Please Don't Feed the Mayor

by Sue Pethick

  They were less than a block from Main. As they passed First Street, Bryce lifted his head, looking for any sign of Shep. After being held captive so long, the collie might simply have panicked and run off, he thought, though it seemed unlikely. Wherever the dog was going, Bryce was just happy that—so far, at least—Shep hadn’t run in front of the car.

  The Honda turned left and headed east on Main, the wheels smoking as they skidded through the turn. The city limits were in sight. If he was going to get out of this alive, Bryce had to hurry and make his move.

  As the car settled, he brought his right knee up, leaned forward, and slipped his hands around the other leg. With his hands in front of him, Bryce felt a new surge of hope. He kicked off his shoes and began working his right foot free, praying for anything that would give him a few more seconds to free himself. Melanie’s tires were nearly bald, he thought. Maybe they’d get a flat.

  Then Colton let up on the gas.

  “What the—”

  As the car slowed, Bryce looked up. Dozens of goats were pouring into the street from the Stubbses’ ranch. Romping and leaping, they filled the road, leaving no room for the car to pass.

  Colton screamed in frustration.

  “Get out of the way!”

  He put his hand on the steering wheel and pushed. As the horn blared, the goats stiffened and fell like dominos onto the road in front of them. Not realizing what he’d done, Colton continued to lay on the horn.

  “No, no! Stop that!”

  As more goats ran into the road and were startled by the horn, they fainted and fell in fright. Colton’s face became a mask of rage. He seemed unable or unwilling to stop honking at them.

  “Fine,” he said, jerking the wheel. “If that’s the way you want to die, it’s no fault of mine.”

  The car began to move forward, but slowly, as if something was blocking the way. At first, Bryce wondered if they might have hit a pothole, but when the front end finally collapsed, he realized that the front axle had broken.

  By that time, however, his feet were free; seconds later, his hands, too, were unbound. As Colton tried to put the car into reverse, Bryce grabbed for the gun. Colton saw him coming and grabbed the weapon in time to hit him in the face, but the blow loosened his grip and the gun fell onto the floor. With the car disabled and the weapon out of reach, Bryce decided to make a break for it. He kicked the door open and ran.

  Shep was on the far side of the road. As Bryce scrambled toward him, the dog barked a greeting that sent three of the recovering goats tumbling back onto the ground.

  “Come on, boy,” Bryce said. “Let’s get out of here. Go!”

  The collie turned and ran toward the Stubbses’ yard. Bryce heard a pop and saw a spray of gravel fly up ahead of him. Then a second pop and a third. Shep stumbled and fell.

  “No!”

  Bryce ran forward and fell to his knees, shielding the collie’s body with his own. He heard footsteps behind him; saw Colton’s shadow on the ground, his arm outstretched; in the distance, he heard the faint sound of a siren that would arrive too late.

  He heard a gunshot and tensed, waiting for the impact of metal on bone. Instead, a scream of rage and pain rent the air. Bryce turned and saw Colton clutching what was left of his right hand, blood dripping through his fingers.

  “What the hell?” He crouched protectively, scanning the area for the source of the bullet.

  “Give yourself up, Colton,” Bryce said. “The car’s dead and the cops are almost here. You’ll never make it.”

  The man shuddered and tucked the injured hand under his arm.

  “You think so?” Colton sneered. “Just watch me.”

  He turned and ran into the Stubbses’ yard, toward Everett’s truck. The one with the key fob inside. The one that didn’t need a security system.

  “This isn’t over,” he snarled, grabbing the door handle.

  “It’s too late,” Bryce said. “The cops are almost here. Give yourself up.”

  “Forget it. I’m not going back to jail.”

  Colton hoisted himself into the front seat.

  “I will be back,” he said. “You can count on it.”

  As the truck door slammed and the engine started, Bryce looked down at Shep and smiled.

  “Sit up, you little faker. This is going to be good.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Melanie had just passed First Street when she heard the gunshot. Finding the remains of their roadblock on Third had taken the wind out of Walt’s sails and he’d insisted she go on without him, promising to catch up once he recovered. Now, tired and winded herself, she staggered toward Main Street, wondering what she would find. Had Shep understood her command? Or had he merely run off to escape danger?

  At the intersection, she turned left and her heart leaped. Two blocks away, the street was full of goats. Half of them were lying stiff legged in the road; of the rest, most were already leaping, kicking, and butting heads while the others kept a wary eye out for the dog who’d driven them from their pen. Her Honda had been abandoned, the left front wheel broken against the curb, the front end collapsed on the sidewalk. She felt a surge of triumph—her plan had worked!—followed by a wave of panic as she realized that neither Shep nor Bryce was in sight. She heard someone shouting in the distance and hurried forward to see what was going on.

  At first, Melanie couldn’t make sense of the scene in front of her. Twenty feet away, she saw Bryce on his knees, crouched protectively over Shep, who lay in front of him. Behind them, Jesse Lee Colton was clutching his right hand, howling in pain as blood pooled on the ground in front of him, the gun he’d been carrying nowhere in sight. He’d obviously been injured, but how? Had Shep attacked him and gotten himself shot? The thought that her dog might have been killed for obeying her command sent a wave of nausea and self-reproach crashing over her.

  But if Colton had shot Shep, then where was the gun? Had it blown up? The man looked like he’d lost half his hand. Melanie couldn’t think of anything else that would leave the man so grievously injured.

  Unless someone else had shot him.

  She saw Bryce turn and say something to Colton and Melanie’s heart leaped as she saw Shep raise his head. He might be injured, she thought, but at least he was alive. Colton was screaming obscenities, vowing revenge, but without his weapon, the man’s threats were meaningless. He turned and ran toward the Stubbses’ ranch, still clutching his damaged hand. Melanie watched Bryce bend forward and say something to Shep, and her heart swelled in gratitude as the collie sat up and the two of them turned to watch the man dashing toward Everett’s pickup truck.

  “Uh-oh,” Melanie said, feeling a bubble of nervous laughter rise up in her throat. “Horrible Harry.”

  Colton had reached the truck, guessing rightly that a workingman’s truck in a rural area would most likely have the keys inside, ready to go. Tucking his injured hand under his arm, he yanked the door open and jumped inside, issuing a final threat before slamming the door. As the engine roared to life, Bryce and Shep scrambled to their feet, running past the still-frozen goats to take shelter behind the abandoned car. Melanie ran over, dropped down beside them, and hugged them both.

  “Thank God you’re safe,” she said. “I was so scared you’d be gone before the police arrived.”

  “It was Shep,” Bryce said, hugging the collie’s neck. “You should have seen Colton’s face when those goats started to fall.”

  They heard gravel flying and ducked as Colton slammed the Stubbses’ truck into gear and peeled out onto the road. Melanie giggled as she watched him go.

  “How far do you think he’ll get?”

  “Good question,” Bryce said. “Depends on how sound a sleeper Harry is.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. The truck had just started picking up speed when it began to swerve violently, the cab’s interior a blur of waving arms and beating wings. The tires skidded, the door flew open, and Colton tumbled into the road, trying to shake off the rooste
r that had sunk his talons into the man’s back. The sound of police sirens, which had been growing steadily louder, became deafening as three police cars, their blue and white lights flashing, screeched to a halt. Six doors flew open, behind each an officer with a gun, every one of them pointed at the man on the ground. Oblivious to the danger, and having successfully defended his territory, Harry hopped off Colton’s back and returned to his mobile coop. The grateful fugitive put his still-bleeding hands behind his head and was quickly surrounded and taken into custody.

  The street filled with people as Fossett’s residents came out of hiding, anxious to see the results of the plan that Walt and Bryce had cooked up during a frantic phone call less than two hours before. As Colton sat handcuffed in the back of a cruiser, the sheriff walked over to find out what had happened. It took fifteen minutes and three people—Bryce, Walt, and Melanie—to explain, but not one of them could answer the biggest question of all.

  “Who,” the sheriff asked, “shot Colton?”

  Heads shook and shoulders were raised in consternation. No one could figure out where the bullet that had taken away both the gun and half of Colton’s hand had come from. A second deputy walked over, carrying the gun in a plastic bag.

  “Judging from where he was standing and where the gun landed, I’d say it came from somewhere up there.”

  All eyes turned in the direction of Lou Tsimiak’s house. There on his lookout tower stood the last Luckiamute warrior, his face painted, a pair of eagle feathers tied in his plaited hair, wearing the uniform of a U.S. Marine. He raised a fist and brought it down on his chest.

  “Oorah!”

  The crowd gasped.

  “Who the hell is that?” the sheriff said.

  “An Indian warrior,” Bryce said.

  Melanie nodded. “And one hell of a shot.”

  Walt merely shook his head and grinned.

  “Well, I’ll be danged.”

  EPILOGUE

  Melanie flinched as the microphone was thrust in her face. No matter how many of these interviews she did, they never seemed to get any easier. Each one felt like the first: Her palms sweated, her hands shook, and her knees felt like rubber. Nevertheless, when she looked around at the changes in her little town, she knew it was more than worth the effort. Fossett wasn’t just surviving; it was thriving.

  The reporter with the mic gave her a tight smile, still waiting for an answer.

  “You’re right,” Melanie said at last. “It’s been quite a ride. If you’d told me a year and a half ago that Fossett would be doing as well as it is, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

  The woman nodded her perfectly coiffed head.

  “You will admit, however, that there have been some bumps along the way.”

  “Of course,” Melanie said. “Being called The Craziest Town in America was kind of a shock, at first. We knew some people might laugh, and a few of us even wondered if it hit a little too close to home.”

  She winked.

  “When you look at the results, though, it’s hard to argue that it was anything but a boon for us.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly made a big splash in a short time. I hear Flora’s Crazy-Good Pies just made the list of ‘Oprah’s Favorite Things.’”

  “That’s right,” Melanie said. “And Flora’s not the only one in town whose business is thriving.”

  All around them, people were hurrying toward the auditorium. They needed to wrap this up quickly and get inside.

  “Are there any plans to hold another election?”

  Melanie paused. There’d been some talk about holding another election—Rod, especially, was still keen—but most people felt that for the time being, at least, having a dog as their mayor was just fine. One day, of course, Shep would be gone, but he still had plenty of years left. For now, she preferred not to think too much about that.

  “I think we’ll let Shep finish out his term, first, before making that decision.”

  “The North Korean press is claiming your dog’s election proves that democracy is a failure,” the woman said. “What’s your response to that?”

  Melanie laughed.

  “Well, it probably wasn’t what the Founding Fathers had in mind, but it was the will of the people.”

  “So, would you say that Fossett’s experiment in democracy is going well?”

  “Very well. Ask anyone in town and they’ll tell you—Shep’s a great mayor.”

  “Tell me, what does a dog mayor do on an average day?”

  “Most days, he’s on his dog bed at the coffee shop. He greets people when they come in and poses for pictures when people ask. We also found a stamp pad with nontoxic ink, so he can sign autographs. We have had to ask people not to give him treats, though.”

  “Hence, the sign: ‘Please Don’t Feed the Mayor.’”

  Melanie nodded. So many people wanted to give her dog a treat that he’d gained almost six pounds in the first few months after his election. Now that his weight had returned to normal, Shep’s treats were limited to the ones he got from Walt.

  “We understand that he does have a few official duties, though.”

  “Right. Every other Saturday morning—today being one—Shep conducts city business in the high school auditorium. People can come sit in the bleachers and watch.”

  The cameraman panned across the crowd of people waiting to see Shep conduct the town’s business that day. The biweekly “town hall” was actually closer to an amateur theater production than true governance, but that didn’t stop people from coming, and the residents loved playing their parts. Everyone who participated came with their own “grievance” to air in front of the mayor, and Jewell Divine was there to interpret Shep’s thoughts for the audience. In addition to being fun to watch, the meetings had even mitigated some of the real problems and concerns that came to light. As Melanie had discovered, just giving folks a chance to be heard—even by a dog—was often enough to solve the problem.

  “I hear you’ve been getting some pretty big crowds.”

  “We have. In fact, we’d better get in there if you want to see him in action.”

  “I would, yes,” the reporter said. “But before we do, what have you learned in the last eighteen months about Fossett and the folks who live here? Do you think it’s hurt or helped that so many people still think of this as a crazy town?”

  Melanie frowned thoughtfully. For once, someone had asked her a question she hadn’t already been asked and answered a dozen times.

  “I learned that trying to change people is a losing strategy. People are the way they are; we don’t all have to be the same. I also learned that there are lots of ways to define success. We may not have any corporate headquarters or big manufacturers here, but Fossett has a lot of other things going for it: community spirit, civic pride, a below-average cost of living, and abundant natural beauty. If something’s made here, we go out of our way to buy it, sell it, and promote it. Because of that, we now have more artists, musicians, and writers per capita than any other city west of the Mississippi. Creative people are attracted to the offbeat, the quirky, the unusual, and people in Fossett like being appreciated for who and what they are.

  “As far as being called crazy goes, I guess that depends on what your definition of crazy is. Is it crazy to have a dog for a mayor? Maybe, but people told us we were crazy to base our economy on tourism and the arts, and we’re doing fine.”

  Melanie glanced over and saw Bryce signal her from the door—Shep was about to call the meeting to order. She nodded and smiled at the woman with the mic.

  “It might even be crazy for a woman to marry the same man twice,” she said, smiling, “but I think I can live with that.”

  Acknowledgments

  Many many thanks to everyone at Kensington for working tirelessly on my behalf, and to my stalwart agent, Doug Grad. I couldn’t do what I do without you.

  Author’s Note

  The idea of having a dog mayor is not as far-fetched as it soun
ds. In fact, not only dogs, but cats and other domestic animals have been mayors of several municipalities around the world. The inspiration for this story, however, was Bosco Ramos, a Labrador retriever/Rottweiler mix who was elected mayor of Sunol, California, in 1981. According to Wikipedia, the British tabloid Daily Star called Sunol “the wackiest town in the world” for electing a dog as its mayor, and in 1990, the Chinese newspaper People’s Daily used Bosco’s election as an example of the failings of the American electoral process. Bosco served as mayor of Sunol until his death in 1994. A statue of the plucky pooch was erected in front of the Sunol Post Office in 2008.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt of Boomer’s Bucket List.

  Author Sue Pethick presents a warm and fuzzy love story about a passionate pet owner, a smitten newsman, and an unforgettable dog who steals everybody’s heart....

  When her cuddly canine companion, Boomer, is diagnosed with a rare heart condition, Jennifer Westbrook decides to take a leave of absence from her busy PR job—and take Boomer on the greatest road trip of his life.

  Charting a course from Chicago to California, Jennifer plans some pet-friendly pit stops for her four-legged friend, including a dog show, a fire hydrant museum, and a factory full of squeaky toys. But when she tries to sneak Boomer into a NASCAR press box—disguised as her Seeing Eye dog—Jennifer’s cover is blown by a curious but very cute reporter named Nathan Koslow.

  Boomer takes an instant shine to Nathan, unlike the other men in Jennifer’s life. When the charming journalist asks to join them on their journey, she can’t say no. But when she learns that someone has created a website called Boomer’s Bucket List—and it’s gone totally viral—the trip takes a wildly unexpected turn for Jennifer, Nathan, and the dog who brought them together.