Sable by Karen Hesse

1 / The Arrival
    Mam would not hear about having a dog. She didn’t like them, none of them. She didn’t even like Mr. and Mrs. Cobb’s old hound, Truman. And Truman was as easygoing as a flat tire.
    I had no hope of getting a dog when Sable wandered down off the mountain last October. The maples had turned flame red, and that morning, frost glittered on the windshield of Pap’s pickup.
    Eden, Mam’s crimp-tailed cat, saw the dog first. She arched her back and hissed at the porch door.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mam asked. Mam stood tall at the sink, toes turned out, looking over her shoulder.
    Eden growled in her gray, silk throat. She flattened her ears.
    â€œThere’s a dog out here, Mam!” I said, pressing against the storm door.
    â€œGet your hand off that latch, Tate Marshall,” Mam ordered.
    She marched across the kitchen toward me, wiping her hands on her apron, and peered out the back door.
    Eden was all riled up, hissing and growling and looking three times her size, while the dog just sat, drooping on the back porch. Bones held together by a dark brown coat, that’s all she was. The longer she sat, the more she sagged, till her nose nearly touched the porch floor.
    â€œPoor dog,” I whispered, touching my fingers to the glass.
    The dog looked up—not at me exactly; not at Mam, either. She stared at nothing in particular. Just moved her head in the direction of the kitchen door.
    Her stirring scared Eden half to death. Mam’s cat slipped like gray smoke behind the fridge.
    The dog staggered to her feet and wobbled a step or two away from us. Then she stopped. She leaned against the porch rail, panting.
    â€œShe looks awful thirsty, Mam,” I said. “Should I put some water out for her?”
    Mam’s face tightened a bit, but then she nodded. “I guess some water would be okay,” she said. “Just push the bowl out the door, Tate. Don’t you go out there yourself. There’s no trusting a stray.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I said, filling a small mixing bowl with cool water. “Should I feed her something, too?”
    â€œNot a bite, Tate,” Mam said. “Don’t even think about giving that dog a reason for staying.”
    I slid the bowl out the door, slopping water over the cuff of my shirt. The dog inched up slowly, sniffing, and started to drink.
    Just then, Pap came out of his shop, heading toward the house for his morning snack. He was wearing his blue Saxonville baseball cap.
    Before he covered half the distance between the shop and the kitchen, he spotted the dog on the porch. Pap’s face shifted into a question. The dog wagged her tail weakly.
    â€œPoor thing,” Pap said, coming up and fitting his hand over the bones of the dog’s head. “Where’d you come from?”
    I called from inside the kitchen, “She just showed up, Pap. She won’t bite, will she? Mam thought she would, but I don’t. I think we should feed her.”
    Mam looked up from the sink and scowled.
    The storm door banged shut as Pap came into the kitchen. Scrambling down the porch steps, the dog fled, tail between her legs. She crept back up, though, a few seconds later, and finished emptying the water from the mixing bowl.
    Pap slipped one of Mam’s biscuits soaked in milk gravy to me.
    â€œRansom!” Mam said, frowning.
    â€œThe dog’s near starved,” Pap answered.
    I took the biscuit from Pap and followed him out of the kitchen onto the porch, cushioning the storm door behind me.
    Easing down, I held the biscuit on my open palm. Cautiously, the dog came over, her nose stretched way out in front of her, sniffing. The closer she got, the faster my heart beat.
    Finally she came close enough to take the biscuit from my hand, real easy. She swallowed it without chewing.
    After she’d finished licking her whiskers real good, she sniffed the gravy streaks on my fingers. Then she made a