Cut

Katvar

I find Katvar outside, playing with the dogs. When he sees me, he jumps to a chopping block, fetches a knife and something else — a thing so small I can't see what it is.

'What is it with you and weapons? First you hit me on the head and now you want to stab me?'

He shakes his head. His face reddens.

'Don't you have a voice?'

His jaw sets. Both feet firmly planted in the snow, he mouths the word no.

'Oh,' is all I can say, freezing in shock and embarrassment. He rolls his eyes, whistles, and all dogs swarm around him, yapping and lolling their tongues, spittle rolling off their incisors. I see the white one that was rolled up against me when I woke up. It's focussed on Katvar. They all are, as if he's the most delicious food the beasts have ever tasted. He directs the dogs with his whistling and body language, and they totally adore him. He is all smiles. Maybe he loves dogs because they don't care whether he can speak human-tongue or not.

He sees me smiling at the jumble of furry bodies and waves at me invitingly. Hoping the dogs won't tip me over, I approach. My crutch moves dog butts and curious noses out of the way, but the animals are pushing too much. I'm about to drop face-first into the snow. Katvar makes an ooof-ing sound and they all plop down. I'm amazed.

Their scent is a mix of tart rhubarb, mushy and brown apple about to ferment, and fallen leaves. Wondering how their fur or their noses would taste, I bend down and tip my finger at the white dog's neck. Its head whips around and I stumble back. Katvar steps forward, sits down next to the dog, and beckons me closer.

I kneel, ready to bolt should the dog try to bite me. Then, I tentatively put my hand on its neck. No, gestures Katvar, takes my hand and places it on the animal's side. Together we stroke the thick fur. I nod at the dog's face and Katvar signals, yes. I touch the animal's cheek and soft lips. It closes its eyes and pants. I think I like dogs. My fingers comb through its fur until it turns its head and flicks his tongue over my hand. Immediately, I stick my finger into my mouth. The flavour is different than expected. Fresher. I lean close, watching the dog for any signs of disapproval, and then I lick its ear. Hairy and quite undelicious.

Katvar cackles and I sit up. He places two fingertips against my forehead, and frowns.

'What's there?' I ask. 'Oh...that.'

He draws a circle around my one eye.

'Is it black?' I haven't looked in a mirror since... I can't even remember.

He nods, the corners of his mouth pull down.

'Don't worry. It's not my first black eye.' The bruise from the head injury must have sagged down to my eye, because the eye itself doesn't hurt. It's the bone and skin above it that are tender.

Katvar stands, points to his chest, then to a shed a couple of hundred metres away. He makes a swinging gesture with his hand, palm flat against the snow. Sled. Then he slaps his thigh and all dogs jump up and follow him.

I rise and walk a few steps to a clean patch of snow, sit down, pull off my left boot and sock, unwrap the bandage, and stick my foot in the snow. The cold bites, but slowly, the throbbing dulls. When the wound feels numb enough, I begin rubbing snow around the sutures, carefully cleaning my foot. What I see is absurd and disgusting. Swollen and reddened scars and empty air where two toes should be. Impossible to blink away.

When I look up, Katvar and his dogs are taking off with a sled. The tinkling of the sled bell and the yapping of exited animals spread flavours of fresh snow and cranberry jam on my tongue. I'm left to wonder how he managed to tame these fierce predators.