The Territorial

Harold Benton never put much faith in premonitions, signs, or “feelings.” His wife, Louise, however, treated them like the morning weather report, worth listening to if you didn’t want to get caught in the rain.

That evening, while Harold was checking his shotgun and whistling for Rip, his old hound, Louise stood by the door wringing her hands.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “There’s something in the air tonight. Feels wrong.”

“Lou,” Harold said, smiling as he slung the gun over his shoulder, “the only thing in the air is supper smoke and mosquitoes. Don’t you worry. Me and Rip’ll be back before you can miss us.”

“I already do,” she said softly.

That made him pause a second, but Rip gave a bark that sounded like a dare, so Harold kissed her cheek and headed for the woods.

The hunt went fine until it didn’t. Rip caught the scent of a raccoon and tore off through the trees like his tail was on fire.

Harold hollered after him, laughing, “Don’t you go embarrassing me by losing to a coon, boy!”

But the laughter died when he heard the splash. When Harold reached the pond, the water was still rippling. He waited.

“Rip!” he called. “C’mon, now! Ain’t no coon worth a bath!”

Nothing. Just the soft rustle of the woods settling in. Then, out on the far bank, a raccoon hauled itself up, shook off, and waddled into the brush, smug as sin.

“Now, where’s my fool dog?” Harold muttered, kicking off his boots.

He dove in before reason could talk him out of it.

The water hit him like ice. He gasped, calling Rip’s name, but the only sound was his own splashing. Then everything went black.

When he came to, the sun was up, and Rip was beside him, licking his face like nothing had happened. “Well, I’ll be,” Harold said, rubbing the hound’s ears. “You scared ten years off me, boy.”

Rip wagged his tail, tongue lolling, perfectly pleased with himself.

“Don’t you grin at me like that,” Harold said, chuckling. “You probably chased that coon clear to the next county.” He stood, stretched, and pointed homeward. “C’mon, let’s go tell your mama we’re still alive.”

But home wasn’t quite right when they got there. Two young fellas were in the yard digging a hole. Harold waved. “You boys get lost or somethin’? That’s my garden patch you’re tearin’ up!”

They didn’t even glance at him. Just kept digging. He stepped closer and froze. The shape they were lowering into the hole looked mighty familiar, a dog.

“Rip,” Harold whispered, “that there looks an awful lot like you.”

Rip tilted his head and gave a low whine.

Then Harold saw Louise on the porch, dressed in black, the Reverend beside her, hat in hand. “Louise!” he called, waving. “What’s all this foolishness?”

She didn’t look up. Not even when Harold was ten paces away. The people moved around her like he wasn’t there at all.

The whole group walked up the hill to the churchyard, Rip and Harold trailing behind. They lowered a coffin, his coffin, into the ground.

“Well, that explains the cold water,” he muttered to Rip. “Guess we didn’t make it after all, huh?”

Rip just wagged his tail.

At the edge of the cemetery stood a gate that hadn’t been there before. A man in bib overalls and a book in his hand waved him forward. “This way, Mr. Benton. You’re welcome to enter Heaven. But—” he added, eyeing Rip—“the dog can’t come. There’s a nice place for animals up the road.”

Harold frowned. “You’re tellin’ me Heaven won’t take dogs? That don’t sound much like Heaven to me.”

“Rules are rules,” the man said.

“Well, rules are stupid,” Harold replied. “C’mon, Rip. We’ll walk.”

They followed the road for a long while until another man came into view, boots dusty, eyes kind, carrying a walking stick. “Morning,” he said. “Name’s Pete. You lost?”

“Not lost,” Harold said. “Just turned away. Fella back there said this was Heaven but wouldn’t let Rip in.”

Pete smiled. “That first gate? That wasn’t Heaven. Happens all the time. They try to trick folks right up ‘til the end. Up ahead’s the real place. Dogs included.”

Harold grinned down at Rip. “Hear that, boy? You’re in good company after all.”

Rip barked once, sharp and happy.

Harold hesitated. “Louise, she’ll be along, won’t she?”

Pete nodded. “Soon enough. And don’t worry, she won’t be fooled.”

Harold scratched Rip’s ears, feeling lighter than he had in years. “Well, partner,” he said, “let’s go see what Heaven looks like when it’s got room for dogs.”

As they stepped through the old wooden gate, Pete called after them with a chuckle, “Funny thing, Harold, man’ll walk straight into hell with both eyes open, but even the devil can’t fool a dog.”