The chances seemed
to be that the shell which had buried Brian had buried Sirius, too; but
Brian wouldn't believe this. Somehow the dog would have contrived to
escape. I had to promise that, whenever I happened to see a dark gray,
almost black Belgian police dog of beautiful shape, I would call
"Sirius" to see if he answered.
More than once since this trip began I've called "Sirius!" to police
dogs, not knowing whether they were Belgian, German, or Dutch, and they
have answered only with glances of superb scorn. This time I hesitated.
The mental picture I saw of myself--a vague young woman, seated in an
automobile stranded by the roadside, trying to lure away the dog of a
strange man--was disconcerting. While I debated whether to break my
promise or behave like a wild school girl, the animal paused in his
listless trot. He stopped, as if he'd been struck by an unseen bullet,
quivered all over, and shot past us like a torpedo. A minute later I
heard a tumultuous barking--a barking as if the gates of a dog's heaven
had suddenly opened.
I sprang up in the car, and turning round, knelt on the seat to see what
was going on behind us. Far away were Brian and Dierdre. And oh, Padre,
I can never dislike that girl again! I apologize for everything I ever
said against her. She saw that great police dog making for blind Brian.
And you know, a police dog can look formidable as a panther. She took no
time to think, though the idea might have sprung to her mind that the
creature was mad.
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