Read Penny for Free Online Page B

the railroad that once ran from Canaan to Lakeville crosses the river and angles across our farm. The embankment was fifteen feet high and was bordered on both sides by hazel brush, bush dogwood and wild raspberries. A perfect hideout for cottontails, and a place where the red vixen who denned just up the slope often hunted. A place full of odors that were fascinating to a dog’s nose. We came to the embankment and Penny stopped, lifted her head, nosed the air. I had a hunch and reached for the leash. But I was an instant too late. Penny leaped from the road into the snow at the foot of the embankment and was plunging into the brush before I was able even to call, “Penny! Come back here!”
    I might as well have saved my breath. She didn’t hear me. Physically she may have, but emotionally she certainly didn’t. She smelled rabbit, or some combination of feral odors that simply couldn’t be resisted. Off she went. I followed, into the snow, through the brush, to the cleared roadway at the top of the embankment. I ran after her and caught one glimpse of her, leash dragging, as she dashed through the brush.
    I followed her maybe a hundred yards, first calling, then cursing, finally simply puffing. I heard her begin to yelp, in a voice remarkably like Pat’s. She had put up a cottontail or hit a warm trail. She was on her way up the mountainside. I stood and listened for a minute or two, both entranced by the sound of her voice and furious at her delinquency. And, even worse, worried about that leash. There it was, dangling behind her, dragging, with that open leather hand loop ready to catch on any stub. Or to slip down between two rocks and jam there. To snag Penny, trap her, make her a prisoner. And a chain, a metal chain, that she couldn’t cut with her teeth to get loose. I had visions of her halfway, two thirds of the way up the mountain, snagged by that chain. And me struggling up the snow-clad slopes, wallowing through the brush and the drifts, looking for her. Like as not, the little fool wouldn’t bark if she got trapped, wouldn’t make a noise that would guide me to her. She would just lie down and wait, quietly. And I would look, and look, and look.
    But not now. Now she had gone, was several hundred yards up the slope, in the woods. She would keep going till the rabbit ran in or she got caught, maybe an hour, maybe two miles. I said, “Nuts to you!” and turned and went back down the embankment to the road and went on home. My shoes were full of snow. My heart was full of resentment. And, of course, annoyance at myself. I shouldn’t have trusted her with that leash. If I had kept hold of it, this would never have happened. Angry at myself, I took it out on her.
    I came home, and to Barbara’s questions I said, “She ran away. Went up the railroad embankment, picked up a rabbit scent and was gone, like that. She’ll come back. I hope.”
    â€œI thought you had her on the leash.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œShe wanted to carry it, so I, like a fool, let her.”
    â€œOh.” There was amusement, a trace of ridicule, just a tinge of accusation, in that one syllable.
    We ate lunch. I went to the kitchen door and listened. No sound of her up on the mountain. I kept listening, now wishing that she would bark, give some indication that she still was running that rabbit. Not a sound. I turned back into the kitchen, and Barbara, from the living room, called, “Here she is!”
    I hurried to the front door, thinking she was on the porch. No Penny. “Where is she?” I asked.
    â€œShe was right here in the yard, a minute ago.”
    I went out onto the porch, called, “Penny! Come here, Penny!” And turned and saw her going down the road, past the mailbox, tail high, on a full-fledged spree.
    I came back inside for a coat and when I got to the door again heard her barking, somewhere in the middle