Dog Star

Short fiction

Photo by Ryan Hutton on Unsplash

---

It was the summer of 2000 and my best friend, Mike, was the graveyard shift dispatcher for the tribal police. We're a small tribe. Only 1,000 people live on our reservation so Mike was rarely busy. It was usually just him in the office and one or two cops on patrol. There were serious crimes but those were rare. So Mike would sometimes get so bored and lonely that he’d call me and I’d keep him company in the police station.

We’d grown up together but we didn't become friends until adulthood. There were only twelve people in our high school graduating class so it’s weird that we’d been strangers. But I spent most of time alone at home and Mike was always a powwow nomad. He’d spend weeks traveling from reservation to reservation to compete against other dancers, and win just enough prize money during the summer to last through winter.  He lived the powwow life until he was thirty, Then, one day, he gave his dance regalia to a younger cousin. He didn't explain why. He just quit dancing and started jogging to stay slender and loved it so much that he started a running club. There are many miles of logging roads on the rez and they were mostly unused and safe for running. And often challenging because those roads climbed the hills and mountains. I'd always been fat so I joined the running club and lost fifty pounds.

Everybody else eventually quit the club—Mike was a demanding coach—so he and I ended up running the long miles alone. And we talked as we ran. And that's how we became best friends. You know how they say that men don't talk? It's the opposite with us Indian guys. We can't stop telling stories. One of the scariest things in the world is when an Indian dude grabs a microphone and proclaims, "I have only a few words I'd like to say." Back in the 1970s, an Indian guy named Thomas told a story for two weeks straight. He’d pause for water and snacks but he’d make animal noises while chewing and drinking like he was a bear, coyote, or eagle who’d suddenly entered the story.

Always be wary of the Indian boy filibuster

But, during that particular summer, Mike and I couldn’t tell each other stories while running because I couldn’t run. I'd broken both of my arms when I fell off the roof of my house. I'd been trying to fly again but my wings haven't grown since I was twelve. My feathers couldn't keep a hummingbird aloft, let alone a human male of my size, even after I'd lost fifty pounds.

Mike liked to give me new Indian names so, after my accident, I was Daryl Afraid of Gravity. Other times, I've been Daryl Lends a Dollar, Daryl Takes the Wrong Road, Daryl Giggles Like a Ghost, Daryl Lost a Sock, Daryl Campfire Smoke, and Daryl Salmon Boy.

It was a hot August night in the police station when Mike got a 911 call from the little town of Ford on the eastern border of the rez. He put the call on speaker so I could hear the conversation.

"Hey," the caller said. "That damn Jerry Sundown is chasing after some stray dog."

"Where's he chasing him?"

"In my front yard."

"Why's he chasing him?" Mike asked.

"I don't know but he's got an axe."

"Jerry or the dog?"

Mike had asked a valid question. Some dogs get tired of being dogs and grow prehensile thumbs.

"Jerry has the axe," the caller said.

"Dang," Mike said. "Has he threatened you?"

"Nah, I think he just hates that dog."

"All right," Mike said. "I'm sending Officer Bo. You're still in that trailer by the old mill, enit?"

"Yeah," the caller said and hung up.

"Who was that?" I asked Mike.

"It was one of them half-breeds lives across the creek from Ford," he said.

"How'd you know it was him?"

"They always got some emergency.”

"That family's name is Bitterroot, enit?" I asked.

"Yeah," Mike said. "White Indians with a big Indian name. Let me call Officer Bo."

"Cool," I said.

"Hey, Bo," Mike said on his radio. "That Sundown kid is chasing after some stray dog down by the Bitterroot's trailer."

"With an axe?" Bo asked on his car radio.

"Yeah," Mike said. "How'd you know?"

"He did the same thing about two hundred years ago," Bo said. "Chopped off that dog's leg. They called him Tripod."

Mike and I laughed.

"What do you call two three-legged dogs running together?" I asked.

"What?" Mike asked.

"A six-pack."

Mike laughed so hard that he farted. One of his minor sins floated out of his butt and settled in the air. A week earlier, he'd told his girlfriend that he was feeling sick but he'd just wanted to stay home and watch TV instead of driving to Spokane with her. Those little lies stink for a few seconds and then dissipate.

"Damn it," Bo said on his radio.

"What?" Mike  asked.

"It's Tripod the kid is chasing."

"Again?" Mike asked on the radio then he looked at me with a question flashbulbing his face.

"You know how Indians are," I said. "Keep doing the same dumb things again and again but call it a ceremony so it sounds all traditional."

Over the radio, we heard Bo yell, "Leave that dog alone."

Then we heard him jump out of his patrol car and chase after Sundown as he chased Tripod.

"Hey, Mike," I said. "What do you call a dog with only two legs?"

"What?"

"Skippy."

Mike laughed so hard that he farted a fusillade of minor sins that felt dankly major in the aggregate.

"Holy, holy," I said to Mike. "How many lies have you told your girlfriend?"

Then Bo reported that Tripod was safe.

"The axe is in the trunk," Bo said. "And Jerry Sundown is handcuffed in the backseat."

"Why'd he chase that dog again?" Mike asked.

"He keeps mumbling something about a ceremony," Bo said.

"Where's Tripod?"

"He ran so fast that he leaped into the sky and became a new constellation."

Mike and I rushed outside and looked up and saw the twenty stars that were Tripod. And five other stars that were Tripod's amputated leg.

"That's cool," Mike said. "But Tripod and his leg are still light years apart."

"Yeah," I said. "But they share the same sky."

Then Mike said, "Good dog, good dog."

And I said, "Woof, woof."