The Death & Life of an American Dog (Paws & Claws Book 4)

by Ralph Vaughan

  “I can’t leave you here alone.”

  “Get Levi,” Yoda said. “Our only hope of controlling Baron in his present state is to have an alpha present.”

  “But you…”

  “Go!”

  Groucho went.

  “Remember how I told you I’m a detective with the Three Dog Detective Agency,” Yoda said softly. “Remember? That I wanted to help you? That all my friends wanted to help you be safe and find your way home? Do you remember that?”

  Again, there was no answer, nothing to show that Yoda indeed had found Baron.

  “We still want to help you, Baron,” Yoda said. “That is your name, right? It’s Baron, not Iblis? Do you remember that.”

  “No.”

  The reply was softer than a sigh, but to Yoda’s ears it was almost a shout, and it was definitely Baron. The Pomeranian wanted to yip with joy, but did not want to spook Baron.

  “Baron, old pal, you don’t know how happy I am to find you.”

  “No.”

  “What?” Yoda asked. “What do you mean?”

  “My name is Iblis,” the German Shepherd moaned, shrouded in shadows. “That is what they call me from the middle of the flames.”

  “Do you remember being in Afghanistan?”

  “No, I…” The big dog’s words faded to nothingness.

  “Stay with me, Baron,” Yoda urged.

  “Iblis.”

  “No, your name is Baron, we’re pretty sure, and you are an Army dog,” Yoda said. “A war veteran. A hero.”

  Baron made a sound midway between a moan and a whimper.

  “We may not know what happened to you or how you came to be here, but we do know that much about you,” Yoda said. “And we know your name is not Iblis.”

  “The voice,” Baron moaned. “That’s what it…”

  “Just stop it about some voice in a dream,” Yoda snapped. “It lies to you, that voice. Iblis means ‘Devil,’ and if there is one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re a good dog. Anyone can tell that just talking to you. Sure, you’ve had a rough time, been through a lot, but that doesn’t change who you are. Nothing changes what’s in your heart.”

  “But the voice tells me I’m evil,” Baron whispered. “I must pay for my sins, for the terrible things…”

  “Knock it off, Baron!” the Pomeranian growled. “Stop stewing in that puddle of self-pity. Don’t let anyone tell you what you are, especially someone who is definitely not a friend. You choose your own life. Take it from me. When I was a pup, I was kept in a crack-house, trained to be a sentry, to bark at the least little sound. They hit me with plastic bags and shined lights in my eyes to make me nervous and jittery, just the kind of dog to sound the alarm when the police came around. Sure I could have given in to them, become a wreck of a dog who would beg to be put to sleep just to gain a moment’s peace, but I didn’t give in. And when the police came, I did not bark…because I chose not to bark. You know who rescued me from that terrible place? Military police, and with them were Army dogs, just like you—heroes. So don’t tell me you have to be what someone else calls you. You are who you choose to be.”

  “Well, ain’t that inspirational,” murmured a voice close behind.

  Yoda whirled about to see a dozen feral cats in the watery light emanating from the vending machine, cutting off escape.

  “And talking to himself like a mad dog,” said the leader.

  All the cats had mutilated ears—the Chop Ears!

  “Yeah, I was practicing a speech,” Yoda said. He had no idea whether they actually thought he was alone or were mocking him, but he hoped they did not know Baron was in the alcove behind the water machine. He doubted Baron would be able to protect himself if the lithe, muscular cars swarmed him in the small space. “So, what do you cats want, besides trouble?”

  “Trouble from who?” the lead cat laughed, the others echoing it. “Certainly not from a runt like you.”

  “You Chop Ears try anything and…”

  “And what?” the cat demanded. “I don’t see Levi here to fight your fights for you, or big bad Sunny. I don’t even see that turncoat Smokey or his wimpy little Calico. All I see is you, and that means I don’t see nothing worth worrying about.”

  “I’m warning you,” Yoda said, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he was in for a drubbing.

  “Get him! Get him now!” the cat yelled, an urgent note in his voice, for he knew there was always a chance Levi and the others could show up at any time, turning the tide. “Give it to him good! Teach him a lesson!”

  The Chop Ears swarmed toward the Pomeranian.

  Yoda stood his ground, his legs stiff, his teeth bared, and his fur extending outward like the quills of a disturbed porcupine. The lead cat got a good nip from being too close and leaped back, but the other cats took his place. Claws raked at Yoda, but all most of them got was fur, and some of those were momentarily entangled, bad news for the cats involved since Yoda whipped them around and sent them flying. But a couple of the Chop Ears managed to find soft and vulnerable flesh. Despite Yoda’s determination not to show any pain to the outlaw cats, he yelped as blood was drawn.

  The vending machine suddenly surged forward and it seemed to the startled cats that it roared in anger. The cats ran for their lives as the metal and plastic box toppled with a resounding crash. None of the Chop Ears were crushed, but several now had tails that would never be the same again. Later, when the battered members of the cat gang regrouped in their lair, none would agree on everything that happened in the frantic few minutes following their attack on Yoda, but one thing they all agreed on was the terrible apparition that suddenly appeared atop the fallen and shattered machine, huge in the vague light rising from the guts of the device.

  Its eyes were filled with fire and its teeth were like swords. And when it barked, fear turned their innards to jelly.

  As if the sudden appearance of the demonic figure where not enough, along with Yoda’s renewed snapping and biting at the few Chop Ears recovered enough to renew the attack, the majority of the stunned cats went flying like skittle pins. Levi and Groucho plowed into them, followed closely by a tornado with claws and teeth that answered to the name of Smokey.

  What followed was too short to be called a battle and too one-sided to be called a rout. From the point of view of the Chop Ears, they were trying to escape with a few of their lives intact, but they kept being dragged back for more punishment. By the time the last of them had fled into the night, accompanied by the cheers and jeers of cats attracted by the sounds of fighting, the Chop Ears knew what the ingredients of a chef’s recipe felt like after a few minutes in a food processor.

  “You okay?” Levi asked.

  Yoda nodded, breathless.

  “I’m sorry,” Groucho said to no one in particular. “I knew I shouldn’t have left…”

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Yoda said after gulping a lungful of air. A trickle of blood leaked from a claw mark under his left eye. “I’d a been a goner if you hadn’t shown up with Levi and Smokey when you did. Thanks. You did good.”

  “Leave it you to try to take on the Chop Ears all by yourself,” Smokey quipped, giving Yoda what Yoda himself usually doled out to others.

  Yoda grinned through the pain that was beginning to take hold as his rushing adrenaline subsided. “I wasn’t alone.”

  During the fight, Baron leaped from atop the machine to take the fight to the cats trying to hurt Yoda. Now, trembling, fighting the urge to run, he stepped into the watery light and approached the Pomeranian who had almost lost his life trying to save him.

  “Thank…thank…” The big dog’s legs nearly buckled beneath him, but he remained standing, almost at attention. “Thank you. My name…my name is…Baron.”

  Chapter 7

  By the time Sunny, Atlas and Flashman reached the north end of Broadway, the last vestiges of twilight vanished and the few stars one could see in the city shone down. They paused at the break in the fen
ce and looked over the vast expanse of the estuary, its black shroud unrelieved except for a pale sodium light at each end of the trolley bridge across the marshland, and the ceaseless flow of dim lights along faraway Interstate 5.

  “Something did come this way,” Sunny said, sniffing along the ground and around the edges of the break. She shook her head. “Levi could make some sense of it, but, like you fellows, I’m a sight dog.” She looked into the stygian estuary. “And there isn’t anything to see either.”

  They resumed their trek into National City, sticking to a tight pack formation. Normally, Atlas would have been in the lead as they crossed the bridge over the wetlands, but he ceded that position to Sunny as their guide. Like Levi, Atlas was a natural alpha, very confident in his own abilities, and he knew that true leadership often called for the need to trust others, to encourage them to find the alpha within themselves and become better dogs for it.

  “I wish we had the Husky with us,” Flashman said.

  “Yeah, that would be great,” Atlas agreed. “Fight or no fight, he’s a good dog to have around.”

  “A great dog,” Flashman corrected.

  “The Husky?” Sunny asked.

  “Big fellow, mostly silver coat with a little pale gray, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen,” Flashman said. “Doesn’t say much, but what he does say is worth listening to. Ex-Marine…”

  Atlas growled.

  “Formerly active Marine,” Flashman corrected. “Probably the only Husky the Corps ever had.”

  “Yep,” Atlas agreed.

  “Unfortunately, he lives on the other side of Chula Vista, down in Otay,” Flashman explained. “Has his oddities, though. Like, he’ll tell you, never say you’re sorry, as it’s a sign of weakness, yet he always admits when he’s wrong, which is rare. And he has all these rules, like Rule 1, always trust your pack, and Rule 9, never underestimate a companion with a knife, or Rule 37…”

  “Sounds like a good dog to have around,” Sunny interrupted, not wanting Flashman to go through how-many-ever rules there were. “He have a name?”

  “Gibbs,” Flashman answered.

  “Gibbs?” Sunny laughed. “Really? Gibbs?”

  “Best Marine I ever served with,” Atlas said. “Strongest moral compass I ever saw in any dog…both First Dog and Anubis could learn a thing or two from Gibbs.”

  “I’d like to meet him.” Then Sunny laughed again. “And so would Yoda!”

  “Who knows,” Atlas said. “By the time this thing is over, we might need all the help we can get.”

  As Flashman noted earlier, there were no side streets that led anywhere until they reached the big sign in the middle of the street marking the beginning of the so-called Mile of Cars. Behind that sign was, quite appropriately, more than a mile of car dealerships.

  Sunny’s plan was to take the first through street west after the sign. This would lead them through a labythrine industrial park. It was a dangerous path because of sensor alarms, cameras, possible feral dogs, and the commercial traffic they might encounter along the way, and it would take time to thread their way through. A more direct route would have been to continue northward on National (as the street was officially called), then take a westbound street straight into the marine terminal. That route, however, would have taken the trio very close to the police station. Sunny was sure she could cope with the NCPD K-9 Unit, but, she reasoned, why tempt fate?

  They were not too far past the self-storage complex and the ruins of an out-of-business metalwork factory when they heard a series of sharp barks coming from the eastern side of National. That side of the street, unlike the other, had narrow side streets that ran past turn-of-the-century houses and shabby mid-century apartment buildings. At first, they did not see the source of the barking, jumping up and down at the ill-lit corner, but when they did, Sunny smiled and the two retired military dogs gaped.

  The dog on the other side then darted across the street, moving far faster than one would have ever expected, his little legs nothing but whirling blurs. He leaped the curb and joined them.

  “I’d hae a wee tauk wit’ ye, lassie,” the little dog said, a thick bur in his voice. “Ye, an’ yer muckle freends.”

  “What in the name of Anubis…” Atlas breathed.

  “What is he saying?” Flashman demanded. “You don’t even look like a Collie, for one thing.”

  “Hello, Scott,” Sunny said, smiling hugely. “Boys, this is The Scott.” She glanced at Flashman. “And he said he’d like to have a brief word with me…and my large friends.”

  The little dog glared at the much larger dogs defiantly.

  Atlas and Flashman looked at each other with wonder and confusion, then looked to the newcomer.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Atlas said.

  “An’ nane o’ yer blether, ye goamless blelum!”

  Flashman looked to Sunny.

  “Just wants us to pay attention,” Sunny said, wisely foregoing a direct translation.

  The Scott was a Scottish Terrier, about ten inches tall at the withers, very compact and well-muscled, eyes bright and alert, with the long square muzzle that was indicative of his ancient breed. But what set The Scott apart was his tartan vest and the tam-o’-shanter on his domed head, set between pert ears.

  “Aye, yer wee cheetie, Little Kitty, tald me ye wad be, an’ whatna daein ina nicht,” The Scott said. “I hae seen a slee messen athort the quaw.”

  “Did it look something like a Bulldog, only different?” Sunny asked. “And was its coat brindle?”

  “Aye, twas,” The Scott replied. “Fremmit.”

  Flashman shook his head, his brain hurting from trying to make sense of the little Scotty’s words.

  “He’s seen the Gull Dong?” Atlas demanded.

  “I think so,” Sunny replied. “He saw a foreign dog crossing the estuary this afternoon. At first he called it a mongrel, but that’s understandable if it only resembled a breed with which he was familiar. He also said it was very sly and secretive, slinking through the undergrowth as if it did not want to be seen, but it was moving in the direction of the marine terminal, approaching the slope that rises just the other side of the freeway.”

  “That cinches it,” Atlas growled.

  “Levi was right,” Flashman murmured.

  “He usually is,” Sunny said. “But please don’t tell him that.”

  “Whatt ye need frae me?” The Scott asked.

  “It would be a great help if you could tell Little Kitty and Kim what you told us, and have them relay it to Levi and Yoda,” Sunny answered. “Also, tell them we’re continuing to the terminal to check on the dog you saw and will return as soon as we can.”

  “Aye,” the little dog agreed. “Guid chancie ta ye, lassie…an’ ta yer lairge goamless tykes.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Sunny said.

  “Aye. Fair fa’!”

  The Scottish Terrier turned on the length of his body and darted across the street even faster than he had crossed the first time, legs almost invisible. There was considerable traffic but not a single car even came close to The Scott.

  “You understood all that?” Atlas asked.

  “Well, it does take some getting used to,” Sunny admitted.

  “What was that last part all about?” Flashman asked.

  “He just wished me…all of us…good luck,” Sunny replied, choosing diplomacy over absolute veracity. As Levi often told them, dogs may not lie, but they do know how to keep secrets. “We should be on our way.”

  After a glance toward the darkness into which The Scott had vanished, Atlas and Flashman followed after Sunny. Just past the sign, at an unlit corner where spinners and pie-tins decorated an iron fence set around a sad little motel, they turned westward, heading away from the relatively well-illuminated portion of National City into a vast industrial darkness.

  They navigated the commercial park, avoiding forklifts and trucks unloading in the alleys, and the dark places where dangerous strays
, and more dangerous companions, lurked. A narrow street dipped steeply for a hundred yards, then rose just as sharply. A train clattered overhead, then the roar of the interstate.

  The consecutive bridges made the long underpass seem almost like a tunnel, and when they emerged on the other side it was as if they had entered a totally different world.

  If the streets just prior to the underpass were unlit, then the streets on the other end were positively stygian. The buildings on this side were almost all commercial, some abandoned, some still in business, though sometimes it was hard to tell which was which. Here and there, though, were sagging homes forgotten in the rush of industrialization, trapped on the wrong side of the tracks, and in a few of them bare bulbs flickered dimly behind tattered curtains.

  “I pity any pets forced to live here,” Flashman murmured.

  Atlas nodded. “Depressing.”

  Sunny held silent. It was unlikely pets still lived here, not after the events of two years ago. They had eliminated the threat posed by the companion who left deadly treats for hungry dogs and cats, had seen him taken away, their first contact with the NCPD K-9 Unit. Despite the purging of the poisoner from their midst, no pet wanted to remain, the area having gained a reputation it would not soon shed, and the Three Dog Detective Agency found new homes, better homes for all. Sunny kept the information to herself, though, because no dog, even a military canine who has faced death, would feel comfortable traversing such a cursed neighborhood.

  The road passed by a network of railroad tracks and Sunny veered toward them. Unlike other tracks they had crossed, vestiges of past commercial glory that barely penetrated the asphalt laid over them, these gleamed in the starlight and smelled of oil and friction. These were part of the freight lines operated by the BNSF Railroad. Sunny confidently made her way among the switch-rails, following one that curved away westward between rows of warehouses.

  “This track will lead us directly to the import docks, where the incoming ships are guided by the tugs,” Sunny said.

  “You had better let me and Flashman take the lead from here on, Miss Sunny,” the Doberman suggested.