sk.cujo-第28部分

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Maybe。
Joe　Camber　looked　at　the　patch　of　garage　floor　below　his　big　vise　damp　with　something　like　wonder。　He　pushed　his　green　felt　hat　back　on　his　forehead；　stared　at　what　was　there　awhile　longer；　then　put　his　fingers　between　his　teeth　and　whistled　piercingly。
'Cujo！　Hey；　boy！　e；　Cujo！'
He　whistled　again　and　then　leaned　over；　hands　on　his　knees。　The　dog　would　e；　he　had　no　doubt　of　that。　Cujo　never　went　far。　But　how　was　he　going　to　handle　this？
The　dog　had　shat　on　the　garage　floor。　He　had　never　known　Cujo　to　do　such　a　thing；　not　even　as　a　pup。　He　had　piddled　around　a　few　times；　as　puppies　will；　and　he　had　tom　the　bejesus　out　of　a　chair　cushion　or　two；　but　there　had　never　been　anything　like　this。　He　wondered　briefly　if　maybe　some　other　dog　had　done　it；　and　then　dismissed　the　thought。　Cujo　was　the　biggest　dog　in　Castle　Rock；　so　far　as　he　knew。　Big　dogs　ate　big；　and　big　dogs　crapped　big。　No　poodle　or　beagle　or　Heinz　Fifty…seven　Varieties　had　done　this　mess。　Joe　wondered　if　the　dog　could　have　sensed　that　Charity　and　Brett　were　going　away　for　a　sped。　If　so；　maybe　this　was　his　way　of　showing　just　how　that　idea　set　with　him。　Joe　had　heard　of　such　things。
He　had　taken　the　dog　in　payment　for　a　job　he　had　done　in　1975。　The　customer　had　been　a　one…eyed　fellow　named　Ray　Crowell　from　up　Fryeburg　way。　This　Crowell　spent　most　of　his　time　working　in　the　woods；　although　it　was　acknowledged　that　he　had　a　fine　touch　with　dogs　…　he　was　good　at　breeding　them　and　good　at　training　them。　He　could　have　made　a　decent　living　doing　what　New　England　country　people　sometimes　called　'dog　farming'；　but　his　temper　was　not　good；　and　he　drove　many　customers　away　with　his　sullenness。
'I　need　a　new　engine　in　my　truck；'　Crowell　had　told　Joe　that　spring。
'Ayuh；'　Joe　had　said。
'I　got　the　motor；　but　I　can't　pay　you　nothing。　I'm　tapped　out。'
They　had　been　standing　just　inside　Joe's　garage；　chewing　on　stems　of　grass。　Brett；　then　five；　had　been　goofing　around　the　dooryard　while　Charity　hung　out　clothes。
'Well；　that's　too　bad；　Ray；'　Joe　said；　'but　I　don't　work　for　free。　This　ain't　no　charitable　organization。'
'Mrs。　Beasley　just　had　herself　a　litter；'　Ray　said。　Mrs。　Beasley　was　a　prime　bitch　Saint　Bernard。　'Purebreds。　You　do　the　work　and　I'll　give　you　the　pick　of　the　litter。　What　do　you　say？　You'd　be　ing　out　ahead；　but　I　can't　cut　no　pulp　if　I　don't　have　a　truck　to　haul　it　in。'
'Don't　need　a　dog；'　joe　said。　'Especially　a　big　one　like　that。　Goddam　Saint　Bernards　ain't　nothing　but　eatin　machines。'
'You　don't　need　a　dog；'　Ray　said；　casting　an　eye　out　at　Brett；　who　was　now　just　sitting　on　the　grass　and　watching　his　mother；　'but　your　boy　might　appreciate　one。'
Joe　opened　his　mouth　and　then　closed　it　again。　He　and　Charity　didn't　use　any　protection　but　there　had　been　no　more　kids　since　Brett；　and　Brett　himself　had　been　a　long　while　ing。　Sometimes；　looking　at　him；　a　vague　question　would　form　itself　in　Joe's　head：　Was　the　boy　lonely？　Perhaps　he　was。　And　perhaps　Ray　Crowell　was　right。　Brett's　birthday　was　ing　up。　He　could　give　him　the　pup　then。
'I'll　think　about　it；'　he　said。
'Well；　don't　think　too　long；'　Ray　said；　bridling。　'I　can　go　see　Vin　Callahan　over　in　North　Conway。　He's　just　as　handy　as　you　are；　Camber。　Handier；　maybe。'
'Maybe；'　Joe　said；　unperturbed。　Ray　Crowell's　temper　did　not　scare　him　in　the　least。
Later　that　week；　the　manager　of　the　Shop'n　Save　drove　his　Thunderbird　up　to　Joe's　to　get　the　transmission　looked　at。　It　was　a　minor　problem；　but　the　manager；　whose　name　was　Donovan；　fussed　around　the　car　like　a　worried　mother　while　Joe　drained　the　transmission　fluid　well；　refilled　it；　and　tightened　the　bands。　The　car　was　a　piece　of　work；　all　right；　a　1960　T…Bird　in　cherry　condition。　And　as　he　finished　the　job；　listening　to　Donovan　talk　about　how　his　wife　wanted　him　to　sell　the　car；　Joe　had；　had　an　idea。
'I'm　thinking　about　getting　my　boy　a　dog；'　he　told　this　Donovan　as　he　let　the　T…Bird　down　off　the　jacks。
Oh；　yes？'　Donovan　asked　politely。
Ayuh。　Saint　Bernard。　It's　just　a　pup　now；　but　it's　gonna　eat　big　when　it　grows。　Now　I　was　just　thinking　that　we　might　make　a　little　deal；　you　and　me。　If　you　was　to　guarantee　me　a　discount　on　that　dry　dog　food；　Gaines　Meal；　Ralston…Purina；　whatever　you　sell；　I'd　guarantee　you　to　work　on　your　Bird　here　every　once　in　a　while。　No　labor　charges。'
Donovan　had　been　delighted　and　the　two　of　them　had　shaken　on　it。　Joe　had　called　Ray　Crowell　and　said　he'd　decided　to　take　the　pup　if　Crowell　was　still　agreeable。　Crowell　was；　and　when　his　son's　birthday　rolled　around　that　year；　Joe　had　astounded　both　Brett　and　Charity　by　putting　the　squirming；　wriggling　puppy　into　the　boy's　arms。
'Thank　you；　Daddy；　thank　you；　thank　you！'　Brett　had　cried；　hugging　his　father　and　covering　his　cheeks　with　kisses。
'Sure；'　joe　said。　'But　you　take　care　of　him；　Brett。　He's　your　dog；　not　mine。　I　guess　if　he　does　any　piddling　or　cropping　around；　IT　take　him　out　in　back　of　the　barn　and　shoot　him　for　a　stranger。'
'I　will；　Daddy　。。。　I　promise！'
He　had　kept　his　promise；　pretty　much；　and　on　the　few　occasions　he　forgot；　either　Charity　or　Joe　himself　had　cleaned　up　after　the　dog　with　no　ment。　And　Joe　had　discovered　it　was　impossible　to　stand　aloof　from　Cujo；　as　he　grew　（and　he　grew　damned　fast；　developing　into　exactly　the　sort　of　eating　machine　Joe　had　foreseen）；　he　simply　took　his　place　in　the　Camber　family。　He　was　one　of　your　bona　fide　good　dogs。
He　had　house…trained　quickly　and　pletely　。。。　and　now　this。　Joe　turned　around；　hands　stuffed　in　his　pockets；　frowning。　No　sign　of　Cuje　anywhere。
He　stepped　outside　and　whistled　again。　Damn　dog　was　maybe　down　in　the　creek；　cooling　off。　Joe　wouldn't　blame　him。　It　felt　like　eighty…five　in　the　shade　already。　But　the　dog　would　e　back　soon；　and　when　he　did；　Joe　would　rub　his　nose　in　that　mess。　He　would　be　sorry　to　do　it　if　Cujo　had　made　it　because　he　was　missing　his　people；　but　you　couldn't　let　a　dog　get　away　with　
A　new　thought　came。　Joe　slapped　the　flat　of　his　hand　against　his　forehead。　Who　was　going　to　feed　Cujo　while　he　and　Gary　were　gone？
He　supposed　he　could　fill　up　that　old　pig　trough　behind　the　barn　with　Gaines　Meal　…　they　had　just　about　a　long　ton　of　the　stuff　stored　downstairs　in　the　cellar　…　but　it　would　get　soggy　if　it　rained。　And　if　he　left　it　in　the　house　or　the　barn；　Cujo　might　just　decide　to　up　and　crap　on　the　floor　again。　Also；　when　it　came　to　food；　Cujo　was　a　big　cheerful　glutton。　He　would　cat　half　the　first　day；　half　the　second　day；　and　then　walk　around　hungry　until　Joe　came　back。
'Shit；'　he　muttered。
The　dog　wasn't　ing。　Knew　Joe　would　have　found　his　mess　and　ashamed　of　it；　probably。　Cujo　was　a　bright　dog；　as　dogs　went；　and　knowing　（or　guessing）　such　a　thing　was　by　no　means　out　of　his　mental　reach。
Joe　got　a　shovel　and　cleaned　up　the　mess。　He　spilled　a　capful　of　the　industrial　cleaner　he　kept　handy　on　the　spot；　mopped　it；　and　rinsed　it　off　with　a　bucket　of　water　from　the　faucet　at　the　back　of　the　garage。
That　done；　he　got　out　the　small　spiral　notebook　in　which　he　kept　his　work　schedule　and　looked　it　over。　Richie's　International　Harvester　was　taken　care　of　…　that　chainfall　surely　did　take　the　ouch　out　of　pulling　a　motor。　He　had　pushed　the　transmission　job　back　with　no　trouble；　the　teacher　had　been　every　bit　as　easygoing　as　Joe　had　expected。　He　had　another　half　a　dozen　jobs　lined　up；　all　of　them　minor。
He　went　into　the　house　（he　had　never　bothered　to　have　a　phone　installed　in　his　garage；　they　charged　you　dear　for　that　extra　line；　he　had　told　Charity）　and　began　to　call　people　and　tell　them　he　would　be　out　of　town　for　a　few　days　on　business。　He　would　get　to　most　of　them　before　they　got　around　to　taking　their　problems　somewhere　else。　And　if　one　or　two　couldn't　wait　to　get　their　new　fanbelt　or　radiator　hose；　piss　on　em。
The　calls　made；　he　went　back　out　to　the　barn。　The　last　item　before　he　was　free　was　an　oil　change　and　a　ring　job。　The　owner　had　promised　to　e　by　and　pick　up　his　car　by　noon。　Joe　got　to　work；　thinking　how　quiet　the　home　place　seemed　with　Charity　and　Brett　gone　。。。　and　with　Cujo　gone。　Usually　the　big　Saint　Bernard　would　lie　in　the　patch　of　shade　by　the　big　sliding　garage　door；　panting；　watching　Joe　as　he　worked。　Sometimes　Joe　would　talk　to　him；　and　Cujo　always　looked　as　if　he　was　listening　carefully。
Been　deserted；　he　thought　semi…resentfully。　Been　deserted　by　all　three。　He　glanced　at　the　spot　where　Cujo　had　messed　and　shook　his　head　again　in　a　puzzled　sort　of　disgust。　The　question　of　what　he　was　going　to　do　about　feeding　the　dog　recurred　to　him　and　he　came　up　empty　again。　Well；　later　on　he　would　give　the　old　Pervert　a　call。　Maybe　he　would　be　able　to　think　of　someone　…　some　kid　…　who　would　be　willing　to　e　up　and　give　Cujo　his　chow　for　a　couple…three　days。
He　nodded　his　head　and　turned　the　radio　on　to　WOXO　in　Norway；　turning　it　up　loud。　He　didn't　really　hear　it　unless　the　news　or　the　ball　scores　were　on；　but　it　was　pany。　Especially　with　everyone　gone。　He　got　to　work。　And　when　the　phone　in　the　house　rang　a　dozen　or　so　times；　he　never　heard　it。
Tad　Trenton　was　in　his　room　at　midmorning；　playing　with　his　trucks。　He　had　accumulated　better　than　thirty　of　them　in　his　four　years　on　the　earth；　an　extensive　collection　which　ranged　from　the　seventy…nine…cent　plastic　jobs　that　his　dad　sometimes　bought　him　at