Doggone It

(Enter Ham and Bone, tired, sweaty. Both sit on log, Ham wipes brow, looks around)

Ham: This could be the place. That bare patch over there looks familiar. (dog whistle, pause). When was it he went off, Bone?

(Pause)

Bone : 1992, I think. Was in the spring. The leaves all folding out like. Him frisky. I can see his red fur in the sunlight…

Ham: (almost interrupting) Was not. Was not spring at all. He was nosin’ in the leaf piles, wanting to frisk in ‘em, the dead leaves red and brown like him.

Bone: Maybe, Ham. Maybe it was.

Ham: The important thing is that he did come back once. Remember? Around 1993. I’m sure it was him I saw at that place back there. He could do it again. Dogs are just like wolves, just a spit from their wild cousins, and this place is loaded with mice and squirrels and things. He should be doing fine. Here boy! (desultory whistle, pause). Let’s get going.

(They heave up and proceed slowly in a circle around the stage, looking and poking. One whistle. They pause halfway around. Ham points)

Ham : Look at this!

Bone: What?

Ham: This. This pawprint on the path. It’s a dog print!

Bone: Is not. Looks more like a duck to me. You can’t tell. It’s all faded.

Ham (crestfallen, angry): You just like to hurt me. You have no faith.

(They proceed in silence back to log and sit. Pause).

Ham: Isn’t this the log we sat on earlier?

Bone (still stung): No.

Ham (friendly). I’m sure it is. Doesn’t matter. If we keep coming, he’ll trot on by one of these days. I’m sure of it.

Bone (sulking still) Not bloody likely

Ham (ignoring Bone) You know, there was that moment (pause) when we had him out and he was wanting to frisk about in the leaves or air or whatever it was, and he looked at us and we let him off, we let him go. He was glorious. There was sun on his fur. We knew he’d come back, BUT he didn’t. He’ll be back. He came back once. He’ll be back.