The Last Dog on Earth

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  “So how long will it be before she can go home with someone?” Logan asked. He couldn't take his eyes off the dog. She was just so … ugly. So not Otis.

  “I really don't know about this, Logan,” Mom whispered.

  All of a sudden, the dog started to squirm. The two guys grabbed her. She ran in place, almost like a cartoon animal—her paws scratching the slick surface of the metal with a sputtering click-click-click. She barked at Logan.

  “This one just doesn't go under,” the guy with the syringe said. “We gave her enough tranquilizer for—”

  The dog barked again, this time so loudly that Logan flinched. She wouldn't stop wriggling. A moment later, she twisted free of the guys and jumped off the table, scrambling straight for Logan.

  His body tensed. But the dog stopped in front of him and gazed at him. Her eyes never wavered for an instant. They were locked on Logan. She wasn't wagging her tail or panting in his face, the way Otis always did. She was just standing there.

  Slowly, her paws slid out from under her, until she was splayed on the concrete floor. And still she stared up at Logan. She almost looked as if she were trying to tell him something. Please get me out of here. Please. I can't stand another second with Ms. Dougherty.

  Cautiously, he bent down and touched the dog's head. She looked at him for a moment longer. Then she closed her eyes.

  The guys in the white coats exchanged puzzled glances.

  “What's the matter?” Mom asked.

  “Well, actually, I was worried she was going to bite the kid,” the guy with the syringe said. “She's never let anyone touch her without a fight.” He shook his head. “It must be the tranquilizer.”

  “Maybe she likes me,” Logan said.

  Nobody answered.

  Logan smiled.

  “What is it?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing.” Logan glanced up at Ms. Dougherty. “So. How long before we can take her home?”

  Ms. Dougherty blinked. “You want this dog?”

  “Logan, please,” Mom said. “This isn't a good idea at all. She's completely wild. We should go to the breeder, okay? Coming here was a bad idea. I'm sorry. It was my fault.”

  “But this dog needs help,” Logan said. “And I'm willing to help her. Robert wants to teach me the value of discipline, right? What better way to learn discipline than to tame a wild dog? Besides, if there was ever a dog that needed rescuing, she's it.”

  Mom sighed.

  “Well, you'll have to wait until she's had all her shots,” Ms. Dougherty said. “And you'll have to fill out some paperwork, too, of course. Just some forms and waivers and things like that, so we can be sure that you're serious about owning a dog.”

  “I'm serious,” Logan said.

  “Logan,” Mom said. “Please.”

  “I am,” Logan insisted. “She'll be my dog. I'll take responsibility for her. I'll buy all the food and her leash and water dish and everything. And if you're worried about Robert, I'll tell you what. I'll throw him a bone. I'll name her Jack in his honor.”

  Mom frowned. “It's a girl dog, Logan,” she said.

  “I know. But look at it this way. Robert wanted a dog named Jack. Now he'll have one. So we'll all be happy, right?”

  Mom didn't answer. She just gave a weary sigh.

  “Everybody has to make compromises sometimes,” Logan murmured, mostly to himself. He glanced down at the dog. “Right, Jack?”

  Article published on page 2 of

  The Redmont Daily Standard

  RECENT DOG ATTACKS LINKED TO UNKNOWN DISEASE

  BY SHEILA DAVIS

  REDMONT, OR, June 24—The peculiar rise in the number of local dog attacks can be traced to an unidentified disease, according to Sheriff John Van Wyck of the Redmont Sheriff's Office.

  In the past three weeks six dog attacks have been reported, more than twice the number of all such attacks reported in the area in the last ten years. Local animal health officials are baffled. Veterinarian Claudia Juarez described a typical course of symptoms: At first, the dogs wheeze and foam at the mouth. They develop balance problems and often trip or fall down. After this first stage, they sleep more than usual. The end stage of the disease is marked by intense and continuous aggression, with dogs attacking any living creatures indiscriminately. Eventually the diseased animals die, “basically of exhaustion,” said Dr. Juarez. “As far as I can tell, their systems overload with so much adrenaline that sooner or later their hearts can't take the strain anymore.”

  Rudy Stagg, a home security consultant and dog trainer based in Redmont, has begun to develop a reputation as an unofficial dog vigilante, a role that was thrust upon him because he trained two of the dogs involved in the first attacks. “I wasn't a dog killer before, but that's pretty much what I've become,” he said.

  Stagg warned that any sick dog has the potential to be extremely dangerous. “Even if they look like they're sleeping, they could attack at any time,” he said.

  Sheriff Van Wyck has contacted the Research Center for Infectious Diseases at Portland University and asked for their help in identifying the disease and curing it. “I'm confident the situation will be brought under control in a matter of days,” he said. “In the meantime, watch your pets carefully. If they slobber more than usual or seem listless in any way, please contact the sheriff's office or your local vet immediately. These cases should be handled by the proper authorities.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The phone was ringing. Westerly could hear the bothersome jangle from the dirt driveway. He shook his head. He wasn't going to let a phone call disturb the final moments of his walk with Jasmine. This was their favorite time of the week: the Wednesday afternoon hike into town for food and mail. It was five miles each way, half on roads, half on mountain trails. Four hours total of fresh mountain air and sunshine. Or rain. But not today.

  Jasmine loved it. She loved visiting Joe Bixby's general store. Her tail would start wagging about a hundred yards away because she could smell Sam—Joe Bixby's big, rangy, blue-eyed Siberian husky. The second she burst through the door, she and Sam would start jumping on each other and barking. They would scurry around the aisles and chase each other while Westerly loaded up his backpack. And when they were too tired to keep playing, Joe Bixby would give them each a little treat: a piece of salami, a hunk of cheese. It was always enough to perk Jasmine up for the walk home.

  That Wednesday afternoon hike to town was pretty much the only time Westerly enjoyed dealing with other human beings. Or one human being, anyway. Joe was a decent sort. Like most of the people in town, he was scruffy and rugged. He understood that Westerly preferred to be left alone. He wasn't much of a talker himself.

  “So,” Westerly said to Jasmine. He grunted a little under the weight of the backpack as he walked around the side of the house. “Who do you think could be calling me?”

  Jasmine growled, then ran up the porch steps. She stumbled a little at the top. She nearly lost her balance, her eyes darting between Westerly and the screen door.

  Westerly grinned at her. She wasn't a huge fan of the phone, either.

  “Don't worry about it, Jazz,” he said. He trudged up behind her, slinging the pack off his shoulder and unlocking the door. “We'll let the machine pick up.”

  Truth be told, he would have let the machine pick up no matter what. He always screened his calls. Usually it was just a salesperson wanting Westerly to subscribe to Time or to buy a cell phone or some other nonsense. People who knew Westerly knew better than to call him. E-mails or letters were the best ways to communicate.

  The machine clicked.

  Westerly stood next to Jasmine and rubbed the back of her neck, staring at the little black box beside the phone.

  “You've reached Dr. Craig Westerly,” the machine announced. “Leave a message.”

  There was a beep.

  “Craig, it's Harold. If you're there, pick up.”

  Harold?

  Westerly's stomach drop
ped. Harold would never, ever call him. Not unless—

  He darted forward and picked up the phone.

  “Hello? I'm here. Harold?”

  “Craig,” Harold replied. His voice sounded strangely high-pitched. He exhaled. “We've got a problem.”

  Westerly stared out the window at the evergreen tree. “What's up?”

  “We need your paper on prion diseases,” Harold said. “The situation here has changed.”

  “Didn't you get my e-mail?” Westerly asked. He drummed his fingers on his jeans. “I couldn't find it. I looked all over.” He really had searched high and low for the paper. But after a couple of hours of rummaging through dusty old boxes and file cabinets, he remembered that he'd tossed it out years ago. The only papers he'd kept were those having to do with his new research—like inventing an inhalable flu vaccine.

  “Yes, I received your e-mail,” Harold said. “I just assumed you didn't want to be bothered. I figured you were still angry.”

  Why would I be angry? Westerly wanted to say. Oh, right. Because you fired me seven years ago just for spite.

  “Craig?” Harold asked.

  “If I had found it, I would have sent it to you,” Westerly said.

  “You always wanted to be a respected scientist, didn't you?” Harold asked.

  Westerly frowned into the phone. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “I'm offering you a chance to make that happen,” Harold said. “I'm offering you a chance to come back to the university.”

  “Excuse me?” Westerly couldn't quite grasp what he was hearing.

  “That's right. It's your choice. I'm giving you the opportunity to join us again.”

  Westerly opened his mouth. Then he closed it. His throat was dry. Never in his wildest daydreams would he have imagined this: that Harold would call to invite him back to work. It could only mean one thing. Harold was in some kind of trouble. He'd actually swallowed his pride and stooped to call Westerly—the guy who couldn't get along with anyone, the “mad scientist of the mountains.” (Harold had once called him that in an e-mail a few years back.) The situation was that bad.

  “The disease is spreading,” Harold added, as if answering an unspoken question. “I've had to order the equipment to run fullscale tests for the presence of prions. All the evidence so far seems to indicate that it's a strain we've never seen before. It's stronger and faster. The incubation period is much shorter. Three weeks from infection until death. The evidence also seems to indicate that it can be transmitted through dog bites….”

  As Harold continued, Westerly found he could no longer listen. He could only stare at Jasmine. She'd stumbled on the stairs just now.

  Stumbling was one of the first symptoms of a prion disease.

  Westerly would have thought nothing of the stumble if Harold hadn't called. None of this had crossed his mind in three days—not since he'd looked around for the paper. Not once. This was a gift Westerly had and one that served him well in his work: If certain thoughts interfered with his ability to focus, he simply stowed them somewhere, in some hidden part of his brain, and forgot about them until the appropriate time. Some people called it compartmentalizing. Others—his ex-wife, for instance—said that compartmentalizing was just a fancy way of dressing up the truth, which was that Westerly was self-absorbed and rude and thoughtless….

  “… Are you still there?”

  Westerly nodded. “Yes. Yes, I'm sorry.”

  “So what's your answer?” Harold asked.

  “You'll have to excuse me, Harold,” Westerly mumbled, wrenching his attention away from Jasmine. “I didn't hear the question.” It was just a stumble, he told himself. Don't read into it.

  “For God's sake!” Harold snapped. “Can't you listen to me for five minutes? Do you still hate me that much?”

  Hate you?

  Well, hate was a strong word … although, yes, Westerly disliked him. But that hardly mattered. This was a crisis. Yet Harold had to turn it into something personal. He had to bring up all the old issues again—issues of not getting along with people, issues that had nothing to do with the matter at hand. In short, Harold had to place himself and his problems over the seriousness of this disease.

  It was politics. Stupid politics.

  Westerly's lips pressed into a tight line. So. Nothing had changed at all in seven years. Not one thing. And in that instant, all the sour memories of the university came flooding back, washing away any temptation he might have had to take Harold up on his offer. There was no way he would go back there. He'd help Harold as much as he could from home, but that was it. End of story. Besides, if the disease was spreading, then a trip to Portland would endanger Jasmine's life. And that was a risk he refused to take.

  “I need an answer, Craig,” Harold said.

  “I'll tell you what you need to know over the phone,” Westerly said. “From day one, my theory has always been that to cure prion disease, you need to synthesize an antidote from an immune animal. Get your hands on an immune dog, and I'll talk you through the process—”

  “That's part of the problem,” Harold interrupted. “We can't find an immune dog. All the dogs at the university are already sick.” His voice rose. “This is an emergency!”

  “You can't be serious,” Westerly said.

  “Dead serious,” Harold said.

  Westerly couldn't answer. He couldn't even breathe. The cabin spun around him like water circling a drain, faster and faster.

  It's happening, he thought. It's really happening, just the way I said it would.

  He'd been right all along. But that didn't make him feel any better.

  “I hope you know that I'm telling you all this in the strictest of confidence,” Harold added. “We haven't made this information public because we don't want to start a panic. I'm telling you now because I want you to understand how bad the situation is. So you have a choice to make. Either you start behaving like a responsible scientist, or you keep hiding out there in the woods.”

  Click.

  “Harold?” Westerly croaked. “Harold?”

  But the line was dead.

  The she-pup had never known contentment until the day she was let out of the shelter. She'd known happiness at different points in her young life: in the forest, before the sickness had wiped out her pack … but this was different. To feel the sun on her coat, to have a full belly, to breathe the scent of the evergreens, to be free—that was what it meant to be alive.

  The boy had rescued her.

  She'd been too dazed to show him gratitude at first. She simply slept as he whisked her off to her new home. But now, at the moment of arrival, she knew she had come to a place where things made sense. Here, she had a companion.

  The boy kept close to her side. He protected her. There was a connection between them.

  The memory of the wild—of Mother and White Paws and the slow death of her pack … all of it began to fade. She was part of a new pack now. A pack of two. The boy had restored order. He had given her safety. He had given her a name.

  She was no longer a starving puppy in the forest, fighting for survival.

  She was Jack.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Logan's first order of business was to train Jack to pee and poop outside.

  He already had a specific place in mind: the little grassy area in the backyard, right under Robert's hammock. Jack seemed to want to go there, too. She kept tugging on her leather leash, trying to drag Logan toward that exact spot.

  So far, so good.

  From what Logan could tell, training a dog to pee and poop someplace—or to do anything, really—wasn't all that hard. You just had to be patient. You had to do the same thing again and again, in the exact same place. You had to approach it from a scientific point of view. No cute talk or games or face licking or any of that. Nope. Strictly science.

  Over the past three days (the time it had taken for the shelter to make sure Jack wasn't sick), Logan had buried himself
in a bunch of books on dog training. He was going to become an expert. Of course, part of the reason he read so much was to keep Robert off his back. Robert had thrown a major fit about Jack, even worse than Logan had expected. “What do you mean, you didn't go to the breeder? I had a deposit there! I don't want the money back! I want a purebred! How could you let Logan sucker you into this!” … blah, blah, blah.

  After the freak-out, though, Robert had kept to himself. Especially when he saw Logan reading. Maybe he really did think Logan was trying to shape up.

  More likely, though, he was just saving up for another explosion. Whatever.

  As it turned out, Logan could have read a lot less because most of the training books said pretty much the same thing. He kind of felt ripped off. The books all had lame titles—I Just Bought a Puppy! So What Do I Do Now?— and all the covers featured glossy photos of big-haired women with fake-looking dogs. The books were written in stupid, flowery language, too, like romance novels or something. “Dear dog owner, The most important gift you can give your new mate is your heart….” Blecch. Logan heard Ms. Dougherty's voice in his head whenever he cracked one open. And they could all be summed up in six words:

  Reward good behavior.

  Ignore bad behavior.

  That was it.

  Interestingly, punishing a dog for bad behavior was the wrong way to go. Punishment only made a dog sullen or withdrawn—or in the worst cases, violent. (Sort of like people, if you really thought about it. Robert could learn a thing or two from these books.)

  Sure, there were a couple of tricks. One was to get the dog to associate good behavior with a treat, like a doggy biscuit or a piece of bacon. That way the dog would want to be good. And if you threw in a pleasing noise of some sort—like a bell or a click or a whistle—then that was even better because dogs responded well to “sonic cues.” Along those lines, it was best to use simple, one or two-word commands.