Talking at the Woodpile (7 page)

Sometimes when this happened, Nat would throw Piedoe out and make him walk home, no matter how far from town they were. A tired Piedoe would drag in late at night, then mope around the house with his feelings hurt. Finally he would rest his head in Nat's lap, and Nat would pat his head and tell him that he was a good boy and it was okay. But then, barely able to contain his annoyance, he would end up yelling, “And don't bark in the truck again!”

Piedoe had a good life. He watched the house, trotted after Nat wherever he went and was well-fed and loved. Once in a while Nat would harness him to a sled, and Dot would put Ziggy and Iggy in it and walk around town doing her shopping and picking up the mail.

Piedoe's nose and forehead had hairless white scars showing through the fur; these were scars from fights. One dog that Piedoe repeatedly fought was Howard Bungle's Sunny, a handsome yellow husky. They attacked the moment they spotted each other. Nat and others would grab tails and pull the dogs apart. The fur-flying, ferocious battles were loud and vicious but over in seconds. The dogs' thick coats prevented injury; the most damage done was a bloody lip.

When Nat drove through Sunny's part of town, Sunny would run leaping at Piedoe in the back of the truck. The ruckus would move down the road until Sunny was satisfied that he'd driven off the enemy. The dogs' dislike for each other was more obvious than the dislike that developed between Nat and Howard.

Piedoe was friendly, but if he didn't like someone, that person should stay clear. Late one Friday afternoon, Piedoe was sitting in the back of Nat's truck parked in front of the Dawson City General Store. The usual crowd had gathered to pick up groceries and engage in chit-chat. Neil O'Neill—a thief despised by man and beast, a pariah in a community of unlocked doors and unguarded woodpiles—strode along the boardwalk and stopped beside the truck. O'Neill made the mistake of grabbing Piedoe's head with both hands and giving it a vigorous, friendly shake. In the blink of an eye, Piedoe snapped at his face. O'Neill instinctively pulled back, but it was too late. Piedoe's sharp white teeth nipped the end off his nose. O'Neill recoiled, clutched his face in horror and screamed unintelligible curses through his bloody fingers. Then he ran across the street to seek aid in the Sunrise Restaurant and Hotel.

Everyone who witnessed it waited until O'Neill was out of earshot and then broke into guffaws of laughter. Some bent over, hands on knees, before they straightened and looked at each other, exchanged “Oows!” and broke into laughter again. A tale was born that day, one that would be told for decades to come. Soon afterward, someone went into the store and bought Piedoe a meaty soup bone.

Nat was having a busy Saturday. He was getting back to painting the house and he had plans to clean up the yard. He fixed himself a cup of coffee by running hot water from the sink into the half-filled cup from the night before. As he stood in his striped pajamas looking out the window, Dot called from the dining room, “Breakfast time, sweetheart.” Nat sat in the captain's chair at the head of the table, and Dot slid a heaping plateful of poached eggs on toast with bacon and fried potatoes in front of him. A fresh cup of coffee followed with plenty of sugar and milk. Nat adored Dot. He adored everything she did for him, and he was full of praise for her. “Well now … how did you make this?”

“It was nothing, and you know it,” Dot said, laughing and smacking him on his shoulder. She cleaned up and left to do her shopping.

Nat had barely climbed the scaffolding with his paintbrush when Piedoe, who was lying below on the lawn, stood up and growled. He looked back at Nat for support, then let out a whimper.

Three figures were coming up the street. Sunny walked in front of Howard Bungle and Neil O'Neill, whose face was still heavily bandaged, and his eyes were riveted on Piedoe. He raised his body and started forward in a stiff-legged gait. Piedoe responded with a bark, just seconds before his powerful legs pushed into the ground and launched him toward Sunny.

Nat was only halfway down the ladder when Piedoe and Sunny collided in mid-air in mid-street. Their chests thudded together heavily, and both fell back onto their haunches, only to recover and attack more ferociously than the first time. Their wide-open jaws slashed back and forth, slinging strings of saliva as they searched for a vulnerable place to clamp down and tear.

Howard and O'Neill stood back, but Nat rushed in. Winston Higgens, Nat's neighbour, was stacking his woodpile nearby. He ran through the gate in his fence to help out. Nat and Winston grabbed tails and pulled.

“Let them fight!” Howard yelled.

O'Neill said nothing and didn't help; he seemed to be enjoying the trouble. He had a short rope in his hand, and he coiled and uncoiled it as he watched.

Howard finally grabbed Sunny by the neck, taking him from Nat. Winston held Piedoe by his collar and pulled him toward the house.

“Why don't you keep your dog home?” Nat asked.

Howard laughed in Nat's face, which infuriated Nat.

O'Neill spoke in a nasal voice from the bandages covering his face. “You go to hell, Nat. I've come to take that dog. He is being put down for what he did to my nose.”

It was Nat's turn to laugh. He gave out a snort before he leaped at O'Neill and punched him so hard on the side of the head that his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the street.

Winston let Piedoe go and ran over, put his knee on O'Neill's chest and raised his bony arm and fist menacingly. “Stay down!”

O'Neill was too dizzy to get up, and Winston was too small and skinny to keep him down. But Winston knew the fighting wasn't over and he was trying to stop a donnybrook.

Nat and Howard circled each other.

Nat spat into his hands and moved his raised fists in a windmill motion.

“So you thought you were going to take my dog, did you?” Nat said.

“That dog bit my friend,” Howard said.

“You're not taking my dog,” Nat said. He jabbed a left, then caught Howard squarely in the middle of the face with a powerful right.

Pat Henderson, a former boxer and retired bartender, knew without looking up from his garden work what the distinctive smack of fist hitting cartilage and flesh meant. He had heard the commotion but paid little attention. Now he walked into the street to get a better look.

Howard staggered backward surprised, worried now that Nat could box. Blood streamed from his nose and onto the front of his checkered shirt. His eyes watered from the pain, and red bubbles formed and popped in his nostrils. He shouted at Nat, “What did you do that for, you jerk?” Howard smeared blood across his face with his sleeve and lunged forward, threw both arms around Nat's head and pushed him violently to the ground. There he pummelled him with his right fist. Nat was quick. He dodged the blows and wrapped one arm around Howard's head to flip him over onto his back. Both men grunted and breathed heavily. Curses peppered Pat's attempts to pull them apart by their shirt collars, but his efforts only popped their buttons. Sunny was confused. He whined and jumped forward and backward, legs together, as if waiting for a chance to join in the play.

The two men locked in an angry embrace. They squeezed each other as hard as they could and, at the same time, tried to jerk free. Nat felt Howard's teeth clamp down on top of his ear, and in one excruciatingly painful bite, Howard tore off the top of his ear. Screaming in pain and charged with adrenalin, Nat threw off Howard, stood up and kicked him as many times as he could before Pat pulled him back.

Howard rolled over onto all fours and pulled himself to his feet, dazed. His breath came in rapid gasps. He got his bearings, looked Nat in the eye and spat the piece of ear at his feet. Pat strengthened his grip on Nat's shirt and yanked him back a step.

Now both men's arms hung limply at their sides, and their legs had no strength left. Nat waved one arm flaccidly in the air as if to say, “It's over!” Winston let O'Neill up, and the men turned and staggered away in opposite directions.

“I'll get you for this,” were O'Neill's parting words. He held his hand over the lump on his head.

“No, you won't,” Pat Henderson said, “and if I ever see your ugly face in this part of town again, I'll do the beating.” He smacked his hoe on the ground for emphasis.

O'Neill knew better than to argue with Pat. He walked away waving a hand behind him, heading home. Nat shook off Winston's help and staggered up to his house. Blood pumped from his ear and soaked his shoulder. Slurring his words, Howard called Sunny, who bounded out of a field of tall grass. Both of them headed down the street.

In his kitchen, Nat collapsed onto a chair at the table. He took off his shirt and sat in his undershirt. He rested his head on his forearms, feeling depressed that such a fine day had turned so bad. His runny nose mixed with blood and his head pounded.

The truck pulled into the driveway, and when Nat heard Dot's voice calling him, he raised his head. Dot followed the trail of blood along the porch and into the kitchen. “What happened to you?” she gasped, putting down her groceries.

“That fool O'Neill and Howard Bungle came for Piedoe. They thought he should be shot for biting O'Neill. They even had a rope. It was luckier than hell that I was home, or they would have taken him for sure.”

Dot removed her hatpin, then her hat, and set it on the sideboard. She dipped a towel in warm water and dabbed his wounds. She scrutinized the ear and visibly quivered. “You will have to go see the doctor.”

Iggy and Ziggy had come in and wanted to go after Howard and O'Neill.

“Let's go, Iggy. We have to fight back,” Ziggy said.

Nat tried not to laugh—his ribs hurt—but he scolded them, “You stay out of this. It doesn't concern you.”

But it did concern them, and because Dawson City was what it was, it would concern generations of Duffys to come.

“Let's go to the hospital,” Dot said. This time she drove, and the boys sat in the middle. At the hospital Sunny lay on the front step sunning himself; oblivious to the commotion, he barely looked up as Nat walked past. In the emergency room, the doctor was removing pieces of Howard's broken teeth.

“So this is the other half,” he said, holding a piece of tooth in forceps up to the light for a better look. “I didn't think Howard beat himself up.”

The men glared at each other through swollen eyes. The doctor sensed that the fight had gone out of them, but as a precaution he asked, “Am I going to have to call the boys in scarlet?” The RCMP detachment was next door, and if need be, one of the nurses could easily walk over to fetch an officer.

Neither man answered. The doctor waited a moment and then spoke again, louder for emphasis, before continuing his work. “I will take your silence to be an answer in the negative.”

Winston had retrieved the piece of Nat's ear and had given it to Dot. She had washed it in the kitchen sink, wrapped it in a damp cloth and put it in a teacup. But it wasn't going back on. The doctor froze the wound and cut the bite mark straight, so Nat wouldn't have to wake up to the outline of Howard's teeth every morning.

Nat's wound healed, but he would always be resentful of how Howard Bungle had disfigured him. Frequently, particularly when his glasses slipped off, he would curse under his breath, sometimes loud enough for Dot to hear. Then she would gently admonish him. Howard was always resentful that he lived the rest of his life with a missing front tooth. O'Neill understood the consequences if he bothered Piedoe again and stayed away, but Nat was always cautious that no harm should come to his dog. The Duffys and the Bungles never spoke again.

Piedoe and Sunny met on several occasions. They growled and postured, but didn't fight; they seemed to sense that enough was enough. Piedoe and Sunny lived out their lives as good and faithful dogs to their owners.

When Piedoe died at the age of twelve, Nat was heartbroken. He swore he would never have another dog. He buried Piedoe under the poplars at the top of his backyard. For days afterward, neighbourhood kids put fresh flowers on the grave, and when Nat went out at night, he placed flowers of his own.

About two months after Piedoe died, Nat was in the darkened kitchen tidying up before going off to bed. By the silver light of the autumn moon, he could clearly see the backyard, and there was Sunny, stretched out asleep on top of Piedoe's grave.

By morning Sunny was gone.

Being blown up by his own actions changed Neil O'Neill's life. After his stove full of stolen firewood exploded, he started to attend church regularly and got married.

Neil and his wife Faith could be seen Sunday mornings, rain or shine, headed to St. Paul's Church with Bible in hand. Faith was the youngest of seven sisters born and raised in Carmacks, a hundred miles north of Whitehorse. Her father, an accountant, managed the British Yukon Navigation Company office there and in 1933 was transferred to Dawson City. As the girls came of age, their strict mother scrutinized a steady stream of suitors at the front door. Just two months after Faith finished high school, she married Neil, who was ten years her senior.

The newlyweds moved in a few doors down from Wilfred Durant, the creator of the exploding firewood. Victor the Gypsy moved into the neighbourhood about the same time.

Wilfred was a forgiving, Christian type of guy, so it was not surprising that Neil became his friend. It also helped that Faith was keenly diplomatic and regularly took baking over to Wilfred. Some were not so forgiving and never trusted Neil for being a one-time thief. In fact Neil still pretty much stole everything he could get his hands on.

Faith knew his habits, and because the houses were close together, neighbours could hear her shouting, “You're going to get caught, you dumb ass. Then what? Will our house get blown up again and kill us both? Wait and see, Mr. Go-to-church-man, we'll all be blown to Hades.” She never said Hell, just Hades, as if she didn't want to offend anyone.