The Last Dog on Earth

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  Sheriff Van Wyck of the Redmont

  County, Oregon Sheriff's Office on June 20

  My name is Rudy Stagg. I am forty-two years old, and I have lived in Redmont my whole life. I am a home security consultant. I also run a dog-training business. I train dogs for home security.

  For the record, I want to state that I did absolutely nothing wrong. I shot and killed the dog this morning because the dog was endangering human beings. In my judgment deadly force was necessary. As every officer in this town knows, I am licensed to carry a firearm. I own a registered .357 Colt Magnum.

  Derek Colby called me because his Rottweilers were acting strange. Now, these were dogs that I knew and trained myself, so I went out to see what was wrong. When I got there, one of the dogs was actually attacking him. I barely managed to get the shots off in time. The other dog was already dead when we went inside. We took it to a vet to be examined.

  This isn't the first time I've heard about a dog going nuts recently. Another client of mine, James Tetford, called me four days ago to ask me to train up a new Doberman for him. The one he bought from me last year was mauled to death by a neighbor's dog. Weird thing is, the neighbor's dog was some little weenie thing. Beagle? Spaniel? Something like that.

  And I also heard on my police-band radio about that Lab up on Nakootick Way that your officers had to put down. Seems to me there's some kind of new dog bug going around.

  Killing dogs is not my profession. But I stand by my constitutional right to bear arms and use them when necessary.

  Thank you.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The Wallaces' Summer Kickoff Barbecue was even worse than Logan had expected.

  Fortunately, nobody in the backyard even really noticed that he was there. The adults were all standing in little clusters by the pool, slurping beer and laughing. Devon Wallace was bullying every single kid into playing Ping-Pong with him, even the eight-year-olds. Robert sat on a folding lawn chair next to the gas grill, where Mr. Wallace was flipping burgers in an apron and a white chef 's hat. Judging from the way Robert was looking at Mr. Wallace, you'd think the guy had just discovered the cure for cancer.

  Logan wasn't surprised. It was all part of Robert's act. He had this annoying habit of pretending to be interested in whatever Mr. Wallace had to say, no matter how boring it was. Mr. Wallace could be talking about cleaning his pool or some other garbage that would make most normal people want to take a nap, but Robert would just sit there with this look on his face … and Logan couldn't help wondering if he'd spent hours in the mirror practicing it—the concerned look, the serious look: eyes focused, forehead wrinkled, as if to say, “Oh, yes, I completely understand why cleaning your pool is such an important subject, and I have some important opinions of my own!”

  Then speak up! Logan always wanted to tell him. We're all very curious!

  It was obvious why Robert tried so hard. Mr. Wallace had everything Robert wanted: a lot of money, a big house, a swimming pool, and a perfect son. So Robert probably figured that if he listened carefully enough (or at least pretended to listen), he'd discover the key to getting all those things himself. It was pretty sad, if you really thought about it.

  Well, actually it wasn't that sad, because it was sort of funny, in a way. The thing was, Robert would always get bored with Mr. Wallace after about five minutes and start stuffing his face with food. Then he'd get bored with that. Back and forth, back and forth. That was the general pattern of the Summer Kickoff Barbecue. Mostly Logan just stood off to the side and watched Robert at work: pigging out, phony-baloney, pigging out, phony-baloney….

  “I thought Outward Bound was for troublemakers,” Robert was saying. He grabbed an open bag of potato chips from the table beside him and stuffed some into his mouth.

  Mr. Wallace shook his head. “Not at all. It teaches valuable life skills. Teamwork. Survival. Self-motivation.” He laughed. “Not like Devon needs to learn that kind of thing. I'm sure he'll be running the whole program by the end of it.”

  “Going was all Devon's idea?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Mr. Wallace said proudly. He stopped flipping burgers for a moment and glanced at Robert. “You know, you might want to think about something like Outward Bound for Logan.”

  Robert grimaced. “We have thought about it,” he said. “Actually, Logan's guidance counselor recommended one of those special boot camps. You know, for troubled kids.”

  Uh-oh. As quickly as he could, Logan ducked behind some bushes at the edge of the patio. He didn't want to hear anything more about his guidance counselor, Mr. Powell. During the past year, the school had made him have “sessions” with Mr. Powell twice a week. Mr. Powell would sit there and try to get Logan to explain why he cut school so often and didn't make any effort in his classes, and Logan would sit there and not answer. Wasn't it obvious?

  “Boot camp would be perfect for a nonverbal type like you,” Mr. Powell had told him.

  A nonverbal type. Logan couldn't believe people actually talked like that. It's not that I'm nonverbal, he'd almost said. It's just that I have nothing to say to you.

  Whatever. School was out for the summer. He wouldn't have to see Mr. Powell again until September. Besides, right now he had more important things to worry about, like testing the Logan Moore Master Remote Control.

  He bent down and slung his backpack off his shoulders, then gingerly removed the LMMRC. A smile spread across his face. Even if the thing didn't work, at least it looked cool. It was heavy and black—about the size of a shoe box—with two long silver antennae sticking out from the front of it in a V shape, like an insect's head. Come to think of it, the big dial in the middle was sort of like a nose. And the big red button could be a pimple. Or a wart. Yeah … in fact, the whole device looked more like the face of some freakish, prehistoric bug than like a souped-up remote control. Which made sense, in a way. There was an electronic brain inside. A brain with telepathic powers.

  If it worked. But Logan was pretty sure—

  Something brushed up against his legs. He swiveled around and found himself nose to nose with a chocolate brown Labrador.

  Otis. Logan frowned.

  The dog was panting. Logan could smell his breath. It wasn't very pleasant.

  “Shoo, boy,” Logan whispered. He stood up straight. “Go on. Shoo. Get out of here—”

  “Hey, Logan! What are you doing?”

  Logan's shoulders sagged. Just his luck: Devon Wallace was coming his way.

  Devon was all sweaty from Ping-Pong, but every blond hair was still perfectly in place. He sneered at the LMMRC.

  “Whatcha got there?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Logan mumbled. He was beginning to wish he'd never opened his backpack.

  Otis's tail started wagging.

  “What is it, some kind of remote control?” Devon asked.

  “Something like that,” Logan said. “I was just—”

  “Here, let me see it,” Devon interrupted. He snatched the LMMRC from Logan's grasp. “What's it supposed to do?” He pushed the red button and flicked the dial.

  “Nothing,” Logan said.

  Devon shoved the LMMRC back into Logan's hands. “I bet I could whip your butt in Ping-Pong,” he said.

  Logan shrugged. “I'm sure you could.”

  “You want to play me?”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on,” Devon said. He grinned. “I've whipped everybody else's butt. You're the only one who hasn't played me yet.”

  Otis started licking one of Devon's sweaty legs. His big tongue made a slurping noise.

  “I don't really like Ping-Pong,” Logan said.

  “Probably because you stink at it,” Devon said.

  “Probably,” Logan agreed. He thought for a minute. “Actually, I'd say definitely. That's definitely why I don't like it.”

  “So you really don't want to play me?” Devon asked. He sounded annoyed.

  “What's the point?” Logan
said. “We both know you're going to win, right? Here, I'll tell you what. Let's tell people that we just played and you creamed me. How's that? You can tell everyone here that I didn't even score a single point. I'll go along with whatever you say.”

  For what seemed like a long time, Devon just stared at Logan, as if he'd answered in Swahili. Then he stalked off.

  “Weirdo,” he muttered under his breath.

  Logan almost laughed. Guys like Devon never knew what to do with anyone who didn't accept some dumb challenge. They counted on you being just like them, needing to win. They needed to humiliate you in public, even if the whole world already knew that you stank. Winning was the only thing that counted.

  That was weird.

  On the other hand, Logan could guess why Devon felt he had to win all the time. His parents never shut up about how great he was— at sports and pretty much everything else. So he probably felt some sort of obligation to whip everybody, as if he had to keep living up to what his parents said. You sort of had to feel a little sorry for him.

  Sort of.

  Logan scanned the backyard for something he could test the LMMRC on. There was nothing on the lawn by the Ping-Pong table, just Devon looking sulky … nothing by the pool, just a bunch of dumb kids splashing around … nothing by the grill—

  Aha. The stereo.

  It was perched on the patio wall, right by the sliding glass doors that led to the kitchen. A slender black remote lay beside it. The radio was still tuned to that cheesy adult rock station.

  As quietly as he could, Logan crept across the back of the patio, bending low so Robert and Mr. Wallace wouldn't notice him—and zeroed in on a row of potted plants about ten feet from the stereo. He tiptoed the last few steps and crouched behind the leaves, parting them with the antennae. Then he flicked the dial to S (for stereo) and pressed the red button.

  Nothing happened.

  He pressed it once more.

  Still nothing.

  Hmmm. Okay. He reminded himself not to be too discouraged. There were bound to be a few kinks in any invention. Take his last masterpiece—the LMSPWW (the Logan Moore Superpowerful Weed Whacker). It had had to be modified several times before it did what it was supposed to do. In fact, he'd been forced to take apart the entire motor and rebuild it twice before he got it right. Anyway, the Wallaces' stereo might use some kind of special frequency.

  Just for kicks, he flicked the dial to GDO (garage door opener) and pressed the button a third time.

  The music stopped.

  It works! Logan bit his lip to keep from saying the words out loud.

  Mr. Wallace and Robert frowned at the stereo.

  Logan pressed the button again. The music kicked back in.

  Mr. Wallace and Robert exchanged a puzzled glance. They both shrugged and turned back to the grill.

  Logan grinned. Now he was getting somewhere. Still, it was one thing to turn a stereo on and off; it was another actually to control it. He flicked a switch marked Volume, then gave the dial below it a twist.

  A piercing, high-pitched whistle exploded from the speakers.

  Logan flinched. Yikes. That was really loud. It sounded like a fire alarm.

  Mr. Wallace dropped his spatula. He clamped his hands over his ears and scowled at Robert. Robert clamped his hands over his ears, too. Otis barked. His ears stiffened.

  “What's going on?” Mr. Wallace shouted.

  Robert shook his head. Otis was barking wildly now.

  Logan twisted the volume knob on the LMMRC back to zero. The speakers crackled a little, but that was it. Not good. Everybody was holding their hands over their ears and making faces at the stereo. Their cheeks were all scrunched up like dried fruit.

  “Come on, come on,” Logan muttered. He jabbed at the red button. Nothing happened.

  Otis's bark turned into a howl: “Ahhh-oooo.” He started chasing his tail, running in tight, crazy circles on the lawn.

  “Turn it off !” Devon yelled from across the yard. “Turn it off !”

  Mr. Wallace strode toward the stereo, hands still tight over his ears. At the same moment, Otis came out of his circle and started for the patio. He barreled straight into Mr. Wallace's legs. Mr. Wallace stumbled and crashed to the lawn. His chef 's hat fell off his head.

  “Ahhh-oooo!” Otis howled.

  Logan giggled. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it.

  Otis lunged at the stereo.

  Logan's jaw dropped. The dog's brown body hurtled through the air and slammed right into the CD player, knocking it off the patio wall. The big silver box bounced on the flagstones with a metallic thud. The speaker cables jerked. Logan winced, squeezing his eyes shut. Please don't break. Please don't—

  The whistling stopped.

  Logan opened his eyes.

  The backyard fell silent. Well, almost. Otis still hadn't calmed down. In fact, he seemed to have worked himself into a brand-new frenzy—racing around and snorting. Mr. Wallace sat on the lawn, looking dazed.

  “All right, everybody stay calm!” Devon yelled. He ran alongside the pool. “I'll handle the dog!” He waved his arms. “Bad dog! Heel, boy! Heel!”

  Otis bolted straight for him.

  Devon dropped to one knee at the pool's edge and pointed toward the ground. “I said heel,” he growled. “Right now.”

  Otis didn't even slow down. He crashed into Devon and pushed him off balance. For a moment, Devon teetered over the clear blue water—then he toppled in. Splash!

  Everybody gasped.

  Logan burst out laughing. Otis looked pleased with himself, as if he'd just pulled off a really neat trick—even neater than fetching his own leash. He kept right on running, around and around the pool. His tail wagged.

  Devon's hair looked like a stringy blond mop. It hung in his face and dripped on his drenched clothes as he hauled himself out of the water.

  “Logan! What are you doing?”

  Uh-oh. Robert had spotted him behind the plants.

  “What do you have there?” Robert demanded, his face reddening.

  “It's … uh, that remote control thingy I was telling you about,” Logan said. He stood up and glanced at Mr. Wallace. Now he felt bad. The poor guy was hunched over the fallen CD player, examining it very carefully, the way a doctor would examine a patient. There was a grass stain on the seat of his khaki shorts.

  “You did this,” Robert sputtered. “Didn't you? Didn't you? Answer me!”

  “I think I did,” Logan admitted. He stepped out from behind the plants and cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  Mr. Wallace lifted the CD player and set it back on the patio wall. He forced a strained smile. “That's okay, Logan,” he said. “I'm sure you didn't blow my stereo speakers on purpose.” He emphasized the last two words, as if to tell Logan that he didn't really mean what he was saying.

  “If anything's broken, I'll pay for it,” Logan said.

  “Pay for it?” Robert asked. “With what? When you say you'll pay for it, you really mean I'll pay for it. You think this is funny, don't you?”

  Logan didn't answer. His face was hot. Everybody was staring at him.

  “You know, I think it's okay,” Mr. Wallace said. Now he sounded embarrassed. “The speaker cables just got ripped out. Really, Robert. It's not that big a deal. They make these stereos to withstand a lot of abuse.”

  “Can I take a look at it?” Logan offered. “If it's broken, maybe I could fix it.”

  “Don't you think you've done enough damage for one day?” Robert asked. He planted himself between Logan and Mr. Wallace and folded his arms across his chest. “If you think I'm going to let you get within five feet of the Wallaces' stereo, think again.”

  “But I didn't mean to break it,” Logan argued. “I'm just trying to help.”

  “Help?” Robert sniffed. “That's a first.”

  Logan's jaw tightened. His eyes darted around the backyard, searching for his mother. Why was Robert even getting involved? (a) It was an accident, and
(b) it was none of his business. If this was a real problem, Mom should be getting involved, not Robert. Logan was her son. Besides, she knew that if Logan said he wanted to help, he meant it.

  But Mom was nowhere to be seen.

  Logan shook his head. She'd probably slunk inside the Wallaces' house as soon as Robert started ranting. That was classic Mom: Run and hide when things start getting ugly. It was classic all around. The whole sequence of events really couldn't get any more classic.

  “Let's just forget about it, huh?” Mr. Wallace suggested. He picked his chef 's hat and spatula up off the patio, then walked back over to the grill. “Looks like these burgers are almost ready, anyway. It's chow time.” He wiped the spatula on his apron.

  Robert shook his head. He turned his back on Logan.

  “Now I've got to go change,” Devon yelled, to nobody in particular. He marched toward the house, his wet sneakers squelching on the cement. “This is great. Just great.”

  Otis trailed after him. He finally seemed to have calmed down.

  As Devon walked past him, Logan cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  Devon shot him a venomous glance, then slammed the door behind him. Otis jumped backward as the metal screening nearly hit him on the nose.

  “I don't know what his problem is,” Robert said to Mr. Wallace. “The kid's got serious issues. He starts trouble wherever he goes.”

  The kid.

  Logan repeated the words to himself. The kid. Not Logan. Not his name. Not as if he weren't standing right behind Robert, not as if he couldn't hear every single thing Robert was saying. No. The kid.

  Mr. Wallace shrugged. He dished a couple of burgers onto a plate. Otis trotted over and sat beside him, panting and staring intently at the meat.

  “It's his father,” Robert continued. “That's where he gets it.”

  Now Logan almost felt like laughing. What could his father possibly have to do with what he was like? What could his father have to do with anything at all? Logan barely even knew the guy.

  Robert truly was a moron. He never failed to outstupid himself.

  “Maybe you should think about getting Logan a dog,” Mr. Wallace said. He reached down and scratched Otis behind the ears. “I tell you, training Otis really taught Devon the value of discipline and responsibility….”