The Dog That Whispered Read Online Free PDF Page A

other hand, seemed to grow more anxious as every potential bedding spot for Thurman was evaluated, considered, and then discarded, as Wilson found some manner of disagreement with it.
    Not in his bedroom.
    Too close. He’ll worry me being that close. Maybe he’ll bark at night.
    Not in the spare bedroom.
    I don’t want to mess it up in case I have guests. They might be allergic .
    He had not had overnight guests in over a decade, but no matter.
    Not in the kitchen.
    What if he gets into the pantry? Dogs do that, right?
    Finally, after two circuits through the house, Wilson, frazzled, stood in front of Thurman with blanket in hand.
    “Okay. Okay. So where do you want to sleep?”
    Thurman looked up and growled.
    “It doesn’t matter? Is that what you said?”
    Good grief. I’m pretending that this beast is sentient and understands English .
    Wilson looked down at Thurman, who looked back up, grinning.
    Just like I pretend that my students are sentient and understand English. Of which I am not always certain .
    Thurman growled and walked into the room with the big chair and stack of books. He looked about and sat down.
    He growled out, Here .
    Wilson was about to ask why, but he watched Thurman look to the back of the house, then to the front, and then to the steps. From this one spot near the couch, Thurman could see the back door, the front door, and the steps leading upstairs.
    Wilson turned his head.
    “You want to stand guard?”
    Thurman smiled and growled a yes.
    As Wilson put the blanket down, and as Thurman mooshed it to fit his specific requirements, Wilson considered just how absurd and bizarre and unbalanced and disturbing these last thirty minutes had become.
    “Dogs don’t talk. People don’t understand growls. And I’m not crazy.”
    Thurman sat on his blanket, looked up, and growled in agreement.

    The next morning, Wilson woke earlier than normal, and his normal was most early, well before sunup. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face and feeling the creaks and groans of his body, the angry pings from his shoulder and back, the twists and twinges always the forerunner of a memory—a memory he had spent decades trying to ignore.
    Mornings were not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed affairs. Or at least they had not been to him for the past few decades.
    He stood and flexed at the waist, first to the right and then the left, a series of pops and cracks emanating from the various joints in his lower back.
    He took a deep breath, walked to the window, opened up a gap in the blinds, and stared out to the darkened street beyond. A few cars slipped past, headlights glistering in the early fog.
    The dog doesn’t talk. I am sure of that. I’m projecting. My mother has that effect on me. She acted as though the dog was aware—and now I am believing her as well. It’s all because of her. I’m susceptible to nudges like that. I am. It’s probably genetic. And she’s done that all her life.
    He had wrestled with those truths most of the night, not sleeping well as a result.
    But then, he hadn’t slept well since…since a long, long time ago. Not that much different to last night—except this night’s restlessness had a dog at the center of it. And his mother.
    He grabbed his robe off the peg on the back of the door, slipped into his slippers, and padded downstairs as silently as he could.
    By the time he was halfway down the steps, the beast was awake and standing at the foot of the stairs, grinning and wagging his tail in an incoherently happy manner.
    Wilson waited until he was at ground level to speak.
    “Thurman.”
    Thurman responded with a small jump, front paws only, and a warbled growl.
    It might have been Morning . But it was most likely just a growl.
    Let’s face it, Wilson, dogs don’t talk and you don’t understand barks and growls. Let’s just chalk this up to a busy day and having a horrid surprise sprung on you all of a sudden by your mother and that’s all. Overwhelmed.