meeting the mouseless ground.

  The hawk’s scream could be a child’s; it cuts Guy to the heart as though he were the father. He takes a step toward the humped and staggering bird, then stops himself with a jerk. Not the father. The red-tail’s eye reminds him. This creature is wild. Wild and, very possibly, hurt.

  “Okay.” He eases back toward the door. “I’m going.”

  The hawk works its wings, rising in a convulsive rush. Guy knows a wash of blind panic, his animal body taking control, shielding eyes with arms, soft organs with the bones of the back. He drops to the ground, contracting. It’s like being beaten with heavy silk. The talons tear through his Mack and T-shirt, just grazing the flesh beneath. The pain is nothing; it’s fear that makes him yell out in that echoing, feathered cave.

  Suddenly the bird no longer beats against him. It’s a thing of sound now, the discreet, rhythmic squeaking of flight. Guy cracks an eyelid, peeking out from beneath his elbow as the hawk makes contact with the oak. It’s an awkward landing, reminiscent of the first few times he exercised the clumsy, undernourished bird. The red-tail takes a moment to compose itself on its branch. Guy doesn’t notice until the bird comes to stillness—it’s standing on one leg, holding a foot against its belly, the way a child might cradle an injured hand.

  Panhandling isn’t Lily’s favourite thing. It pays okay—especially when she and Billy make the trek up to Danforth Avenue—but it also gives any passing asshole an excuse to squat down beside her and talk.

  Today they’ve been sticking to the less lucrative patch around Broadview and Gerrard. She’s heard there’s a bigger Chinatown somewhere on the far side of the city, but in the two months since they landed in Toronto, she’s never been west of the centre of town.

  It’s weird how life steers you. That first bewildering afternoon in the city, she said goodbye to the last of four hitched rides, hiked the duffle bag onto her back and called Billy to a close heel. Together they let the crowd carry them down Yonge Street to the outside corner of a mall. Standing with her back to the glass, she steadied herself between duffle bag and dog. After a minute she drew a smoke from her pack, lit it and tried to think.

  She saw them coming from a good way off; drab and shambling, they stood out from the downtown colour like a pair of leaf piles come to life. The guy was holding hands with his grubby girl—no guarantee that he was all right, but it made him a slightly better bet. Also, they had a dog.

  Lily could spare the smokes it would take to meet them; the pack in her pocket was only five down, and she had half a carton in her bag. She’d stocked up before heading out to stand on the shoulder of the highway in the early morning dark. It wasn’t stealing when you only took what you needed—what you were owed. The smokes, the mummy bag, the camo tent, a few other small necessities. She left the real treasures alone: the wall of graphite rods in the garage; the Excalibur crossbow patterned like tree bark; the Browning A-Bolt, pitch-black save for the trigger, a tempting sliver of gold.

  She waited until the young couple and their skin-and-bones dog were close before drawing the pack from her pocket like a lure. Billy stiffened at the other dog’s approach.

  “Be nice,” Lily murmured.

  “Hey,” said the girl.

  “Hey.”

  “Spare a smoke?”

  Jen was the girl’s name, the boyfriend was Darryl. They gave her directions to a nearby shelter. She couldn’t stay there with a dog, but she could get a coffee and something to eat. Lily might have hung out with them longer if it hadn’t been for the smell. It wasn’t the fact that they were dirty—she wasn’t so big on bathing herself. It was the sugary, deathbed scent Jen and Darryl shared. She didn’t know exactly what it meant—they were her first junkies—but she was sure they were letting themselves and their skinny dog die.

  An hour spent hanging around the shelter doors with the gathering supper crowd told her the regulars all had bugs; the only creature she’d seen scratch itself that hard was a squirrel that had lost half its fur. Every new arrival wanted to touch Billy—she made a note to brush him extra well once they were alone. Most were savvy enough to extend a closed hand for sniffing first, though one solvent-stinking old guy went straight for a head pat and raised a warning snarl. Lily gave a sit-stay order when they opened the dining hall door, hoped nobody would be fucked up enough to get themselves bitten before she came back.

  She filed along with the others, filling up her tray. Took a corner seat at a corner table, ate her beans and drank her burnt coffee and stood to go. Not before she learned something, though. Eyes down, ears open. There was a ravine not too far from there where people sometimes camped. It had a highway running through it, but it had a river and a forest too.

  The Don Valley has turned out to
be a dream come true—all that good cover, and you can climb up into the city whenever you like. Walk the streets and watch the people, stare through shop windows at treasures you can’t possibly buy—and the occasional one you can’t resist.

  It’s the red book that initially catches Lily’s eye, but once she’s inside Mei King Co., weighing the brocade-covered journals one after the other in her hands, it’s clear she has to go for the black. The dragon pattern is what settles it, a dozen lovely monsters spun from pink and green thread.

  She shows it to Billy when she steps outside. “Pretty, huh? No drooling, now. Remember what I told you about books.”

  Baby, the brain-tumour Shih Tzu, puts the fear of God into other dogs. At first Kate and her assistant, Sandi, put it down to the little dog’s bark—a high, strangled garble that thins to a guinea-pig scream—but whether Baby vocalizes or not, certain fellow patients set eyes on the silky little dog in her basket and start barking hysterically, while others simply turn tail and flee. It’s not as though Baby could come after them. Even when the tremors are mild, she has little balance left; whenever they swim her in the tank, Sandi has to keep a good grip on the back of her doggy life jacket to stop her lolling like a harpooned seal. More to the point, Baby’s hind legs are all but useless. The best she can manage is to lever up on her forelegs and sway.

  She’s been day-boarding at the rehab centre for a week when Kate finally figures out what the problem is.

  “Look,” Sandi says, folding a towel against her chest, “Baby’s doing yoga.”

  Kate glances up from the screen to see Baby doing a shuddery rendition of the cobra pose. Never mind the fur and the floppy ears, Baby looks like a fat black-and-white serpent making ready to strike. The Australian shepherd they have coming in this afternoon is one of those most upset by the little dog, and now Kate understands why. A breed shaped in the outback is bound to have a healthy fear of snakes.

  “Do you mind carrying her back to the shower room?” she says. “I don’t want Blue to see her and freak.”

  “Sure.” Sandi bends from the waist to scoop up dog and basket; she does yoga too. It’s handy having a fit assistant. Sandi may be petite, but she can lift anything up to an adult Doberman with ease.

  Blue is late as usual, which isn’t the right way to think about it, Kate knows; it’s not Blue at the wheel of the Suburban. His owner, Joanne, is on her cell when they finally arrive. “I know. I told her. I know.”

  Kate steps out from behind the desk, patting her leg. Blue comes to her, lifting his nose to the treat pocket in her vest.

  “Hey, Blue. How’s that knee?”

  He nuzzles the pocket.

  “I’m there now,” Joanne says loudly. “I know. I know. I’ll call you back when we’re done.” She snaps shut her phone. “Oh my God, Kate, you should have heard how he was crying after the last session.”

  “Crying?”

  “All the time.”

  Kate reaches back to take hold of her ponytail; since childhood, she’s comforted herself by gathering it up in her fingers, running a hand down its dark length. “He cried non-stop?”

  “Well, whenever he’d try and get up, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.” Kate counts to three in her head. “And how long did he keep that up?”

  “The whole first day. He was just miserable.”

  She transfers her attention from Joanne’s face to Blue’s. “Well, there’s bound to be some soreness, but that sounds like it’s within normal range.”

  “I guess so, but—”

  “Let’s get you working, huh, boy?” Kate turns and heads down the hallway to the tank room with the dog at her heel, leaving Joanne to follow.

  Blue’s used to the tank; he ambles up the ramp, tucking round to face the front pane as it hinges closed. He keeps calm as the water begins to rise, even ducks his head to lap a chlorinated mouthful or two. Kate takes up her position on the bench that runs opposite the lateral view. The water creeps up Blue’s legs, narrowing them to their actual size. His mottled coat is even lovelier when wet.

  When he’s half submerged, Kate nods to Sandi, who stands by the controls near the tank’s back end. She stops the flow. A moment for Blue to get comfortable, and then Kate nods a second time, and the whirr of the treadmill begins.

  Blue has no trouble keeping up with the starting speed, his steps light, almost jaunty. He keeps his nose to the pane with ease, egged on by Joanne and her zip-lock bag of marrow bone treats. She’s slipped him three already. He’ll have had three dozen before they’re done.

  Kate watches him walk on the spot through the tri-panelled side of the tank. Good balance, and he’s favouring his strong side only slightly. “Up a notch,” she tells Sandi, who nods and presses the Faster button. Kate had to bite her lip to keep from grinning the first time Dr. Kelleher demonstrated the controls. Four fat red buttons: Slower, Faster, Fill, Drain. Slower doubled as “stop” when punched repeatedly. Fill both started and halted the tap.

  Blue slips a little with the increase in speed. In the corner of her eye Kate sees Joanne delve into her zip-lock. It’s one of the trickiest topics to bring up, especially when the owners are on the heavy side themselves. She can’t avoid it, though—every ounce over the optimum puts a strain on a TPLO case like Blue. Though routine, the operation is anything but simple: the bone plateau of the tibia levelled in order to compensate for the ruptured cranial cruciate ligament. Odds for a return to pre-injury function are good, but only if everyone involved takes the recovery period seriously.

  “How’s his eating?” she asks as Joanne hangs a treat-filled fist down into the tank.

  “Oh, it’s great. His appetite is really good.”

  Blue speeds up and snaffles the marrow bone. Chewing slows him down. His hindquarters bump up against the end of the tank.

  “So you’re sticking to regular mealtimes?” Kate rises and steps up onto the ramp to stand alongside Joanne. “Two feedings a day?”

  “Well, sometimes if he’s really mopey I give him a little snack.”

  Kate nods. “Come on, boy, you can do it. Keep up.” He works a little in response to her tone, his head and shoulders returning to the front third, where they belong. “Good boy, Blue.” Beside her, Joanne reaches into her bag again. Keeping her eyes on the dog, Kate spreads her elbows across the top of the tank. “How about exercise? Are you getting him out for walks?”

  “Mostly.” Joanne presses the bag to her chest. “He has his good days and his bad days.”

  “Right. But most days you get him out.”

  “Sure. Yesterday he was really perky. He took off after this guy on a bike. I let him go for it. I mean, if you ride in the off-leash area, you’re pretty much asking for it, don’t you think?”

  One. Two. Three. “Okay, but remember, we talked about how he shouldn’t be running yet?”

  “Well, sure, but this guy came out of nowhere.”

  Kate closes her eyes. “It’s just something to keep in mind.” If you don’t want to cripple him all over again. If you don’t want me to cripple you. She hops down from the ramp and returns to the bench to check on Blue’s gait. Still close to even, still going strong. “Up another notch,” she says, and watches Blue take the challenge in stride.

  When she glances up, Sandi catches her eye and smiles. It’s the kind of look Kate would have misread only months before. Hard to believe now, the hours she spent fretting over a casual comment, an innocent hug. For a time her nights were haunted—Sandi with a towel-swaddled poodle in her arms, Sandi slipping treats to a shivering Italian greyhound with fractured front legs.

  Kate was no stranger to the hopeless crush; she’d suffered through seven or eight of them by the time Lou-Lou taught her the delights of requited love. What’s a beauty like you doing wasting herself on straight girls? The infatuations had rarely lasted more than a few weeks, and thank God, Sandi proved to be no exception. It helped, being invited to her wedding. The official kiss raised hoots and wolf whistles fro
m the crowd, Sandi finally twisting her face free, lips swollen, eyelids heavy with heterosexual love. It was the shock Kate needed. She learned her lesson, once and for all.

  Joanne rattles her bag. She digs for a marrow snack and dangles it, and when her dog trots up like a charger, she lets out a happy little laugh. Blue nips the treat from her fingers, this time lagging only slightly before getting the better of the belt again. He’s making progress, this creature that had to be carried into the centre not so long ago.

  “Attaboy,” Kate murmurs, and feels a swell of something like laughter herself.

  Lily and Billy have made their way north past the library, past the high, blind wall of the Don Jail, the decrepit face of Bridgepoint Health. East Riverdale Park. You can see out over the valley from here: the vast platter of the playing field, then the parkway, then the wild and wandering Don. She’s chosen one of the benches by the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen. He’s pretty white-looking for a guy that has to be Chinese, but she likes the bronze swell of his dress.

  It’s a good spot—quiet enough to concentrate, with sufficient foot traffic to keep the pervs away. Billy takes up the other three-quarters of the bench, so she doesn’t have to worry about anyone sitting down. Most people know not to talk to you when you’re reading, but not all. Persistent types get to view Billy’s sunlit canines, his dark lips curling to show glimpses of gum.

  Since he got chopped, Billy shows little interest in his own kind. His chin, stretched across her thighs, lifts only slightly to acknowledge a passing boxer, a pair of grubby-faced Westies on matching leads. For her part, Lily glances up whenever there’s movement, then returns to the novel in her hand.

  Hard to imagine how she would have lasted this long without anything to read. She fretted for days before taking Guy up on his offer, made several aborted approaches to the wrecking yard gate before finally laying her finger to the bell. From the first he left her alone to make up her own mind. It wasn’t easy. At the school library she could take her time, maybe test-drive a page or two. Standing on her own before Guy’s bedroom bookcase, she chose quickly, going by title alone.