Here Everyone Can Be Happy

His upbringing was uneventful and he had no schooling. Everyone at his farm and ours was forbidden to ride or break in horses.

All of this came from within and of its own accord, like grass growing or a flower blooming in the morning dew of spring. Yet it wasn’t in spring but in autumn that Ring’s eyes opened to the world. A little puppy had suddenly grown so much that he was allowed to follow us to Hraunsrétt. Up until then, he had only been called Sæli, the pet name Little Sæli. That was while he was just a toy. On the trip to Hraunsrétt, he got his name. He was black on his body with a snow-white ring around his neck. The name was obvious.

On the way home from Hraunsrétt, Sæli found his calling—or rather, Ring did. It came like the Holy Spirit descending from above. Forgive me, though; you’re not supposed to talk about dogs that way. Let’s say instead that the spark ignited all at once, catching everyone off guard.

One group after another poured out of the enclosure around the roundup pen, and no one was allowed to mix with another. Ring had barely seen a sheep until then. Now men were running here and there, guiding the groups onto the right paths. Some whipped their leads and pointed the flocks in one direction or another. Ring must have thought: A dog’s duty is to serve man in herding and driving sheep. The sheepdogs of Aðaldalur, the sheepdogs of Reykjaverfi, the sheepdogs of Húsvík ran ahead of the sheep and kept the groups together. They were the teachers of a young dog who watched. And the headmaster was the gathering ring at Hraunsrétt and the moor on the other side of the slope.

Right west of the Hvammsheiði slope north of Yztahavann, this puppy—not yet a year old—showed what he knew

and could do after just 20 minutes of instruction, though it was completely silent. He dashed out across the moor of his own free will. He had understood that the man was in charge, not the sheep. And in his heart, he felt that men are the lords of the earth, of sheep, and of dogs. Without a word from us herders, without the slightest gesture or command, he ran ahead of the sheep that wanted to break out of the lane, nipped a little at their heels, and formed the sheep—which for generations had been accustomed to yielding to dogs—into obedience; they turned and ran back into the group.

“That one’s going to amount to something,” someone called across the lane and the moor on the slope. It so happened that I was the first to let Ring know in some way that such performance and work ethic would be rewarded. He became all wagging tail. Encouragement that reached his heart shone from his warm dog eyes as they looked up at his master.

After this roundup trip, Ring became everyone’s favorite at his farm.

A while later, he was taken sheep-herding for the first time. When we got home, the flock was let into the meadow, and the herders went to the house for refreshments. No one paid any attention to the dog. But what do you think the herders saw when they came out from coffee? Ring was stationed in the western corner of the meadow, circling the flock and keeping it together. Somehow, he had figured out that it was inefficient to let the animals scatter all over the meadow and then have to round them up again.

I walked toward Ring and called him. He came, though hesitantly, like someone unsure if he had done right. Then I thanked him for his initiative with the respect a dog deserves most. He became all schoolboy eagerness. From then on, I believe I was, in his eyes, the supreme authority above all else.

Autumn passed, and then winter came, as it does.

One morning, midway through winter, I saw Ring wandering north by the farmyard fence. His behavior struck me as unusual right away. I called to him. He came toward me, without any joy, though. His expression was sad, and his posture somehow pitiful.

“My Ring,” I said, “is something wrong?”

He wagged his tail loosely and looked at me mournfully. His bearing was pathetic. I stroked his flanks and felt, at the same time, a swollen lump behind one jawbone. There was no hiding that the dog was sick, with some growth in his throat.

I tried to examine the lump and poke it. But what good did that do? It was a large lump with considerable swelling around it, extending down the neck. I asked Ring to open his mouth and looked inside, down his throat. Could a bone be stuck in there? No, nothing like that.

But the poor dog. He didn’t snap or whimper. I think he believed all along that I could do anything and was about to remove this trouble from his throat. Then he shuffled with me into the house, where I found something good for him to eat. But he had no appetite and could barely swallow what he tried. He just looked at me as if saying: Help me, help me. And I believe he thought his master, whom he trusted without limit, could do it.

At that time, the nearest veterinarian was in Akureyri. Serious ailments in animals were usually treated with a bullet. There was nothing else to do. This was before the era of scheduled buses. A trip to Akureyri couldn’t be made at this time except on two fast horses over two days.

Of course, I had a rifle and sheep shot. But—this was an exceptional young dog. And every movement of his showed that he trusted me for anything but sending a bullet through that gifted young head.

The day wore on. It was past four o’clock. Ring’s condition seemed unchanged, and he shuffled in and out.

Call a veterinarian?

No, what good would that do? He couldn’t cure a throat ailment with words over the phone. But the district doctor in Húsavík? Weren’t district doctors forbidden from treating dogs? Their patients had to be on two legs, not four. Still, I knew cases where Björn Jósefsson had helped livestock in need. He was the kind of doctor they should be and could never see suffering without trying to help.

At 5 o’clock, I asked the telephone exchange for a connection to the district doctor in Húsavík. The call went through quickly. All exchanges prioritize calls to doctors. Björn was speechless for a moment—unusual for him—when I asked him to look at a dog, but then: “What’s wrong with the poor thing?” he added. I described it as best I could. I didn’t record the conversation. But in the end, Björn allowed me to bring Ring to his office the next day at 9 or 10.

Around 8 that evening, I was ready for the trip and free of all outdoor chores. Out in the yard waited a ski sled with a sugar crate nailed to it. This was before plastic. For some reason, I also thought it best to walk and pull the sled like a load. His health had become so poor that I couldn’t ask him to walk.

The weather was good but pitch dark when we set out from the yard. There was hard snow over all the farms. Four hours until bedtime in Húsavík. If nothing delayed us, we could make it by then. I told Ring to come out with me.

He obeyed. Then I lowered him into the sugar crate on the ski sled. He obeyed like a docile child and curled up. Then I covered him with blankets and laid my coat on top.

So we set off from the yard, me lightly dressed, him on this unusual mode of transport. Ahead was a four-hour walk for an unburdened man. The ski sled would slow things down a bit, as there were bare ridges to cross in places.

The trip went well. Now and then, I lifted the coat and checked on the patient. He didn’t move except to wag his tail a little and look at me when he noticed. We crossed Mýrarvatn in Laxá on the ice. Lights were still on in every window at Laxamýri. Over Mýrarleiti, I had to pull on bare ground, then thread through farm tracks in Saltvíkursund. South of Kaldbak, snow mostly gave out. There, misfortune struck: my sled hit a high hummock on one side and tipped over. I hurried to right the vehicle but was too late. The passenger had slid out of the crate before I could prevent it. And no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get him to come to me. Distrust on this journey had made itself felt strongly. He didn’t show any distrust of me, though,

but followed me along the remaining stretch of road to Húsavík.

The ski sled was left by a cairn in Kaldbakssund and never retrieved; the skis were nearly worn out anyway.

This trip to Húsavík took nearly 5 hours.

I usually stayed at Árni Sigurðsson’s in Árnaús. All the windows were dark now. Most people in Húsavík were likely asleep. The street was empty. So I continued past all the homes of acquaintances and knocked on the door of the guesthouse run by Hjalti Illugason. He came to the door late, half-dressed from bed. Ring stood beside me at the door.

“A dog too,” said Hjalti. “There’s really no hotel space for dogs here.” Still, he was kind enough to let me take Ring up to the attic with me. Hjalti was also so thoughtful as to bring a soft mat and lay it on the floor in front of my room. There the dog lay down as soon as I closed the door and Hjalti had wished us good night.

The next morning, Ring’s health seemed unchanged. He followed me south to Dr. Björn’s. But a shudder came over him when the doctor’s office opened. I had to pick him up and carry him in.

“It’s a malignant growth in the dog’s throat,” said Björn. “I can try to cut into it if you want. But it’s a long shot that it will help at this stage.”

“I came here for you to try whatever is most feasible,” I said.

“Then we’ll have to put him under,” said the doctor.

Now the doctor’s nurse came in and started wetting a sponge with anesthetic. At that, Ring panicked and tried to get out at any cost. I had to hold him by force while he fell asleep.

It was a hard moment and a cruel task, because everything was meant to help. Dr. Björn’s nurse, though, was kindness itself and so gentle with us that I’ve felt affection for her ever since. She lives in Sauðárkrókur now and is named Hallfríður.

Dr. Björn removed more than a coffee cup’s worth of black blood and pus from the dog’s throat. He said little but wanted to see the dog the next day.

A kind man in Húsavík lent me a basement room for Ring when we came from the doctor. There we lay with nothing for those days but a lamb to play with. Blood poisoning was in

Ring’s story isn’t entirely over. That’s why I’m telling it too.

Two or three years later, I was once again in Húsavík, as often happened. I hadn’t thought of my dear Ring at all that day. I went into a house in Vik and was told about a young woman from America who read coffee cups and fortune-told with cards. She was named Lea and was Icelandic by descent. She was staying with relatives at Sólheimar for a while.

I knew the Sólheimar family well and only for good reasons, so I went there to see this girl. Rannveig Guðmundsdóttir, the lady of the house, greeted me smiling at the door. I asked her to arrange for me to speak with Lea. Lea knew nothing about me.

“Please come in,” said Rannveig, and showed me into the girl’s room.

Lea sat at a small table with cards in her hands. I extended my hand in greeting and touched hers without her looking up. She stared at the floor by my feet. Rannveig closed the door.

“Well, look,” said Lea after we had greeted in this way, “look at the dog.”

“What dog?” I said. “There’s no dog here.”

“Yes, there is,” said Lea. “A black dog, stocky on the body with a white ring around his neck. This is a beautiful dog and he doesn’t leave your side.” Then she paused a moment and said: “Now I know—this isn’t a living dog; he’s dead.” Then she looked straight ahead as if into the distance and continued: “This is a dog you owned. I see he got sick and you took him to a man named Björn. And this Björn tried to cure him but couldn’t. Then the dog died. I see how you transported the dog to Björn’s. There you are with him traveling in pitch dark on some vehicle you seem to be pulling. It’s not a wagon. It’s not a cart. It’s not a sled, though it resembles one most. Then this vehicle tips over and the dog slides out. Then he follows you along some road and you arrive in a place with many houses. It could be here in Húsavík. Then

you wake someone in one house and you go in. Then I see another house and you’re there with the dog. He’s sick and a man named Björn puts him under and tries to cure him. Then the dog dies because the illness is incurable.

That’s how Lea let the words flow for a while. She held cards in her hand but never looked at them, just into a corner of the small room at Sólheimar.

She sat in a chair, and I on the only sofa in the house. Finally, she stopped talking, was silent a moment, and asked me to draw a card.

The topic now shifted to a completely different field. She told me many things that had long passed, and it was as if she saw them happening like a movie. Then came the events yet to come. That part was much vaguer, and she spoke as if in a dream.

At last, visiting time was ending. Then I suddenly asked: “How do you know the man who tried to cure my dog was named Björn?”

“Björn?” she said, startled. “Did I say that? Björn. Yes, I feel it again now when I look at the dog. He was named Björn, definitely Björn.”

“Is the dog still here?” I asked.

“Still here? Yes, he doesn’t leave you and has climbed onto the sofa beside you and lain down. See, he understands we’re talking about him because he wags his tail so friendly and looks at us in turn.”

Since then, 30 to 40 years have passed.

Lea went west across the ocean shortly after and died many years ago. And about this woman, I know nothing more to say as of now.