Even the most anti-American of the writer’s Canadian friends found his refrigerator politics a futile and juvenile exercise. (It was also a waste of Scotch tape.) And the same year In the After-Hours Restaurant was published, 2002, Danny had gotten in the habit of listening on the radio to a patriotic country-music station in the States. Danny could find the channel only late at night; he suspected that the signal was clearest when the wind was blowing north across Lake Ontario.

Did Danny do this to make himself angry at his former country? No, not at all; it was Ketchum’s response to the crappy country music Danny wished he could hear. The writer longed to hear the old logger say, “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with dumb-shit patriotism-it’s delusional! It signifies nothing but the American need to win.” Might not Ketchum have said something like that?

And now, with the war in Iraq almost two years old, wouldn’t Ketchum also have railed that the majority of Americans were so poorly informed that they failed to see that this war was a distraction from the so-called war against terror-not a furtherance of that avowed war?

Danny had no quarrel with seeking out and destroying al-Qaeda-“Seek out and destroy fucking Hamas and Hezbollah while you’re at it!” Ketchum had thundered-but Saddam’s Iraq had been a secular tyranny. Did most Americans understand the distinction? Until we went there, there’d been no al-Qaeda in Iraq, had there? (It didn’t take much for Danny to be over his head, politically; he wasn’t as sure of himself as Ketchum had been. Danny didn’t read as much, either.)

What would the raging woodsman from Coos County have said about the United States declaring an end to “major combat operations” in Iraq in May 2003-less than two months after the war had begun? It was tempting to wonder.

The questions for Ketchum on Danny’s refrigerator may have been a reminder of the war’s folly, but the writer had to wonder why he’d bothered to keep such an overobvious account; it served Danny no purpose, other than to depress him.

To the separate but similar-sounding denials by U.S. secretary of state Colin Powell and British prime minister Tony Blair-who swore in May 2003 that intelligence about Iraq ’s weapons of mass destruction was neither distorted nor exaggerated in order to justify the attack on Iraq -Danny could imagine Ketchum saying, “Show me the weapons, fellas!”

At times, Danny recited the questions for Ketchum to the dog. (“Even the dog,” Ketchum might have quipped, “is smart enough to know where this war is headed!”)

Daniel Baciagalupo would be sixty-three this coming mud season. He was a man who’d lost his only child and his father, and he lived alone-not to mention that he was a writer. Naturally, Danny would talk and read aloud to the dog.

As for Hero, he seemed unsurprised by Danny’s somewhat eccentric behavior. The former bear hound was used to being spoken to; it usually beat getting mauled by a bear.

THE DOG WAS OF INDETERMINATE AGE. Ketchum had been vague about how old this particular Hero was-meaning how many generations were descended from that first “fine animal,” which the current Hero represented. There were more gray hairs on Hero’s muzzle than Danny remembered, but the Walker bluetick’s mottled-white and bluish-gray coat made the gray hairs of age harder to distinguish. And that Hero was lame was not only an indication that the dog was advanced in years; the claw wounds from the bear-mauling had healed long ago, though the scars were very visible, and that hip, where the bear had clawed Hero, suffered from some joint damage. The mangled, mostly missing ear had also healed, but the scar tissue was black and furless.

Most disconcerting to anyone encountering Hero for the first time was that the veteran bear hound was missing an eyelid-on the opposite side of the dog’s fierce face from his mangled ear. The eyelid was lost in Hero’s last confrontation with Six-Pack’s German shepherd, though-according to Pam-Hero had gained the upper hand in the dogs’ final, kennel-clearing fight. Six-Pack was forced to put the shepherd down. She’d never held it against Hero, however; by Pam’s own account, the two dogs had always and sincerely hated each other.

To the writer, the battle-scarred bear hound was a living replica of Coos County, where lethal hatreds were generally permitted to run their course. (As elsewhere, Danny considered-whenever he happened to glance at the questions for Ketchum on his refrigerator door.)

In January 2004, the number of U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq since the start of the war had climbed to five hundred. “Hell, five hundred is nothing-it’s just getting started,” Danny could imagine the old logger saying. “We’ll be up to five thousand in just a few more years, and some asshole will be telling us that peace and stability are right around the corner.”

“What do you think about that, Hero?” Danny had asked the dog, who’d pricked up his one ear at the question. “Wouldn’t our mutual friend have been entertaining on the subject of this war?”

Danny could tell when the dog was really listening, or when Hero was actually asleep. The eye without the eyelid followed you when Hero was only pretending to sleep, but when the dog was truly dead to the world, the pupil and the iris of the constantly open eye traveled somewhere unseen; the cloudy-white orb stared blankly.

The onetime bear hound slept on a zippered dog bed stuffed with cedar chips in the Toronto kitchen. Contrary to Danny’s earlier opinion, Ketchum’s stories of Hero’s farting hadn’t been exaggerated. On the dog bed, Hero’s preferred chew toy was the old sheath for Ketchum’s biggest Browning knife-the one-footer that the riverman used to stash over the sun visor on the driver’s side of his truck. The sheath, which had absorbed the sharpening oil from Ketchum’s oilstone knife sharpener, was possibly still redolent of the slain bear that had once ridden in the cab of the truck; from the way Hero seemed neurotically attached to the lightly gnawed sheath, Danny understandably believed so.

The foot-long Browning knife itself proved to be less useful. Danny had taken the knife to a kitchen-supply store, where they’d tried unsuccessfully to resharpen it; Danny’s repeated efforts to rid the knife of any residue of Ketchum’s sharpening oil, by putting the knife in the dishwasher, had dulled the blade. Now the knife was dull and oily, and Danny had hung it in a most visible but unreachable part of his Toronto kitchen, where it resembled a ceremonial sword.

Ketchum’s guns were another matter. Danny hadn’t wanted them-not in Toronto. He’d given them to Andy Grant, with whom Danny went deer hunting every November. Killing Carl had made it easier for Danny to shoot deer, though he’d refused to fire a shotgun. (“Never again,” he’d said to Andy.) Danny used Ketchum’s Remington.30-06 Springfield instead. In a wooded area, even at reasonably close range, it was harder to hit a deer with that prized collectible, but the kick of the carbine-or the resonance of the short-barreled rifle’s discharge, in his ear-was different from what Danny remembered of the 20-gauge.

Andy Grant knew the Bayfield area like the back of his hand; he’d hunted there as a boy. But, for the most part, Andy took Danny deer hunting on what was more familiar terrain for Danny-that area west of Lost Tower Lake, between Payne’s Road and Shawanaga Bay. In the vicinity of the winter snowmobile portage, and sometimes within sight of the back dock on Charlotte ’s island, was a natural runway-a virtual game path for deer. That way, every November, Danny could look across the gray water at his winter destination. There were places on the mainland, overlooking Shawanaga Bay, where you could see the back dock on Turner Island-even the roof of Granddaddy’s cabin, where Ketchum had once thrown the skin from that rattlesnake he’d shot.