Sable by Karen Hesse Page A

start of cleaning me.
    I guess I grinned wider than a half moon, feeling that tongue wipe across my palm.
    She was all the dog I ever wanted, dark brown except for a blaze of white on her chest and the tip of her tail. Even with brambles stuck in her dusty fur, there had never been a more perfect dog.
    My hand stroked her bone-hard head and down her ears. Those ears—that dog had the softest ears. They reminded me of the trim on the sweater Pap got for Mam one year. Pap said the trim was a kind of fur called sable.

    â€œCome on, Sable,” I said, coaxing her down off the porch.
    â€œNamed her, have you?” Pap said.
    â€œYes, sir,” I answered.

2 / A Collar for Sable
    Except for her being so skinny, Sable unfolded into a good-sized dog. She leaned against me, standing in the doorway to Pap’s shop.
    â€œIf you’re coming in, get on with it, Tate,” Pap said. “You’re letting the heat out.”
    I nudged Sable inside, shutting the door behind me.
    Pap builds furniture for people who live in places like Boston and Hartford.
    I wished Pap would let me work along with him. He never did. Pap said, “Ten is too young to work with saws and things. Besides, girls have plenty other jobs to do without messing with wood.” My stomach always tightened when Pap said stuff like that.
    I knelt beside Sable, stroking her all over, getting to know her with my hands. “How come Mam doesn’t like dogs?” I asked.
    Pap shrugged. He held a pencil between his teeth as he sighted down a piece of white oak.
    Pap made a mark on the wood with the pencil. “Mam got herself tore up by a dog when she was a girl,” he said. “You’ve seen that scar on her leg, Tate.”
    â€œI didn’t know that was from a dog,” I said. Mam always wore dresses that hid the scar. She didn’t even like me seeing it.
    The shop smell tingled inside my nose, like a sneeze coming. I wiggled my nostrils in and out, trying to get the tickle to settle down.
    â€œShe was younger than you when it happened,” Pap said. “We’d have had a dog a long time ago if it was up to me. I always had dogs when I was growing up. Your great-grandmam raised them.”
    â€œShe did?” I asked.
    â€œBeauties,” Pap said. “Elkhounds.”
    My hand rested on Sable’s head. “Do you think we could raise Sable?”
    A knot tightened right inside my throat, waiting for Pap’s answer.
    â€œEven if Mam was willing,” Pap said, “that mongrel’s sure to disappear in a day or two. Just passing through—that’s my bet. Don’t get attached to it, Tate.”
    â€œNo, sir,” I said, chewing on my lip.
    Pap switched on the planer and started running the oak through. Sable tucked her tail between her legs and backed toward the door.
    â€œCome on, girl,” I said, leading her out of Pap’s shop. “You don’t have to stay in here if you don’t want.”
    Sable and I walked the property line, from Mam’s willow in front to the sour apple out back. Plucking a stunted apple from the sour tree, I took a bite, puckered, and offered Sable the rest. Sable ate that sour apple, core and all.
    â€œSable,” I said. “I’ve got someplace I want to show you.”
    We crossed the yard and climbed the path into the woods. Following the trail, we entered a small clearing surrounded by maple and pine trees.
    â€œUsed to be someone had a cabin up here,” I told Sable. “A long time ago, before the river changed course.”
    In the center of the clearing stood a stone foundation and the remnants of a chimney.
    â€œThis is my secret place,” I told Sable. “I have it fixed up just right with everything I need.”
    I stashed my best stuff up there: my rock collection, my treasure box. Tucked it all on a shelf inside the old fireplace. I had a pocketknife and soap for whittling, all kinds of