In His Mind by Kate Bold

Author:Kate Bold [Bold, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kate Bold
Published: 2023-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

The dog was named Kuromame.

Kuromame, or, much of the time, when the painter spoke to him casually, just Mame. It meant “Black Bean” or simply “Bean,” depending on the painter’s mood. Kuromame’s name fit. He looked a little like a large black pinto bean, with a full, wiry coat that only made his roly-poly shape all the more beanlike.

Kuromame’s life with the painter was a simple one, but plenty exciting for a dog. It would be plenty exciting to almost anyone, for that matter. The painter traveled the world, reaching some of the most exotic and remote locations in order to copy from nature the form of her mountains and valleys, taking the faithful Kuromame with him every step of the way.

Of course, this meant plenty of kennel time in the bottom of airplanes, short leashes in airports and bus depots, and times when he would be gently chastised for relieving himself, but Kuromame was intelligent, disciplined, and generally an optimistic dog. Had he been capable of complaining about his life of travel, Kuromame would not have done so.

Until recently, of course. The black fur on the scruff of Kuromame’s neck bristled with malice and despair as he trotted alone down a footpath that ran alongside a frontage road. The smell of the wicked man was still in Kuromame’s nose, and the ball he left behind—as if a ball that didn’t even bounce could ever replace the beloved painter that had been taken from him—was secured in the dog’s jaws. He would find the vile bastard, no matter how long and difficult the journey.

In the deep and wordless reaches the dog’s mind, he knew exactly who he was looking for. The scent alone would have been enough to guide him in the man’s wake for mile after mile. The scent of the man, carefully distinguished in Kuromame’s doggish mind from the scent of the man’s motorcycle, was as unique and individual as a fingerprint, and far easier to track.

Along with the anguish that Kuromame was experiencing in the sudden, bloody absence of his painter, there came also a certain, perfect freedom, the likes of which the oft-kenneled, easygoing dog had never experienced. The wicked man had taken his leash and wrapped it around the neck of his painter. He left it there, which meant that it was not attached to the collar that held Kuromame’s tags.

For the first time in his canine life, Kuromame was running free.

The black, wiry-coated herding dog loped along at a steady pace, instinctively careful not to wear himself out with an early sprint despite the mad dog rage that burned through his dog mind. His teeth dug into the ball he’d picked up from the rest area when he realized that his painter would not be getting up, and he trotted on down the frontage road, following an invisible trail into the Yosemite valley.

The highways and frontage roads turned to smoothly paved, federally maintained access roads as the dog descended further out of the foothills and into the iconic valley.

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