Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

“Why?” I asked. I glanced at him, careful what I said. “Perhaps she’s lost her master.”

“Aye, but she’s a hound. She can hunt for herself—and it’s summer; there’s food everywhere. Master or no, she shouldna be in this case.”

Curious, I got down on my knees and looked closely. He was right; she was gulping the small bites of food, simply swallowing, with little or no mastication. That might be her personal habit, or perhaps any dog would do that with small bits of food like this, but … there was something wrong. Something not quite a wince, but …

“You’re right,” I said. “Let her finish, and I’ll have a look.”

The hound polished off the last of the scraps, sniffed hungrily for more—though by now her stomach was visibly distended—then lapped water and, after a glance at the assembled company, nosed Jamie’s leg and lay down beside him.

“Bi sàmhach, a choin … ” he said, running a light hand down her long back. Her tail wagged gently and she let out a great sigh, seeming to melt into the floorboards. “Well, then,” he said, in the same soft tones, “come and let me see your mouth, mo nighean gorm,” The dog looked surprised but didn’t resist as he rolled her onto her side.

“She is blue, isn’t she?” Fanny crawled closer, fascinated, and put out a tentative hand, though she didn’t quite touch the dog.

“Aye, they call this kind a bluetick hound—they’re the color o’ mattress ticking. Let her smell your fingers, lass, so as she kens who ye are. Then just move slow, but she seems a friendly bitch.”

Fanny blinked at the word, and glanced at Jamie.

“Have you never had a dog, Fanny?” Bree asked, seeing this little byplay.

“No,” Fanny replied uncertainly. “I mean … I remember a dog. From when I was very little. It—he—I remember petting him.” Her hand touched the dog’s back, and the hound’s tail stirred. “It was on the ship. I sat under the big sail when the weather was good and he’d come and thit—sit—with me and let me pet him.”

Bree exchanged a quick glance with Roger, who was on the settle, holding Amanda, half asleep.

“The ship,” she said to Fanny, her voice light and casual. “You were on a ship. Before you came to Philadelphia?”

Fanny nodded, only half paying attention. She was watching me as I ran a finger along the black inner lip, lifting it away from the dog’s teeth. The gums were all right, so far as I could see by firelight—not bleeding, maybe a little pale, maybe not. It was common to find parasites in dogs, and that could cause pale gums from internal blood loss, but I didn’t know of any parasitic infections that occurred in the mouth …

Jem had sat down on the floor with us and was scratching the dog behind the ears with a practiced hand.

“Like this, Fanny,” he said. “Dogs like to have their ears scratched.” The dog sighed in bliss and relaxed a little, letting me open her mouth. The teeth were good, very clean—

“Why do people say ‘clean as a hound’s tooth’?” I asked, feeling the angles of her jaw, the temporomandibular joints—no apparent tenderness—and the lymph nodes in the neck—not lumpy, but there was some swelling on the side of the lower jaw and she winced and whined at my touch. “Her teeth are clean, but do hounds really have cleaner teeth than other dogs?”

“Oh, maybe.” Jamie leaned forward to look in the dog’s mouth. “She’s a young bitch—maybe nay more than a year or so. Hunting dogs that eat their prey usually have clean teeth, though—from the bones.”

“Really.” I was only half listening. Turning the dog’s head a little more toward the fire, I’d seen the shadow of something. “Jamie—can you bring a candle or something closer here? I think she has something stuck between her teeth.”

“Were your parents with you, Fanny?” Roger’s voice was quiet, barely pitched above the crackle of the fire. “On the ship?” Fanny’s hand stopped for a moment, resting on the dog’s head, but then resumed scratching, more slowly.

“I fink so,” she said, hesitant.

The candle flame wavered as Jamie glanced at Fanny, then steadied.

“Yes, there it is!” It was a small chip of bone, wedged tightly between the dog’s lower premolars. It was evidently sharp; the gum had been cut and was swollen and spongy-looking around the site of the injury. I pressed gently and the dog whimpered and tried to pull her head away.

“Jemmy, run to the surgery and fetch me the little first-aid box—you know the one?”

“Sure, Grannie!” He hopped up and made off into the darkness of the front hall without a qualm.

“Will she be all right, Mithuth—Mrs. Fraser?” Fanny leaned forward anxiously, trying to see.

“I think so,” I said, trying to wiggle the bone chip with my thumbnail. The dog didn’t like it, but didn’t snarl or offer to bite. “She has a bit of bone stuck between her teeth, and it’s made her mouth sore, but if it hasn’t made an abscess under the tooth … You can let her go for a minute, Jamie. I can’t get it out ’til Jem comes back with my forceps.”