Beneath a slanted salt-and-pepper hat tailored for a bigger man, Hubert Jacobs' lanky face was red, jaws clinched. He scurried across Rich's garden, one hand swinging, the other wrestling a chain leash, a lean, brown mutt plucking left and right on the opposite end. Rich knew exactly what Hubert wanted.

Heaving his pitchfork into the closest of three hay heaps, Rich glanced at his nine-year-old son, Frankie, whose exaggerated rakes had been gradually fizzling to casual prods, bugging a dozen times about the bamboo fishing poles in the rafters of the woodshed. Now Frankie had stopped. First smile in two hours dimpling his cheeks. Eyes glued to Hubert and the dog.

"They're all alike," Rich said.

Frankie remained still, slumping unto the sawed-off handle of his pitchfork. A stout buzzed unnoticed around his dirty-blond crewcut. Sweat glistened his face. Against the white, black-trimmed bungalow, the leaning aspen grove, the underbrush of alders that stole chunks of the glassy harbour, he was like a damp monument.

Rich bent, scooped up the blue and grey polo shirt top he had tossed nearly two hours ago. He couldn't recall a hotter day. Summers, he wished he could push Newfoundland up the cool ass of Labrador. Puffing, mopping his face with the shirt, he grimaced at the clinging reek of dried sweat in its armpits. Returning his attention to Hubert, he said, "I can spot 'em a mile away."

"Who?" Frankie asked.

"People done with their pets."

He skinned the shirt over bristly hair, winced when it scraped his sunburned shoulders. A distant gull screeched.

The dog's nose queried the pale green stubble, occasionally shaking its head hard enough to flap its ears. It halted, lifted a hind leg, pissed.

A sandfly stung Rich's temple. He swatted it, ring droning. "Dog better not shit," he muttered, wiping the bloody smear on his fingers in his worse-for-wear navy work pants.

Urine fading to a dribble, the dog scanned the garden, pink tongue drooping, panting. The brown ears jerked up. It pranced towards Frankie, tail flagging, but Hubert hauled, staggered the mutt backwards on its hind legs, dragged it within three feet of Rich.

"I need a favour," he said, fingers flicking the hat's brim up.

Frankie's prong hit the ground with a light thump. Clapping his hands, whistling, he skipped towards the bouncing dog. Stopped, leaned, patted its head, scratching the patch that smudged the dog's crown the colour of gravelly snow. "Can I hold the chain?"

Hubert lodged a hand on the shoulder of Frankie's pallid blue Gilligan's Island t-shirt. "Promise not to let him get away. He don't get off much. He's overexcited."

"Promise. What's his name? Come here boy."

"Hibbs," he said, offering the leash. "Named after my favourite singer. Thought a lot over him first when I got him."

Frankie grabbed it. "Thanks." He darted around a pile of hay, Hibbs shadowing him, yelping.

Hubert shook his head, folded his scrawny arms. "Don't care much for him now though. Bugger keeps bursting off. Caught him locked to Charlie Eastman's dog just now--took me a half hour with ice water to separate them. Christ, he'll be in heat in winter."

He turned to Rich, dug into his jeans pocket, yanked out a clinched fist. "Like I said, I need a favour."

Rich shoved his hand under the fist. It looked like a boy's knuckle, dangling over the greasy broken M in Rich's palm. Hubert straightened his fingers. A red 12-gauge slug dropped.

Frankie and the dog spun the figure eight around two bales. Frankie halted, grass-stained sneakers skidding. Whipped the other way. Hibbs barked, leaped after him.

"Careful," Rich warned. "He might bite."

He had been bitten himself when he was eleven. The half-grown German Shepherd had aimlessly roamed the schoolyard, Rich tracking it with timed glances through the cracked schoolhouse window. He recalled gunning through the shortcut, alder limbs crossing the sun, leaves grazing his cheeks. Giggling, dog panting at his knees. Stopping suddenly. Grabbing the frowsty, fur neck, pulling the dog in, bracing with a squint, expecting the moist tongue to wash his cheek. Hot teeth piercing his forearm. The ugly scar, permanent--pink, glossy scrapes and blotches.

"Can't trust a dumb animal," he said. But Hubert didn't respond. He seemed hypnotized by the revolving eight.

"Easy boy, easy," Frankie said, ramming his hand into the puffed pocket of his faded, cut-off jeans, pulling out a Hostess bag half full of crunched ketchup chips. He grabbed a handful, jiggled the crumbled pieces in front of Hibbs, who devoured them, licked Frankie's palm.

"Bugger'll eat anything," Hubert murmured. He snapped out of the daze, focus springing back to Rich. "Maybe we don't have to get rid of him. Your young fellow, he loves dogs."

Rich shook his head. Nothing smothered him like the musty stench of dog fur.

"Pick up the chain, Frankie," Rich yelled.

Frankie rolled over, knees and elbows digging ground, clothes collecting stray blades of hay, Hibbs sniffing his face.

Rich had owned only one dog. Rover. Fur like varnished coal. Rover had been unusually sluggish one day. When his dog had shrunk from the leftover fish and brewis, Rich had noticed an oozing, pussy spot on its right side. Rich, ten, crouching, dewy balsam fir needles poking, soaking his shoulders. He couldn't spot Rover through the matted branches, but he was jolted by the sod axe above his father's head, rusty blade bolting down. Gut-sucking thump.

Rich gazed at the shell in his hand, tossed it to Hubert, catching him off guard. The bullet bounced off his palm, brass-coloured cap stabbing the spiky grass.

Hubert bent, retrieved it. "This mean you're keeping the dog?"

"It means I'm saving you twenty-five cents."

Hubert's eyebrows flickered, thin lines rippling his forehead.

"Keep it for a duck, or a rabbit," Rich said.

Hubert appeared baffled.

"Axe," Rich explained. "Back of the blade to the crown. One blow--quick and painless."

Hubert's face turned sour. "Killed a cat once. Stray tom. Bugger stealing rabbits from my snares--'til I caught it red-handed. Wacked it over and over, but it wouldn't die. Just kept crawling away. All the blood--Jesus, what a mess. Haven't had the heart since."

He tossed the shell back to Rich who snatched it out of the air. "Don't want you using any axe."

Rich shrugged. "Guess I'll take the slug then."

"You wouldn't mind burying Hibbs for me?"

"Done."

The front of his hat had slid again. "I better go," he said with a sullen glance at his dog. He turned, and trudged across the garden.

Hibbs ceased chasing Frankie, studied Hubert, a single straw dangling over his muzzle. He barked, sharp chops piercing the grove, smacking the harbour's south side, bouncing back. Hubert sped to a jog. The straw dropped. The dog tugged on the leash, but Frankie held tight, gaped at his father.

"Hang on," Rich said.

Frankie tore into his pocket, yanked out the chip bag, swabbed it against Hibbs' mouth. Hibbs lapped it up, licked the inside, foil gleaming. By the time the dog had finished, Hubert was out of sight.

Frankie scratched the patch, Hibbs leaning into his fingers. "Good boy." He gazed at his father. "Hubert coming back?"

"Nope."

Frankie's face lit. His wrist jerked to chuck the chip bag, but he seemed to think better of it, stuffed it back into his pocket. "We keeping Hibbs?"

Rich shook his head. "I'm taking him for a walk through the woods."

"Can I come?"

"No," he said firmly.

Frankie squinted. "Why not?"

He had piercing, blue eyes--the only physical trait copied from his mother. Eyes that knew how to sway you, if you looked into them long enough.

"Flies'll eat you," Rich said, whisking the few that had spiraled from the shade.

"I can put Minard's Liniment on. Pop says that's the real stuff for flies."

"Pop smears butter on too. None of it's for flies."

"I can put liniment on after they bite. Stop the pain."

Rich dragged a long breath, blew it out, cheeks puffed. He wiped his forehead with the belly of his top. "You seen me walk in the woods a few times with someone's dog, right?"

Frankie surfed his hand over the dog's back. "Couple times."

"See me coming out with 'em?"

He pondered, eyes twitching left, right. "No."

"I'm taking him in, and I'm not bringing him back."

"He'll starve."

Rich shook his head.

"Dogs got good sniffers," Frankie reasoned, cupping Hibbs' jaws. The dog wagged its tail, licked Frankie's chin, nose nudging his shoulder, chest, poking his pocket. "He'll sniff his way back. Won't you, boy?"

"Maybe. I'd say he won't." The sun had baked his patience. Gilligan stared up at him, a sheepish grin from Frankie's chest. He stomped over, snatched the chain.

"I'll rake some more hay if I can come."

"I already said no."

"I'll rake until dark, and I won't even eat supper."

Rich glared down at him, nearly blurting the dog's fate. Summer freckles dotted Frankie's cheeks like flecks of dried mud. They reminded Rich of his own skin in the smudged mirror when he was a boy, wishing he could scrape the freckles off so the other kids would quit mocking. He reached down, slid his thumb across them. "You can come part of the way. But when I say stop, stay 'til I get back."

He dented his cheek with the dog's face. "Can I hold the chain?"

Rich tossed the leash, dropped the shell in his pocket. If Hubert had something against saving twenty-five cents, he certainly didn't.

The old sod axe was kept in the woodshed. The shed was a shabby 16-by-12, slumped against a small cliff, overshadowed by more pressing needs, like the aging shingles on his house. The axe hung blade up on a crooked four-inch nail, next to a spade in the near left corner. He grabbed it, waved the spade off. He could chop a hole with the sod axe, deep enough to bury the little mutt--kick the turf back with his boots.

The trail, four feet wide, stretched from his garden all the way to Jumper's Pond--a mile and a half through thick, white spruce, scattered patches of birch. He trucked gravel during the week for the Department of Highways, so he cut the trail on Saturdays with some muscle from his brothers, Jim and Mack, to haul the winter's wood.

Axe snug to his thigh, Rich halted in a clearing where he had leveled several cords of spruce a few years back. He had cleaned up most of the deadwood, but several tops still loitered here and there. He'd have to salvage those.

Too involved with the dog to notice the rusty, blunt blade, Frankie skipped ahead of him, dry twigs snapping under his feet.

"This is it," Rich said, pointing to a stump with the axe handle. "Sit there."

Frankie trudged to the stump, Hibbs tight to his knees. Rich followed, held out his hand. "The leash."

His head down, Frankie's sneaker poked a loose rock jutting out of sprinkled, dry, spruce needles. "Why can't I come the rest of the way?"

"Pass the chain."

He surrendered it. "Can I hang on to the axe 'till you get back?"

The probing edge in the boy's voice sprung his age. As if Rich had been absent a year. After the hay, he was going to do something Frankie enjoyed. Break out the bamboos.

"Can I?" he repeated.

"No."

Frankie's mouth collapsed. "You're going to kill Hibbs."

A chickadee swooped, dashed from branch to branch in a frenzy, top half of the tree quivering.

"It's just a dog, Frankie. Causing a lot of trouble . Stuff you wouldn't understand."

"Why don't he just give him away?"

"No one wants that kind of trouble."

"I do."

The chickadee pitched a rapid stutter.

"I don't."

"I'll take care of him."

Heat clung to Rich like he needed to shuck a thick coat. "No you won't. I'll have to be behind you--like you are with the wood, your clothes. Next thing, you'll forget the dog altogether."

"I won't, Dad. Promise."

"Easy to say now, but a month down the road--"

"Dad, please--"

"He could get sick--disease. Bite. Look." He stuck out his arm. Frankie stared, eyes watery, top lip curling, mouth trembling. He turned, pelted out the trail. Rich opened his mouth, watched the bouncing, dirty-blond head until a downturn in the trail consumed it.

The dog tugged. Barked. Whined.

"Shit," Rich said, wiping spittle from his lip, yanking the chain. "Here. You've caused enough trouble."

Shielding his eyes from clawing branches, he dragged Hibbs off the clearing, wrapped the chain around a birch, hustled two savage knots. A mosquito stabbed his lower back. He slapped it, jolting the sunburn.

Stepping back three feet, eyes fired on the dog's crown, he drew the axe up hard and quick, muscle burning under his arm. The blade ripped downward.

Frankie's watching.

The thought was like a sudden punch.

He held up on the force of the blow, but the axe banged Hibbs' skull with a thump. Hibbs dropped, grunted. Something sprang from the treetops, a panicky flutter brushing Rich's ear, spine shivering, first chill all day. Fucking chickadee.

Heart racing, he peered between tree trunks and branches, scanned the green beyond the clearing. Called to his son. Louder. The forest sounded hallow.

Another mosquito coasted around him but he couldn't find it.

You're going crazy--smarten up.

The dog's dirty-white belly heaved slowly, contracted. Rich raised the axe. Focused on the patch. Hibbs tilted his head slightly upward. Eyelids twitching, eyeballs swollen, slick. Drooping. Wet lips creased to an upside down U. Whine elongated. Rich realized the axe had sunk level with his face. He lifted it again. The dog's whine deep, as though from the moss. Somewhere here two springs ago, he had killed a horse because it couldn't pull shit. He caught himself skimming for the spot where he had buried her. He counted six mounds.

A pungent smell clung, like damp, rotting cloth. Rich lowered the axe. Swallowed. He plopped against the cool, bubbled trunk of a spruce, shoulders sagging.

The mosquito droned near his left ear. A fiery prick, finer than a pin in the pulsing skin beneath the brittle hairline of his neck. The burn intensified. He shut his eyes, clinched his jaws, grimaced, thought of that sultry day he had stooped over the idle stove in the centre of the classroom. Mr. Cutler's rigid face squatting his conscience. Scooping him out. Alder switch swooping, teaching him not to stare out a cracked window when there's arithmetic on the table.

He fingered the bloody bump on his neck. A breeze rustled the branches, edgy on his drenched temples. The torn muscle ached. Hibbs shifting. Rich opened his eyes, turned his head. Hibbs staggering to his feet. He reached cautiously to unhook the chain, but the dog pulled its head away, eyes dazed, uncertain.

"Suit yourself," he muttered, forged ahead to the clearing, called to Frankie again, eyes probing the jagged, shadowy spaces between the branches of the underbrush.