Sunday, January 15, 2012
The White Dog of the Ojibway Pays a Visit
The White Dog of the Ojibway Pays a Visit
A women stood at the edge of the clearing pouring grain from one bark platter to another, and the loose chaff drifted off on the slight wind like smoke.
The old dog saw nothing of this, but his ear and nose supplied all that he needed to know; he could contain himself no longer and picked his way carefully own the hillside, for his shoulder still pained him. Halfway down he sneezed violently in an eddy of chaff. One of the boys by the fire looked up at the sound, his hands closing on a stone, but the women nearby spoke sharply, and he waited, watching intently.
The old dog limped out of the shadows and into the ring of firelight, confident, friendly, and sure of his welcome; his tail wagging his whole stern ingratiatingly, ears and limps laid back in his nightmarish grimace. There was a stunned silence – broken by a wail of terror from the smaller boy, who flung himself at his mother – and then a quick excited chatter from the Indians.
The old dog was rather offended and uncertain for a moment, but he made hopefully for the nearest boy, who retreated, nervously clutching his stone. But again the women rebuked her son, and at the sharpness of her tone the old dog stopped, crestfallen.
She laid down her basket then, and walked quickly across the ring of the firelight, stopping down to look more closely. She spoke some soft words of reassurance, then patted his head gently and smiled at him. The old dog leaned against her and whipped his tail against her black stockings, happy to be in contact with a human being again. She crouched down beside him to run her fingers lightly over his ears and back, and when he licked her fact appreciatively, she laughed.
At this, the two little boys drew nearer to the dog and the rest of the band gathered around. Soon the old dog was where he most loved to be – the center of attention among some human beings. He made the most of it and played to an appreciative audience; when one of the men tossed him a chunk of meat he sat up painfully on his hindquarters and begged for more, waving one paw in the air. This sent the Indians into paroxysms of laughter, and he had to repeat his performance time and time again, until he was tired and lay down, panting but happy.
The Indian women stroked him gently in reward, then ladled some of the meat from the pot onto the grass. The old dog limped towards it, but before he ate he looked up in the direction of the hillside where he had left his two companions.
A small stone rebounded from rock to rock, then rolled into the sudden silence that followed.
When a long-legged, blue-eyed cat appeared out of the darkness, paused, then filled the clearing with a strident plaintive voice before walking up to the dog and calmly taking a piece of meat from him, the Indians laughed until they were speechless and hiccupping. The two little boys rolled on the ground, kicking their heals in an abandonment of the mirth, while the cat chewed his meat unmoved; but this was the kind of behavior the bull terrier understood, and he joined in the fun. But he rolled so enthusiastically that the wounds reopened: when he got to his feet again his white coat was stained with blood.
All this time the young dog crouched on the hillside, motionless and watchful, although every driving, urgent nerve in his body fretted and strained at the delay. He watched the cat, well-fed and content, curl himself on the lap of one of the sleepy children by the fire; he heard the faint note of derision in some of the Indians’ voices as a little, bent, ancient crone addressed them in earnest and impassioned tones before hobbling over to the dog to examine his shoulder as he lay peacefully before the fire. She threw some cattails roots into a boiling pot of water, soaked some moss in the liquid, and pressed it against the dark gashes. The old dog did not move; only his tail beat slowly. When she had finished, she scooped some more meat onto a piece of birch bark and setit on the grass before the dog; and the silent watcher above licked his lips and sat up, but still he did not move from his place.
But when the fires began to burn low and the Indians made preparations for the night, and still his companions showed no signs of moving, the young dog grew restless. He skirted the camp, moving like a shadow throught he trees on the hill behind, until he came out upon the lake’s sure a quarter of a mile upwind of the camp. Then he barked sharply and imperatively several times.
The effect was like an alarm bell on the other two. The cat sprang from the arms of the sleepy little Indian boy and ran towards the old dog, who was already on his feet, blinking and peering around rather confusedly. The cat gave a guttural yowl, then deliberately ran ahead, looking back as he paused beyond the range of the firelight. The old dog shook himself resignedly and walked slowly after – reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire. The Indians watched impassively and silently and made no move to stop him. Only the women, who had first befriended him called out softly, in the tongue of her people, a farewell to the traveler.
The dog halted at the treeline beside the cat and looked back, but the commanding, summoning bark was heard again, and together the two passed out of sight and into the blackness of the night.
The night they became immortal, had they known or cared, for the ancient women had recognized the dog at once by his color and companion: he was the White Dog of the Ojibways, the virtuous White Dog of Omen, whose appearance heralds either disaster or good fortune. The Spirits had sent him, hungry and wounded to test tribal hospitality; and for benevolent proof to the skeptical they had chose a cat as his companion – for what mortal dog would suffer a cat to rob him of his meat? He had been made welcome, fed and succored: the omen would prove fortunate.
One stop on The Incredible Journey By Sheila Burnford