The Last Dog on Earth

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  Mom didn't answer. Today, for whatever reason, she appeared to be fed up with Robert's stupidity as well.

  “Why is she so bad?” Robert demanded. “Huh, Logan? Why?”

  “Because she's a puppy,” Logan said. “She's only been with us six days. Not even. Six days this afternoon. She's bound to misbehave every now and then.”

  All of a sudden Jack hopped up on Logan's chair and started sniffing the table.

  “No!” Robert shouted. His face turned red. “No! Get off ! Bad girl! No—”

  “Down,” Logan commanded. His tone was calm and firm.

  Jack turned at the sound of his voice. She jumped off the chair and trotted over to him.

  “Good girl,” Logan said. He patted her head and pulled the LMSCG from his back pocket. With his free hand he fished a few bacon bits from his front pocket and fed them to her. He squeezed the trigger as she licked his fingers: Brrriiing!

  Robert shook his head. “This is exactly what I'm talking about,” he said. “The jumping up on chairs, the—”

  “What?” Mom cried. She slammed down her butter knife with a clatter. “Logan got the dog to stop jumping on the chair! Isn't that what you wanted? What's your problem, Robert? I think Logan's doing a good job with the dog. And I'd appreciate it if you started leaving him alone.”

  Robert and Logan both gaped at her for a moment.

  “My property is being destroyed,” Robert said stiffly.

  Jack barked at him.

  “Your tennis racket is our property,” Mom said. “We're a family, remember? We share things.”

  “You might want to remind your son of that,” Robert snapped.

  Logan stared at them. He started to feel weirdly detached, as if he were watching the scene unfold on cheap, grainy videotape. This was possibly the dumbest argument in the history of planet Earth. But somehow it was so serious. Mom and Robert were glaring at each other. Any satisfaction that Logan felt over Mom's decision to side with him began to melt away like the butter that was sitting in the sun on the kitchen table. Why was Robert so mad, anyway? This was stupid even for him.

  “Robert, listen,” Logan said. “I'm sorry about your racket. But look at it this way. Jack's an animal. And a puppy. So she does whatever she feels like. I mean, I get just as angry as you do when she messes with my stuff. But it isn't, like … personal. You know? If she sees something she wants to chew, she'll chew it. We just have to put things away. And we have to stop her if we catch her. We have to teach her that it's wrong.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Mom said pointedly.

  Logan offered Robert an apologetic smile. He was trying to call a truce, even though smiling for Robert's benefit always made him feel ill.

  Robert pushed himself away from the table. The chair screeched on the linoleum.

  “All I know is that if we'd gotten the dog I asked for, I'd still have a tennis racket,” he said. He dropped his plate into the sink, then strode out of the kitchen.

  Logan's jaw tightened. In the space of about three seconds, he'd gone from fantasizing about making peace to fantasizing about ramming that chewed-up tennis racket down Robert's throat so his stomach would explode and guts would fly everywhere.

  Logan stared down into Jack's bright, saucerlike brown eyes. How could anybody possibly blame her for chewing on something? She was supposed to chew on things. She was a dog. She did whatever felt natural. It was absurd. No, it was beyond absurd. It was incomprehensible. It was …

  Robert.

  Logan came to an important realization at that moment. A monumental realization. Humongous. It was the kind of realization that could change you forever; it could give you the power to quit everything and move to a mountaintop and become one of those Shaolin monks who are so wise and enlightened that they don't even have to eat— they only have to breathe air.

  After four years of struggling to understand the oaf who'd married his mom, Logan still hadn't gotten anywhere. But in less than a week he'd come to understand the newest member of his family better than he'd understood anyone else in his whole life.

  And …

  And there was something very depressing about that.

  Letter to the editor published in

  The Redmont Daily Standard, June 28

  TO THE EDITOR:

  While I understand that your newspaper must run advertisements, it was irresponsible of you to publish Rudy Stagg's “open letter.” He is clearly trying to frighten people into bringing their business to him. That's not what we need right now. People are scared enough already.

  We now estimate that half the dogs in our town are either sick or dead. What's more, the disease has spread to other towns. The CDC is calling it POS, or psychotic outburst syndrome, due to the fact that the dogs always attack someone or something before they die.

  The more the CDC knows about the disease, the sooner they'll be able to formulate a response. It's important to go through the proper channels. The CDC needs to track its spread. They need to know when people are bitten so that they can see if they develop the disease. As soon as any new information comes in, they'll let the public know. So here is my open letter to Redmont's dog owners: If you call Rudy Stagg or try to deal with a sick dog yourself, you are putting your own life and other people's lives in danger. It's as simple as that.

  JOHN VAN WYCK

  Redmont County Sheriff

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Westerly wasn't quite sure what he was doing. As a scientist, he was used to planning everything very carefully. Meticulously, in fact. But today, he just couldn't seem to organize his thoughts. He'd left the house after lunch and started walking down the highway. And now, some thirty minutes later, he found himself standing in front of his nearest neighbor's property: a run-down bungalow at the end of a short dirt drive.

  The windows were dark. It looked deserted.

  I should go home, he said to himself.

  He turned around.

  No, I shouldn't go home. I've come all this way. I should just ring the doorbell and ask Mrs. Hoover if Daisy is okay. It'll take two minutes. I'll just go up there and knock.

  But still, he couldn't move. This sort of paralysis seemed to be happening a lot lately.

  In the days following his conversation with Harold Marks, Westerly had felt as if the two sides of his brain were at war. One side kept demanding that he test Jasmine's food for the presence of prions: Get it over with! But the other side kept consoling him: Jasmine's not sick. She can't be sick. And that was the side he chose to listen to. That was the side that kept him buried in his flu vaccine research. He couldn't afford to get distracted and waste valuable time. He simply couldn't believe the situation was that bad. Jasmine seemed to be all right.

  Except … this morning, she'd nearly fallen down the porch stairs.

  But the stairs were tricky. She'd stumbled on them lots of times.

  He'd left her at home for a change. In case there was a problem with Daisy.

  Just go and ask Mrs. Hoover about her dog!

  If Daisy was healthy, Westerly knew that there would be nothing to worry about. It would mean that the disease hadn't spread this far. Jasmine's stumble would have been a coincidence.

  He frowned. A siren was approaching.

  It grew louder and louder, wailing down the highway.

  The next thing he knew, an ambulance was screeching to a halt beside him. At least, it looked like an ambulance. But it was all black, and there were no markings on it at all. The back doors flew open. Someone jumped out.

  What the—

  Westerly's heart lurched. It was a figure in a bulky white safe suit, the kind of full-body protective gear used for dealing with radiation—complete with a helmet and an oxygen tank. Whoever was inside looked like an astronaut. Westerly couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. The faceplate was tinted so that you couldn't see through it.

  “Move away, please,” the figure barked. It was a man's voice, but the sound of it was ti
nny and muffled, like on a walkie-talkie. “This area is unsafe.”

  Westerly swallowed. “It is? But—”

  “Move it!”

  Another safe-suited figure jumped out and ran down the driveway toward the house.

  “I don't understand,” Westerly said.

  The first one took him by the arm and tried to hustle him down the road, his gloved fingers digging into Westerly's flesh. But Westerly refused to budge.

  “Can you please explain to me what's going on?” he asked. He wrenched himself free of the man's grip. “Who are you?”

  “The CDC.” The man shoved his faceplate within inches of Westerly's nose. Westerly found himself staring at his own angry reflection—but it was distorted, as if he were looking at himself through a fishbowl. “You have to leave. The dog on these premises has paws.”

  “The dog has … what?” Westerly asked.

  “Paws,” the man said. “P-O-S. Psychotic outburst syndrome. POS. The disease. Don't you watch the news?”

  “I …” Westerly didn't know what to say. The truth was, he'd been avoiding the news. He didn't want to see or hear anything that would make him more nervous about Jasmine.

  “POS is one hundred percent fatal,” the man said. “We've just confirmed that humans are susceptible as well. Twenty-nine people have already been infected, all through dog bites. Unless you want to be number thirty, I suggest you move.”

  Westerly's face went pale. “Humans?” he gasped. “But that's impossible. It's a prion disease. It doesn't spread among different species. There's no way—”

  “Aaaaahrgh!”

  A terrified shriek silenced him. It came from inside the house.

  Seconds later, something exploded through the front door. Something big. And gray. At first, Westerly couldn't even tell what it was. But then he saw the bloody teeth, the slobber, the tail, the pointy ears … Daisy. She was headed straight for them. Her eyes were glittery, unfocused—two wild marbles rolling around in her head. Her snout was dark and wet.

  The CDC man yanked a pistol from a pouch in his safe suit.

  “Get down!” he shouted.

  Reflexively, Westerly dove to the grass. There were three quick, deafening shots: pow-pow-pow! He cringed and glanced up. All three rounds had hit Daisy in the face. She collapsed, even as the noise still echoed down the road—but she kept rolling toward them, side over side, moving too fast to stop right away.

  When Daisy finally lay still, she was less than ten feet from them. Blood trickled from the holes in her skull, staining the dirt with ugly, blackish-red drops.

  “Is she dead?” the figure near the house asked.

  “Yes,” the first one answered. “She—” “Help me!”

  Westerly flinched, still too frightened to stand. It was that same voice … the one that had screamed. Once again, the door flew open. Mrs. Hoover staggered out. Westerly's stomach rose. He gulped, nearly retching. He hadn't even recognized her…. My God. She was in bad shape. A large chunk of flesh had been torn from her left shin. The dog had bitten her clear through her jeans, all the way down to the bone. Westerly could see the white fragments there, stained red with blood. Her face was ashen, glazed—in shock.

  “Let's get her into the truck,” the one with the gun called.

  Westerly stared, slack-jawed, as the figure closest to the house escorted Mrs. Hoover into the black ambulance. He felt as if he were watching a movie on fast forward. Everything was happening too quickly. He couldn't sort it out. He glanced back at Daisy. The first CDC man was scooping her into a black plastic body bag. He zipped it up, then dumped the bag into the ambulance and climbed inside.

  “Wait!” Westerly said. He pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt like jelly. “Where are you going?”

  “Portland University,” the guy answered. “If I were you, I'd get home and stay indoors. If you see any stray dogs, make sure your doors are locked—and call us.” The doors slammed shut.

  “Hey!” Westerly yelled. “Stop! I used to work at Portland—”

  There was a squeal of tires. He winced. The ambulance lurched forward and peeled down the road, disappearing around the corner, sirens wailing.

  After a minute or so, the sirens faded to silence.

  I'm all alone, Westerly thought.

  Not that this was anything new. He was always alone. There was a difference, though. For the first time in a long while—seven years, in fact—he didn't want to be alone. He wanted someone to help him. He wanted someone to tell him that Jasmine was going to be okay. But he was the only one who could do that. He was the only one who could go home and run the test—the one that would tell for certain whether Jasmine was going to live or die.

  Lead story in

  The Redmont Daily Standard, June 30

  POS CONFIRMED IN HUMANS

  BY SHEILA DAVIS

  REDMONT, Oregon, June 30—Psychotic outburst syndrome, or POS, the disease that is destroying the canine population of southern Oregon, is now spreading to human beings, according to the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

  Officials at the CDC confirm that thirty-one people in southern Oregon who have been bitten by sick dogs are now infected with POS. “We have an epidemic on our hands,” said one official, who asked not to be identified. “We've already established quarantine centers for sick dogs to remove them from the general population. We are now expanding these centers to accommodate people as well. All owners of sick dogs are now asked to report to their local hospitals or contact the CDC directly. And all dog owners should have their dogs examined by their local veterinarians, no matter how healthy they look. We can't afford to take any chances.”

  Sheriff John Van Wyck of the Redmont County Sheriff's Office echoed the CDC's warning, although he urged people to remain calm. “Remember, the only way you can get infected is by getting bitten by a sick dog,“ he said in a statement issued late last night. “It is important that we deal with this situation in an orderly fashion. Take your dog to your vet. If you've been bitten, see a doctor. Finally—and I can't stress this enough—do not try to shoot your own dog or hire somebody to do it for you. That's against the law. Call the police or the CDC.”

  Rudy Stagg, a local dog trainer who has publicly encouraged people to band together to shoot dogs themselves, refused to comment other than to say that his advertisement speaks for itself.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  “Yo! Logan!”

  Logan paused on the rain-slicked sidewalk.

  Devon Wallace.

  Drizzle pattered on the hood of Logan's windbreaker: pip-pippip. He shook his head at Jack. What he could really use right now was one of those personalized nuclear rocket backpacks. With two radioactive rocket engines so that he and Jack could blast off this rainy street to a spot above the clouds, where it was nice and dry, and at the same time vaporize Devon Wallace's perfect hair.

  “Is that your dog?” Devon yelled, running to catch up. He couldn't run very fast because he was dragging Otis through the rain. Otis didn't look happy about it. He kept trying to turn in the other direction. His collar was stretched so tight that Devon was practically choking him—not that Devon seemed to care. For once, Logan felt sort of sorry for Otis. After all, Otis didn't have any say over who owned him.

  “Why'd you get a dog?” Devon asked.

  Logan shrugged. “It was Robert's idea.”

  “Yeah, but why now?” Devon asked.

  “Why not now?” Logan asked, frowning.

  Devon sneered at him. “Because of the dog disease, you idiot. Don't you watch TV?”

  Logan furrowed his brow. Actually, he didn't. The sight of Robert in the living room every night, staring at the tube with that lobotomized look on his face … well, that had sort of turned Logan off the whole TV-watching thing.

  “It's really bad. They say people can get it, too. We're getting Otis checked out this afternoon,” Devon said. He peered down at Jack with a slightly curled lip. “So … what'
s his name?”

  “It's a she,” Logan said. “Her name is Jack.”

  “Jack? You named a girl dog Jack?”

  “It was the name of Robert's dog when he was a kid,” Logan said. He glanced toward the deli at the end of the block. The neon beer signs glowed red in the wet, gray morning. He could see the deli owner, Mr. Boone, behind the counter. He was reading the paper. He looked dry and cozy. His dog, Thor, sat beside him. Logan could just barely see Thor's pointy ears sticking up from behind the window display of beer cans.

  “She's a mutt, huh?” Devon said. “I mean, she's got to be. No purebred dog would look like that.”

  Otis started sniffing Jack's behind. Jack backed away from him. Her ears flattened. It was sort of funny. Judging by the annoyed look on her face, you'd have thought she felt pretty much the same about Otis as Logan did about Devon.

  Otis barked.

  “No barking,” Devon commanded. He yanked Otis away from Jack with a sharp tug on his leash. The chain jangled again. Otis sat on his haunches. His tail was wagging. He tried to get up again, but Devon held the leash fast.

  Jack stared at Otis. She growled.

  “Your dog is weird,” Devon muttered.

  “Yeah, well, look, I better get going,” Logan said. “I've got to buy some whole milk for Robert's coffee.” He started back toward the deli. Jack trotted along by his side, her soggy paws splashing on the sidewalk.

  “Dogs aren't allowed in the deli, butt munch,” Devon called after him. “Mr. Boone put a sign up a long time ago.”

  Logan stopped and turned around. “Mr. Boone has a dog.”

  “No duh, Einstein.” Devon's lips turned downward. “Thor doesn't get along with other dogs. And there's no way Mr. Boone would even think about letting another dog in there now. Your dog might be sick.”

  For a second, Logan hesitated on the sidewalk. But then he turned again and started jogging down the block. He refused to worry. Jack wasn't sick. The disease was a Redmont thing. It had nothing to do with him or Pinewood.