Max came home that night smelling of damp earth, crushed grass, and a faint trace of feathers that had rubbed off on him from getting so close to look — a smell that took me a moment to recognize, because it had been a long time since I'd noticed it on him. He pushed open the back door, which had been left ajar, with his nose, slowly — unusual for him, since he usually comes in like the house is going to end if he takes one second too long. He said nothing when he came in. He lay down in his usual spot and fell asleep with that speed only puppies and people with a completely clear conscience have.
I stayed awake a while, watching him sleep with that half-smile dogs get when they're dreaming about something good. And I smiled too, even though he couldn't see it, because I've known for years exactly what's up in the high branches of the Ancient Oak, and I knew this night was bound to come sooner or later.
The next morning, with the sun already high and warming the porch just enough to lie down without burning, Max told me everything with that excitement of his that never fits in such a small body for so much to say. He started from the beginning, as if I needed the full context: that he couldn't sleep, that the garden smelled different, that he walked to the oak without quite knowing why. Then the voice from above. Then the feathered animal that didn't smell like other birds, that turned its head in a way that seemed impossible to him. The odd name. The enormous idea that got away from him chasing a moth before he'd finished thinking it through.
I let him tell the whole thing without interrupting, even though every detail he let out I already knew by heart, almost word for word, like someone listening to a song they already know but lets be sung anyway, because there's joy in hearing it again from another mouth.
The first time I climbed the oak at night was years ago, before Max had even come to this house. I was younger then, though not much wiser, and I too went out one night without quite knowing why, following that same pull Max felt without being able to explain it. The Professor already lived there, already spoke with that calm that took me a while to understand too, already said that thing about the night and the whole world that happens beneath the one we know during the day. I remember staring at him, not knowing whether to get closer or run away, until I stopped trembling and just sat down to listen to whatever he had to say.
He smiled, if an owl can smile, and waited.
I didn't tell Max. Not a word that I knew him too, that he'd also left me with that feeling of an enormous idea that doesn't quite fit in your head, that I too had lost the first time chasing after something — in my case it wasn't a moth, it was a mouse that darted between the roots, and the result was exactly the same: the idea lost, the Professor watching with patience, and me walking home with the feeling of having touched something bigger than my own head without fully understanding it.
I knew this was going to happen, sooner or later. It didn't take any special cleverness to know it — just knowing Max. Eleven months of unchecked curiosity, of needing to know what's behind every new sound, every shadow that moves where it shouldn't, was bound to lead him there one night, just as it led me in my time, just as it probably leads every dog in this village sooner or later, each at their own hour, each with their own moth or their own mouse waiting for the exact moment it's most needed to break the spell.
The Professor has that effect on whoever gets close enough to listen. I don't know if he does it on purpose or if that's simply who he is, but every dog who climbs those roots comes back down with a half-chewed idea and the urge to go back up.
What I also didn't tell him is that I still go up there sometimes, when the garden gets too quiet and I need to remember that someone else in the village is awake while everyone sleeps. The Professor never asks why it took me so long to come back. He just stays there, with his big ideas waiting patiently for someone to stay long enough to carry them home whole, without any mouse or moth getting in the way this time.
Maybe someday I'll tell Max I already knew the Professor, from before he was even born, almost. For now I'd rather let him believe he discovered something all on his own that nobody else knew, because there are few things as lovely as the face of an eleven-month-old puppy convinced he's found an entire secret just for himself. He'll have time yet to discover that this village is full of secrets we all pretend not to share, just so each of us can feel like ours is unique.
— Linda 🐾
🐾 Thursday, Max narrates: who else lives in the forest besides Professor Hoot, and why Nut doesn't want to hear a word about them.