. chapter 4 .
The Dog Rural Flanders
I
have two names.
One of my masters, my bad master, calls me Chiant. But I refuse to come when I hear it. That must be why he keeps me in the box that has no holes. The other master, the good master, calls me Moncherargent…or sometimes just Moncher…and I like that best of all. When he says Moncher, he speaks it in a whisper. He says it in a sigh that feels to my ears the way his hand feels as he strokes my fur. Moncher, Moncher, Moncher, he says as I sit in his lap by the fire. He frees me from my burden of lace, and he feeds me all I want and then just a little bit more. And he gives me milk to drink. Cream he calls it. And it’s that cream I miss the most. Especially now, as I wait in the box. Especially now that I am Chiant once more. I wish I knew how to keep from being sent away by the good master. I was so careful last time. I didn’t yelp. I never yelp. Not at the good master. Not after that first nap in his lap. And never after my first taste of cream. No. I had not yelped. I had not nipped, either. Not at him. I could never bite the hand that tended my wounds. That fed me and caressed my fur.
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7/3/12 2:32 PM