BHS Young Writer's 2011 Entry: Farm — Part II of VI

He saw the dog over the crest of the hill, a soft, yawning knoll that broke the edge of the late-morning glare. The dog’s eyes were dark and familiar, friendly. They stared at Jeb without pause, and he could not tell how long they had been staring. Jeb knew that he should call the dog in, it was getting late. He cleared his throat. The dog waited.

Something about those eyes, deep and innocent, made him uncomfortable and he suddenly broke the dog’s gaze. His voice was small and childlike in his throat: Here, boy. Heeeeere, boy, that’s a good boy, time to come inside, c’mon. But he said nothing. Time passed. The dog’s ears were pricked, expectant, as if waiting for the words, the signal, to pour out of Jeb’s mouth.

He had the build of a farm dog, lean and strong, but his shiny coat and clean paws betrayed that he was indulged. Coddled, just like Will was. Mamm had almost died when giving birth to Will, who was born sickly. It was feared that he had been born with PMSE, a form of epilepsy found within the Amish population and that could be traced in the family lineage. Though Will had grown hardier with age, this fear never seemed to subside. He was still given only light chores and excused from more laborious tasks, which were given to Jeb.

Jeb cleared his throat again. He had been out in the fields the entire morning and his face was mottled. Will was long gone: he had worked for the better part of an hour before he decided that he was sick and had headed home.

Jeb’s eyes held the dog’s as they stood across from each other; one with the high ground, the other feeling uncomfortably subordinate. His hoe swung out awkwardly from his right hand, unwieldy and unusually heavy.

The wind began to pick up: it ruffled the dog’s fur shawl and he squinted. At once, the spell of those dark eyes was broken, and Jeb was released. He turned and headed for home.

It was Will’s dog, anyway.

Check back Tuesday morning for Part III