Old Fitzpatrick

• Luke Harry, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2010

The snowy pines creaked in the wind and the old wooden fence strained under the weight of the world. The field looked like a frosty blanket, covering the grass that shivered in the cold. The puddles that lay on the muddy road were cold, just above freezing. Turning from the road was a path leading a panting dog, attentively walking along, sniffing to find a scent.

The heavy, grey clouds blotted out the setting sun.

The dog’s owner, old James Fitzpatrick, was lying on the cold ground, clutching his leg with white knuckles. He had lost his footing collecting firewood, fallen and now he feared a sprained ankle. Fitzpatrick tried with difficulty to get to his feet, but all he managed to do was stumble and fall once again. He was growing anxious with the approaching dark. He knew that dusk was hunting time.

The dog picked up his owner’s scent. He leapt along the path, wind whistling in his ears as he ran. Dodging trees the dog stuck his nose down and pounded forward like an immortal. Then something else cut across the faint scent of the dog’s owner; a scent that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The dog dropped the forward part of his body receding into a pounce position. There was a dash of movement. A fox darted across an opening and rushed down a hole.

The sky was deep purple, near darkness.

The wind hit the dogs face as he ran forward again. The scent of his owner was becoming stronger. The dog darted through the trees and there was his owner, pale and cold, sitting on the ground, holding his ankle. Fitzpatrick greeted his dog with relief. “Oh am I glad to see you boy,” he said while Bobby nuzzled and licked him. “I’m going to need your help to get home.”

Fitzpatrick had seen a long stick lying amongst the tree roots. It would serve him well as a cane but he couldn’t reach it on his own.
“Hey Bobby, fetch the stick,” he said pointing towards the tree. Bobby just gave him an inquisitive look. “ Over there,” Fitzpatrick added and he threw a stone to where the stick lay. Remembering the game, Bobby jumped over to the tree, took the stick in his mouth and obediently delivered it to his master. ‘That’s the way, good boy,” Fitzpatrick said, patting Bobby’s head. He used the stick to get up and support his weight. “Now let’s get home.”

The last glow of the red sun vanished behind the horizon.

Bobby took the lead, his nose down on patrol. Fitzpatrick was breathing hard, limping behind. When they rounded the next curve, he caught sight of his small cottage down beside the road in the distance. He could see himself in front of the fire, a tea warming his hands, and Bobby on his mat at his feet.

For the first time that day, old Fitzpatrick smiled.