THE DOG STAR

Supernatural Stories | Apr 12, 2013 | 10 min read
96 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
(To Ernie, and with a nod to Arthur C. Clarke's story by the same name.)

A boy has no better friend than his dog. A more trustworthy and loyal companion there is not and cannot be. While the boy, being overzealous, mischievous, and quick-tempered by default, may occasion to hurt his dog, it will always forgive him and love him and come back. So it was with my Casper and I. So named because the friendly bloodhound, even as a growing pup, had a haunting and howling voice. Once I walked out the slamming screen door of the house, we were nearly inseparable for any length of time; and anywhere I went, there he would be also.
Growing up in the rural countryside also has no substitute. There are forests and fens, fields, and lakes, and streams; and one can let their dog run free as dogs are supposed to be. Often Casper would find the trail of a squirrel, a rabbit, a fox, or a deer and take off like greased lightning. Sometimes for only minutes if the scent trail faded out; but then sometimes for hours, especially as he grew into the constitution and full-chested bravado of adulthood. Often, I played a game with him. As he ran a trail, I explored and wandered pretty far on alone, then I'd give a few short loud shouts for him and hide myself very well down under leaves in a ditch, behind a boulder, or inside of a large thick bush and sit perfectly still and quiet.
Within moments I would hear him from a very long ways off, tearing through the woods to find my scent, then tracking me over every hill and down through every dale. There was nowhere that he wouldn't run in upon me, often knocking me down in his exuberance, stepping on me with his big soft paws and licking my face with a happy sloppy tongue. Then sometimes I would try to trick him by climbing a tree; but still he would arrive to bay and bay at the bottom like he'd found the prize raccoon. Thousands of miles away, on another continent, a war was raging; and the years rolled swiftly by.

I soon found myself away at college, relying on the "keen intellect" I'd assumed I had judging by my marks in grade school, making lots of new "friends", guzzling anything alcoholic, and chasing skirts with the most fabulous and confusing creatures inside them. I hadn't fully realized my precarious predicament of academic probation, and then suspension, until I was reading a conscription letter from the U.S. Army's Selective Service. It was expressed that my potential would be more fully realized "protecting and serving my Nation" and by joining my brave countrymen in laying siege to the foreign enemies that were "threatening our land and freedom".
There was little time; more like a whirlwind of hugs and tears and best wishes and goodbyes. Then for three months I physically trained with barely adults like myself, running and jumping and climbing and crawling, pushups, and situps, and chinups, and shooting, and running, and puking, and running some more, while a very mean-spirited man 20 years our senior, yelled and screamed and cursed vehemently over us.
Then we were shipped out. With nervousness we laughed our heartiest laughs. We played cards aboard ship, threw dice, and told the wildest tales of our exploits back home. With our eyes and ears we reached out; and with our minds we plumbed the Ocean's depths and traveled the distant stars. This was not so much with true interest, as with intent to pass away the anxious time with the hopeless desperations and wishes of escape from our dread appointment with War. No young man here was a coward; but we were all good men and did not crave to spill the blood and take the lives of strangers who were only young men like us. Still, the army taught us they were NOT like us, nor even were they men; but rather wretched and bloodthirsty animals, craven cowards that killed women and children.
I made a friend along the cruise, Paul West. He was a well-learned, blond and blue-eyed, spectacled chap, and the son of professors. He knew a little more about many things than I; and being the only two eccentrics of reasonably high intellect on a ship of jarheads, I asked his advice on several topics and plied him for knowledge on metaphysics, and astronomy especially. "I can find Venus and Mars and I know their respective Grecian counterparts as mythological Olympians. I can find the big dipper and therefore Arcturus Major, Polaris, the Pleiades, and Orion's belt; but please help me define these other few major stars around the ‘Great Hunter'."
"This reddish/orange star there on Orion's shoulder", Paul began, "is the red-giant, Betelgeuse; and down, below his belt at his knee, is blue-white Rigel. Out beyond his club is Procyon, in his constellation canis minor. While following the diagonal down from Orion's belt brings us to Sirius of Canis Major, the brightest star in the night sky."
"Can you tell me any more about Sirius?" I asked
"Lots," he said energetically, and proceeded to do so without further prodding. "Sirius comes from a Greek word meaning "scorcher", as in to sear a steak on the grill. It is 8.6 light years away. In ancient Egypt its rising marked the flooding of the Nile, and in Greece the beginning of the "dog days" of summer. Colloquially it is often referred to as the "Dog Star"; and many cultures, including the Chinese and several Native American tribes, connect it directly with canines."
"How very fascinating," I replied and we went on to discuss other related and unrelated occult and arcane topics of mutual interest.
The only question Paul ever asked me, which seemed a matter of any real concern to him, was "how long might it take for a soul to reach its destination, or in other words, how fast does the spirit fly?" As he asked this, his voice trembled a little and he had a very faraway look in his eyes. I told him that I had no experience in the affairs of the incorporeal, supernatural or hereafter; but assured him that if I should die in the coming battles, he had my full permission to use whatever means necessary to contact me and ask me then. This seemed to cheer him a bit. He chuckled and gave me a hearty swat on the shoulder; assuring me he'd take me up on that.
After landing on the foreign shore we were taken, by personnel carrier, directly to a recently cleared airstrip in preparation to be dropped, with many others, behind enemy lines. We weren't skilled paratroopers but it was reasoned that we had a much better chance of success and survival coming down where our adversary's main force was not dug in than in a head on confrontation with heavily fortified defenses. It would be a night drop and our parachutes were dark colors so we'd hopefully not be seen… as much. Once we jumped out, we would be separated and it would be every man for his self. We were to fight our way back toward the airstrip, catching the enemy from behind, as artillery and tanks shelled them and gradually moved in from the front. It was a bloody strategy full of risks; but those were our orders and we were brave young fools.
Jumping out of the airplane wasn't that bad, as I couldn't see the ground. Our commanders had chosen a night without a moon, and a few enemy muzzle flashes here and there was the only indication of how far up we were. As instructed, right after I murmured "Geronimo" and jumped, I counted to 10 and pulled the cord. The silk chute deployed effortlessly, I heard and felt the parting wind of a bullet go right past my cheek; and then one caught me in the upper arm and I landed quite silently in a tree.
Wincing in terrific pain, I uttered not a sound, not knowing how close the enemy soldiers might be. I could hear the rest of my company touching down at a run, yelling and firing and engaging the enemy; but I was in no real hurry to join the fight. Maybe my arm would work okay or maybe it was ruined. If I stayed here in this tree and didn't move, maybe I wouldn't have to find out. Was I a coward after all? Did the bullet graze my privates on the way to my arm? The crotch of my fatigues was soaking wet and a warm fluid ran down my leg into my boot. This was terrible. What an anti-climactic ending to such a short military campaign. Could I get my arm to reach my knife? Did I want to? What good would I be to my team or myself trying to cut loose and fight down there, already shot up? I slowly slid the hand on my uninjured arm under my waistband and rubbed my groin area. In the darkness, I sniffed my now wet hand and then licked it. How else could I tell with no light? Best news I'd had all day: no blood down there. I'd only pissed myself in fear.
I heaved a big quiet sigh and felt just a little light-headed. I half wanted to yell out for help now; but that would be the epitome of stupid. There were likely enemy forces just as close as my comrades. Besides, how would my friends have time to scale a tree and get their injured buddy down with all that battle raging on? Time began to pass as I thought about things, wondered what to do next, applied pressure to my wound and slowly bled.
The fighting moved from around me and seemed to push on in a certain direction; but which direction and who was winning I could not tell. My compass, could I reach it, didn't have a radium dial; but I remembered a less Earthly way to tell direction. Moving my head back and forth, and side to side, I peered through bare branches at the astral luminaries; and after a bit began to recognize their patterns. After deducing North, I realized the firefight was moving back toward our own lines, and we might be winning.
I was tired, a bit woozy, thirsty, and almost nauseous. I allowed myself to doze a bit and awoke to the sound of heavy cannon from our side, which probably signaled a victorious mission complete. I wondered at the time; and how long I had hung here. It was A. M. when we'd launched. I felt sick and weak and dizzy. How much longer ‘til dawn? Again my eyes worked to scan the Heavens with questions; and again they answered. It was late October; and now upon the South's horizon stood Orion in one more hour of darkness.
How much blood had I lost? I felt delirious and began thinking of classmates and girlfriends and best friends I hadn't seen in months or years. I got to my knife with my off-hand and started cutting loose while I still had consciousness. I talked out loud now to those whom I loved, and I could hear their voices; and I called to them by name.
I was slipping my knife across the para-cord as my eyes, on the heavens, subconsciously drew a diagonal down south-east from the angle of Orion's belt; and I could just see the cusp of ...
…a balefully haunting sound arrested my tongue, stilled my hand, stood my hair on end, and caused my blood to run cold with an unnatural fear. It was a long, mournful, plaintive sound from a long way off; but it was closing very quickly.
Oh Jesus, I thought, this is the end. I'm bleeding to death and dying in a tree, and some foreign ghost is gonna get me right before I do.
But then; but then I knew that I knew this eerie sound. This sorrowfully howling ghost that came to me now, I had spoken his name only a moment before. I smiled as he broke from cover and raced around and around, leaping and baying and baying and baying at the base of my tree like there'd be no tomorrow.
Laughing, I cut the last of the cord holding me in the tree; but without a sturdy branch to grab I tumbled clumsily and much too fast to the ground.
UUhngh!!!
I could barely breathe.
I didn't feel like my bones were broken; but the fall had knocked the wind out of me. Darkness fogged my eyes and I felt I was slipping away; and then everything was big soft paws, pressing on me, and a giant tongue licking my face.
I laughed and cried and pushed the tickling whiskered face away from mine. Instead he tended busily at my wound, licking it through the slit in my shirt, until I could rip the shirt wider to let him get at the bad place and clean it up. It really hurt and ached; but soon it would be cleaned off and I could see how bad it looked. You're such a good boy, Casper; but how the hell did you find me? Why, you came clear across, across…
Apparently I fell asleep again.

When I woke, Paul West was leaning over me and putting a fresh dressing on the hole in my arm.
"We dug all the lead out and gave you two pints of blood. Still, I thought we had lost you for sure. The only way we found you was a crazy hound that must have treed a
raccoon near you, because we heard that thing howling when we were a good two miles off. It was still a small miracle you survived. That was such a mean puncture, I thought I was gonna have a chance to summon you up to ask how fast the spirit flies. Instead, I'm asking what kind of antiseptic rinse did you use out there? Your wound was so clean and disinfected when we found you, it looked like another medical team had just been there."
"It was Casper, Paul. They come when you call them. Just talk to them, and call their name, and they'll be right there with you."
I could tell by his eyes that he knew what I meant; and he knew that no hallucination could clean a wound. I had told him on the cruise over here about my old dog Casper. I'd described every boyhood detail I could remember; right down to how he'd died my first semester away at college.

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Absinthe Jul 30, 2013

not bad :)

Velma golden Apr 13, 2013

is it ironic or not how a story can make a person cry,well this one did cause if this was a true story I would be the first to believe it WHY, cause the same thing happened to me not that I was at war,or hurting, but just that when my two little dogs died

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