"One of the dogs the Aleuts left behind when the Japs drove them out," Gunnar said.
He threw a small chunk of gristle. The dog cowered at the motion but darted forward as the piece fell and wolfed it down without chewing.
"Here you are, pooch," Gunnar called.
"Why, he's starved," Martha observed.
Gunnar held more meat in his hand and backed into the cave. The dog followed, wagging his stumpy tail, all growling and menace forgotten as he found the humans friendly.
"We can't let him live," he said reluctantly as the dog accepted the food from his hand. "He'd run in and out and lead the Japs here."
"I guess you're right," the nurse agreed, "But—"
Gunnar picked up his knife, but the dog chose that moment to lick his wrist with a rough, wet tongue, place one paw on his knee and look up inquiringly. Gunnar extended it toward Martha. "Here, you do it. I can't."
She made no move to take the weapon. "I can't, either. He trusts us."
She yawned. A few seconds later he did likewise. Then the dog yawned, too. Gunnar fought another yawn.