As a puppy, Silk was a hellion. She pooped, peed, barfed and created havoc in every corner of our once peaceful home. Mother was about to become unglued. More than once she asked how we came to find Silk, and our story never changed. After six months or so Silk started to quiet down and finally learned that home wasn’t a bathroom. She no longer chewed things that aught not be chewed. Her favorite toy became old tied up wool socks. She would carry them around the house and fall asleep with the worn socks tucked under her furry chin. Her intelligence was surprising and she sensed how I felt: if I were sad or angry, she would reach out and put her paw on my forearm, then give me a quick lick. It was hard to stay mad with Silk around.

Occasionally she would give chase to one of our cats, but she would never back them into a corner. If anything, she was like a thirty pound, furry police dog: if a fight broke out, she would break it up – no animal ever fought back to Silk. She protected the whole family, though I could tell I was her favorite. If Silk sensed danger she would sit between my legs and let anyone or anything know she meant business. She wasn’t all business though, she enjoyed her games: flying squirrel was her favorite. Either Kye or I would sit on the couch and have the coffee table cleared off, and then Silk would be held back while the person on the couch Held up toy. On ‘launch’, Silk would be released and she would charge up to the coffee table, jump up then launch herself airborne. She would get so much height sometimes she would almost sail pass over our heads.

While Kye and I would explore the valley, Silk was always by our side. The valley our tribe shared with Mother Nature was about six by thirteen miles and filled with wildlife. We had been there for generations, tending the land while the land provided for us all. Our home was near a steep cliff, and that is where the cave was. Someday I would explore that cave, but not now. Our friends, especially Hoice and his sister, Elizabeth, would explore with us. There was one home we always kept our distance from: it wasn’t that it was scary, but that we all felt an unwelcome presence there. The only time I saw anyone there was during a humid summer day. Our little gang was kicking and passing a soccer ball down the street when the ball landed against the picket fence. Tall scrubs grew on the other side of the fence so the view of the home was obscured. Just as I ran up to retrieve the ball, a hand reached out and grabbed the fence. A hand with a tattoo: one I would see again.After a few quick strides, I turned to look back at the eerie house. There were no remnants of the mysterious hand, but in front of the weathered picket fence gate stood a tall, young girl, waving at me. She had dark, long hair and her physique was stunning. Something about her alarmed me: something deep inside warned me to beware. Later I would see her again, and as time passed our chance encounters would increase: always making me uneasy though she was always friendly. Her name, I learned, was Aoife: an old Irish name for an evil young girl. Ironically, in the story Aoife was turned into a crow, and the related raven was a sacred bird to us.