Shouper at the Casco Bank in Bridgton had explained to her that if the money was put in a special trust account, it plus the lottery money would make nearly all the outstanding mortgage payments over the next five years. She had landed a decent job in the packing and billing department of Castle Rock's one real industry, Trace Optical. The sale of Joe's equipment - including the new chainfall -
had brought them in an additional three thousand dollars. It was possible for them to keep the place, she had explained to Brett, but it was apt to be a hard scrabble. The alternative was an apartment in town. Brett had slept on it, and it had turned out that what he wanted was what she wanted - to keep the home place. And so they had stayed.
'What's his name?' Brett asked.
'Doesn't have a name. He's just weaned.'
'Is he a breed?'
'Yes,' she said, and then laughed. 'He's a Heinz. Fifty-seven Varieties.'
He smiled back, and the smile was strained. But Charity reckoned it better than no smile at all.
'Could he come in? It's started to snow again.'
'He can come in if you put down papers. And if he piddles around, you clean it up.'
'All right.' He opened the door to go out.
'What do you want to call him, Brett?'
'I don't know,' Brett said. There was a long, long pause. 'I don't know yet. I'll have to think on it.
She had an impression that he was crying, and restrained an impulse to go to him. Besides, his back was to her and she couldn't really tell. He was getting to be a big boy, and as much as it pained her to know it, she-understood that big boys often don't want their mothers to know they're crying.
He went outside and brought the dog back in, carrying it cradled in his arms. It remained unnamed until the following spring, when for no reason either of them could exactly pinpoint, they began to call it Willie. It was a small, lively, short-haired dog, mostly terrier.
Somehow it just looked like a Willie. The name stuck.
Much later, that spring, Charity got a small pay raise. She began to put away ten dollars a week. Toward's Brett's college.
Shortly before those mortal events in the Camber dooryard, Cujo's remains were cremated. The ashes went out with the trash and were disposed of at the Augusta waste-treatment plant. It would perhaps not be amiss to point out that he had always tried to be a good dog. He had tried to do all the things his MAN and his WOMAN and most of all his Boy, had asked or expected of him.
He would have died for them, if that had been required. He had never wanted to kill anybody. He had been struck by something, possibly destiny, or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor.
The small cave into which Cujo had chased the rabbit was never discovered. Eventually, for whatever vague reasons small creatures may have, the bats moved on. The rabbit was unable to get out and it starved to death in slow, soundless misery. Its bones, so far as I know, still remain there with the bones of those small animals unlucky enough to have tumbled into that place before it.
I'm tellin you so you'll know,
I'm tellin you so you'll know,
I'm tellin you so you'll know,
Ole Blue's gone where the good dogs go.
-FOLK SONG
September 1977 –
March 1981
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Document Outline
Cujo - Stephen King
Title Page
Dedication
The Story Begins...
