Page 3 of Beware of Hodags

BACK TO THE PRESENT

Rewinding my thoughts, I answer Mirk’s question. “I’m from just outside of Big Rapids, Michigan.” Hersey, to be specific, not that anyone outside of the three hundred of us who live in the town knows it even exists.

Mirk’s eyes flick over the markings on my face. “What did you do before coming here?”

I hesitate, struggling to decide how tight lipped I should be. But Mirk is about to be my employer. If we're doing this on the up and up and I fill out any paperwork, this isn’t a secret I can keep from him.

Shaking off my misgivings, I give him a grimace that I hope looks like a smile. “I was… a mascot.”

Mirk’s eyes go wide. “You’re a—” He blinks. Then his face smooths and he gives me a friendly grin. “For the football team?” He looks me up and down like he’s trying to picture me at my previous job. “The Bulldogs, right?”

I let my surprise show. “How did you guess?”

His face wipes clean of expression for a second before his face splits into a very genuine-seeming grin. “That was the coolest mascot job I could imagine.” He taps my arm with the back of his finger. “Come with me. I have to show you something.”

“Alright,” I say. I was planning on making my way to my rental but I’ve got time.

And how often does one get a free tour guide?

May as well take advantage of this opportunity.

So rather than make my way to the cabin I’ve yet to see, I get into my car and follow Mirk to what turns out to be his farm.

Welcome to Lycosid’s Berry Farm announces a cheery wooden sign set in an aged wooden frame as we pull into his long drive.

The sign bears a cranberry shrub and a blueberry bush, with a crouching wolf painted between them.

Giving the sign a cursory once-over, I note distractedly that it’s a rather ugly wolf, but since I can’t paint, I’m not going to judge.

Instead of fields with tall golden crops or even chopped stalks from some harvested crop, almost as far as the eye can see, Mirk’s farm is flooded with water.

This would seem alarming if not for the little strips of grass that section off the flooded areas into perfect rectangles, leaving no doubt their water logged state is intentional and not due to some crop-killing disaster.

I pause with my foot on the brake, gazing around.

There are a couple of men dressed in chest waders walking through what has to be acres and acres of thigh-high water.

A half dozen trucks, a tractor, and big machines are clustered not far from them, and yellow floating devices circle a huge area of red.

The guys are sweeping giant rakes through what has to be floating cranberries.

One man is riding some kind of rig through the water and the front of the rig looks like a very wide hay elevator.

Except instead of hay, it’s lifting lines of red berries on green paddles.

When he turns, the other side of the vehicle comes into view, allowing me to watch as it shoots a spray of red berries into a huge floating sled.

Behind that sled is another sled, and another behind that one.

All of them getting filled with cranberries that the rig is paddling up out of the water.

Pretty neat.

Mirk slowly continues up the drive with his truck, and I dutifully pull my foot off the brake to follow.

We pass a beautifully maintained rust powder red Gothic arch barn.

A sesquicentennial dairy barn, or so proclaims the bronze plaque attached to the big bankside door.

Tucked behind the barn is a charming white farmhouse with a wraparound porch.

A colonnade of Victorian-style posts complete with incredibly decorative corbels takes my focus—until I see the puppies.

Daisy white canines with black lips, noses, and eyes spill out of a doghouse on the porch, yawning but excited to greet the arrival of humans.

Soon they’re careening past a rocking chair and puppy toys.

Even muffled by the confines of my car, I can hear the pack of them yipping and squeaking in greeting.

They’re squat, stocky, and adorable, all rolls and wrinkles, screw tails and snub noses.

I park behind Mirk’s truck, unbuckle my seat-belt, and exit my car in a daze.

Mirk strolls around his hood, hands in his pockets, grinning at the expression he sees on my face. “Want to pet them?” he asks.

“Bulldog puppies?” I squeak, almost the same delighted frequency the puppies themselves are making. “They’re so cute!”

Smirking now, Mirk leads me to the gate surrounding their yard.

As he does, their momma appears. She emerges from a doggie door set into the door of the house with a loud grunt.

She huffs with effort as she trots over to us, built stocky and low to the ground.

She doesn’t share the reckless thrill of her brood at my appearance.

Instead, she’s giving me a hard stare. When she reaches the fence line I’m standing in front of, she lets out a warning growl that sounds like an alligator's bellow.

This sets off the whole litter, and suddenly five roly-poly puppies are loosing barks in my direction that are the absolute opposite of ferocious.

“They really are,” Mirk agrees, shaking his head at his little guard dogs. “It’s all right, Topanga.”

The momma dog coughs a mistrustful bark under her breath and thunks her butt down.

“She’s a sweetheart—she’s just super protective of her litter.” Mirk pops the latch on the imposing gate that they’re gathered behind and motions for me to enter his puppies’ domain. He scoops up Topanga like she weighs nothing and hugs her.

It’s cute.

It also proves he’s crazy strong. She’s got to weigh seventy pounds at least .

I crouch down and I’m immediately engulfed in playful puppies. They bark and lick and maul me for several minutes before I straighten, grinning. “Can I hold one?”

The dark circles under Mirk’s eyes make me feel bad for asking.

If this is his farm and he’s got men working the harvest, he probably needs to get back into the field himself.

But leaning a shoulder against one of his porch’s posts, Mirk doesn’t rush me.

He smiles indulgently at me and adjusts Topanga so that she’s more comfortable in his arms. “Sure you can.”

I grunt as I heft up one pup. “Oooof. You little cutie!” I exclaim into its squishy puppy face.

When I finish smooching it, I set it down carefully and run my hands over all their wiggling chunky bodies.

“Oh my gosh! Mirk, they’re so cute! And all white?

Wow,” I marvel. “Do you have to worry about deafness or other hereditary problems?”

“Nope.” He hunkers down and releases Topanga, who is no longer giving me warning stares.

He strokes the puppies who trundle over to him.

“And it's a family tradition to raise white litters. It used to be the classic color, but now you don’t see them too much. They’re considered rare. Especially here in Rhinelander.”

“Oh?” I say. “Why is that?”

“White bulldogs are a delicacy for hodags,” he says.

Petting puppies, I look at him uncertainly, waiting for him to give me a teasing smile.

He doesn't. Instead, he's giving me an uncomfortably direct stare.

I frown. Glancing away, I push my hair back behind my ear and clear my throat. “I saw the cranberry collection happening when we came in. Do you need to be out there harvesting?” I wrinkle my nose in a wince. “I’ve heard farmers don’t get days off.”

He sighs, and his body slowly straightens—making me realize he’d leaned forward, looming over me. “That’s the truth. Especially during harvest. ”

I gather my legs under me, preparing to get up—to leave, to let him get back to work.

He holds out his hand in a stalling gesture. “No. Stay.”

I narrow my eyes. “You just agreed you don’t get days off and it’s harvest time.

I should let you get back to it.” But before I can make myself leave, a puppy starts gnawing on my fingers so I haul it up and smooch it.

And I know that the puppies are all the same color and seem to be nearly identical—but I know this is the same puppy I kissed a minute ago.

I check and it’s a boy. I sniff the top of his head, feeling more certain this is the same one.

He was the first one to run up to me and here he is again.

He stares at me adoringly and growls playfully, screw tail twitching in his best approximation of a wag.

“You are my favorite,” I declare, and give him a squeeze.

Mirk’s smile is tired. “Having this little break today was nice. I’ve been working sunup to sundown for weeks and I’ll be working for a couple more.

” He contemplates me for a beat before adding, “Besides, I learned the hard way a long time ago that our time with people is finite. If they’re important to you, you make the time. ”

But… he doesn’t even know me. I’m not important to him.

Reaching for a dog toy I spy in the grass, I tug it to myself and shake it nervously, then gesture around at the soaring fence line of the puppy yard.

“This is one heck of a tall fence for such little guys.” My favorite puppy unlaces my shoe, nomming the heck out of the string. Cute.

Mirk shrugs. His lips twist in what’s probably contemplation as his gaze travels around his yard, but the downturn of his mouth makes his features take on an oddly dark tone.

It’s not like I know him, but somehow it looks…

wrong on his face. “A little overbuilt. But you need to have a good fence if you have bulldogs in hodag territory. And I’m a guardian.

I protect bulldogs, Rachel.” And he gives me the weirdest look.

I surge to my feet. “Well!” Puppies fall back in surprise at my sharp movement. I offer them an apologetic murmur before bestowing the brightest smile I can on Mirk. “Thanks for my tour! I better get to my cabin so I can unpack and unwind before I show up for work on Monday.”