The Dog That Whispered by Jim Kraus Page A

recently set headstone.
    She stared down at the marker.
    She read and re-read the Bible verse.
    Maybe those plans God had were for me , she thought.
    Then she looked up, cleared her throat, and narrowed her eyes.
    “I don’t get it, Mother. This money could have been yours. And it was almost lost. I didn’t know it was there. You could have told me.”
    Hazel folded her hands and prayed, one of her standard prayers, for peace and wisdom and for God to be merciful to her mother.
    She looked up into the clouds.
    “She did the best she could, God. She tried her best. And she was a good person. I told her about you. I did. Like I was supposed to. She listened. She nodded at the right times. She said she understood. She did. She said she understood. That means she believed, right? I suppose she could have just been humoring me, but God, this is all I have to hang on to. Those few nods. A smile. I thought she understood.”
    Hazel could feel a tear forming. The first tear always came from her right eye.
    “I don’t know if that’s enough for you, God. But it is all I have. If you’re merciful, she’s there with you now. She really did do the best she could.”
    She looked down at the stone.
    “And Mother, you could have told me about the stocks,” she said aloud. “You could have least hinted at it. Now, all of a sudden, I’m rich.”
    She took a deep breath.
    Over the crest of the hill to the west, she caught the reflection off the windshield of a hearse as it slowly made its way into the cemetery. Only a single car followed.
    She looked back down at the headstone.
    “So what do I do? Really, Mom, what do I do now?”

    Wilson and Thurman stood on the front step as Emily and Gretna drove away. Wilson offered a half-wave and Thurman barked—twice.
    Wilson sighed loudly and Thurman looked up at him, a puzzled look on the dog’s face.
    “It’s hard, Thurman, that’s all. I don’t know what she wants me to do. I don’t know what I want to do.”
    Thurman appeared to nod in agreement, then he shook his head, his ears making flapping noises as he did so. Then he growled up at Wilson.
    Hungry .
    Wilson stared back at the dog.
    “You know, I am simply projecting all this talking onto you, right? You know that, right? You know you can’t talk. I know you can’t talk. Let’s be honest here, Thurman.”
    Thurman smiled and nodded again, or looked like he nodded. Then he growled again.
    Hungry .
    Wilson stared for a moment, as if waiting for some spark of clarity, or understanding. None occurred. So he shrugged and entered his house, Thurman a step or two behind, his nails clackering on the wooden floor. Wilson measured out a generous serving of kibbles, poured it into Thurman’s dish, and made a second cup of coffee as Thurman nibbled, with great canine daintiness, at his evening meal.
    Wilson sighed again and Thurman interrupted his eating to walk over to him and gently butt his head against his thigh. Without growling, without saying anything, he stared up at Wilson.
    Wilson reached down and patted at the dog’s head. Thurman smiled and returned to his dinner.
    After a few minutes, Thurman had finished eating. He sat down, facing Wilson.
    Hungry .
    Wilson shook his head.
    “No. We do this every night, Thurman. I even called Dr. Stansing about this.”
    Not vet , Thurman whisper-growled, almost under his breath, muttering in a dog growl, dismissing Dr. Stansing, but doing so politely.
    “I know he’s not a vet. But he has dogs. And he’s a doctor. He should know. He said a cup and a quarter, maybe a cup and a half, is all a dog your size needs.”
    Bunkum .
    Wilson smiled. The two of them had gone through the very same thing before, holding the same discussion, at least a few times a week.
    Wilson decided that Thurman might be intelligent, but he had a problem with short-term memory.
    Or perhaps he just liked to repeat things, like a toddler relishing the hundredth time a storybook is read to them. Safety and