cattle clockwise, counter-clockwise, to stalk, to block, to become stone still. Because our retrievers did little more than chew shoes and shed, I could see why my father wanted Coalee. After Coalee, Pops became an out and out collie devotee. But Claxton was no cowboy—he hired men for that. My dad was a tiller of the soil, a toiler of the hills. Coalee, perhaps the most efficient and beautiful tool I’d ever seen, served no use for my father the farmer. But Pops came to own Coalee just the same. The trade involved a snowmachine and a work truck upgrade. Coalee lived in a twelve by eight dog run behind our house. My father would load her in the pickup on days he had to check water. As soon as the tailgate opened, she’d go crazy, spinning around the pen. Then she’d bullet through the kennel door and launch into the bed of the truck. Coalee was a trick pony, and my father trained her to ride with him on his dirtbike. He’d kick start the machine and whistle low. The dog would leap and balance on the sliver of seat behind him, as still as a statue. But whether in truck or on motorcycle, Coalee was hornswoggled; she never again rustled cattle. Instead, the shadows of untouchable sparrows were the only thing for her to herd while checking water. Sometimes Coalee would have to bail from the dirtbike if dad got into some precarious situation involving mud or ruts or rocky terrain. Once, Coalee fell off too close to the motorcycle’s drive sprocket and ran her paw through the metal teeth. The vet did what he could, but ultimately Coalee’s front paw became a gauze-wrapped club, half of what it had been. No work for her until the wound closed and healed. That’s how Jeremiah, my brother, and I came to care for her. Spring, and a curious thing happened. Every time a pickup would rumble down our road, the dog would shake and urinate. She’d limp up and down the run, ears perked towards
the waning sounds of the horse trailer rattling away without her. After, she’d sulk inside the plastic hut, rest her head on her paws, then wait for the truck’s return and repeat the whole affair. I had seen this dog perform amazing feats and here she lay beaten, her life denigrated to the dog run. One Sunday after church, her paw healed well enough to fully support her weight, I let her out and we played fetch in the backyard. The cowboys clunked past in a work pickup and Coalee hobbled the length of the lawn, wanting more than anything to load up and be led to the cows. My calls brought her back. If Coalee was anything, she was loyal. The trees were in bloom that spring day, apple blossoms salting that blue Idaho sky. The lawn had transformed from its winter hibernation into a deep green. I didn’t put Coalee back in the kennel, figuring she deserved a free day. My mother called me for Sunday dinner. The kitchen table sat near big bay windows that looked onto the road, all of us able to mark the comings and goings of relatives and workers. Halfway through the meal, I heard the work truck clanking towards the highway. Then I saw Coalee rocket around the house, a black streak limping straight for it. Dad saw her too, and so did my sisters, and so did Jeremiah, and so did Mom. However, the cowboys—doing thirty miles an hour and lugging the gooseneck trailer—did not. Coalee sprinted up alongside the truck, then leapt for the flatbed. Her paws clambered on the metal, and she slipped and fell beneath the trailer, folding and rolling until the trailer passed over her completely. I honestly expected the dog to stand up and shake off the accident, but she lay flat, twitching. My sisters started to cry, and dad went on a tirade and asked me again and again what Coalee was doing out of the pen. I stammered, tried to
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