Doglands

by Tim Willocks

  “He’s making you look like a meatball.”

  “You’ll look like a meatball when this lurcher kicks your butt.”

  “You won’t be saying that when I save your bacon.”

  “That bacon we had for breakfast was very appetizing.”

  “You can’t beat bacon, it’s true.”

  “I eat a lot of bacon. I’m what you might call a bacon dog.”

  “The lamb chops we had last night were quite tasty too.”

  “Wasn’t too keen on the lamb chops, too much gristle.”

  “Nothing worse than too much gristle.”

  “Gets stuck between your teeth.”

  “Bacon never gets stuck between your teeth.”

  “As you say, you can’t beat bacon.”

  “You just can’t beat it.”

  This is getting ridiculous, thought Furgul.

  As they approached a lavish arrangement of tennis courts, Furgul opened up a ten-yard lead on the schnauzers. He dodged inside the nearest court and jumped the green net. Then he turned and waited for the schnauzers.

  They stopped on the far side of the net and panted for breath.

  “Looks like it’s time for a midnight snack.”

  “He looks too gristly to me.”

  “We’ll just kill him, then.”

  “And leave him for the dung beetles!”

  They paused to laugh at their own quips. Furgul sighed and sat down.

  “Look, we’ve worn him out!” said one schnauzer.

  “Trapped behind the net!” added the other.

  “Lured him in, like a spider into a web.”

  “No, no, no. Flies get lured into a web, not spiders.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “What about mosquitoes and bluebottles?”

  “Okay, mosquitoes and bluebottles. Moths too. But the spider spins the web.”

  “A moth is drawn to the flame, not lured into a web.”

  “Anyway, it was me who lured the lurcher into this web.”

  “You can’t handle a lurcher.”

  “I’ve eaten lurchers for breakfast!”

  Furgul stood up and barked so hard that they both jumped back in alarm.

  “You eat bacon and lamb chops for breakfast!” growled Furgul.

  They looked at him and wriggled their monstrous brows.

  “That’s a tad aggressive.”

  “No need to get nasty.”

  “You’re not real dogs,” said Furgul. “You’re just a pair of glorified pets.”

  “Pets?”

  “Pets!”

  “We’re professional guard dogs!”

  “We’re the elite!”

  “And we ate the lamb chops for dinner, not for breakfa—”

  “Shut up. And listen,” said Furgul. “You two live with—I’m sorry, you ‘guard’—the richest guy in the universe.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say the universe.”

  “Not even the galaxy.”

  “Do you think they have bacon on other planets?”

  “I suppose it depends on whether they have pigs.”

  Furgul marveled at their stupidity. “While you two are standing there—bickering like a pair of French poodles—Spotty and Tattoo are robbing your master blind.”

  “Where?”

  “How?”

  “Who?”

  “Robbing him blind?”

  “But he doesn’t even wear glasses!”

  Furgul said, “You remember the two men who threw me over the fence?”

  “Of course we do.”

  “It was me that saw them first.”

  “But they didn’t break the rules.”

  “They didn’t set foot on our master’s property.”

  “And you did.”

  For once they just stopped—exchanged a smug smile—and nodded.

  “Spotty and Tattoo are on your master’s property now,” said Furgul. “They’re inside his house, stealing all his money—along with every last slice of bacon in the fridge.”

  The schnauzers looked at each other. In unison they roared with panic.

  “NOT THE BACON!”

  They turned and started to charge out of the tennis court.

  “Not so fast!” barked Furgul.

  The schnauzers stopped and looked at him. By now he had no doubt that they were twin brothers. In their eyes he saw their dawning realization that Furgul might just be their new boss.

  “Tell me your names,” ordered Furgul.

  “Pumpkin,” they said together.

  “You’re both called Pumpkin?” asked Furgul.

  “Well, the master can’t tell us apart.”

  “So it makes it a little easier on him—”

  “—if he can use the same name for the both of us.”

  “He doesn’t really see us all that often.”

  “Though it’s not that he doesn’t care.”

  “He works very hard.”

  “Business commitments.”

  “Philanthropy.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Furgul.

  The two schnauzers looked at each other. They were clueless.

  “You tell him.”

  “No, it’s your turn.”

  “Never mind,” said Furgul. “But I thought Pumpkin was a girl’s name.”

  At exactly the same instant the jaws of the twins dropped open. Their eyebrows writhed. Furgul had never seen dogs look quite so horrified.

  “Maybe I’m wrong about that,” said Furgul. “I never met a Pumpkin before. Anyhow, it’s a pet name. What are your dog names?”

  “He’s called Cogg.”

  “And he’s called Baz.”

  “We don’t look like girls, do we?”

  “Do we?”

  “Relax,” said Furgul. “Cogg means ‘war,’ and Baz means ‘killer.’ ”

  “War?” repeated Cogg. “How about that for a name?

  “It’s nearly as good as Killer,” said Baz.

  “What’s your name? asked Cogg.

  “Furgul.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve got to do exactly what I say,” said Furgul.

  “Yes, sir!” they said together.

  “Have either of you ever fought a human?” asked Furgul.

  “Well,” said Cogg, “there was that time I nipped the chauffeur’s ankles.”

  “And I once gave the gardener’s leg a good humping,” said Baz.

  “Have you ever even fought a dog?” Furgul asked.

  “Well, there was that time when the housekeeper brought her Pekingese …”

  “And I once had a nasty tear-up with—a cat,” said Baz.

  He saw the expression on Furgul’s face.

  “A really huge ginger tomcat,” added Baz.

  “I remember that cat,” said Cogg. “Didn’t you lose?”

  Furgul sighed. “If only you two could learn to keep your mouths shut, you might be quite handy in a fight. Maybe even dangerous.”

  “You think so?” asked Cogg.

  “How dangerous?” asked Baz.

  “See what I mean?” said Furgul.

  Cogg and Baz opened their mouths to speak—then stopped. They looked at each other. Then they clamped their jaws shut and waited in absolute silence.

  “Excellent,” said Furgul. “I’m scared already.”

  Furgul jumped over the net and headed for the house.

  “Now think about that bacon and follow me.”

  As the three dogs stalked around the front of the house without making a sound, Furgul broke the silence with a gasp.

  On a stone plinth, surrounded by fountains, stood an enormous bronze statue of a man with a smile of gentle bliss on his face. In one hand he held a large spoon, in the other a bowl of dog food. Around his feet sat a variety of bronze dogs of different breeds, each looking up at him with affection and awe, tongues lolling from their mouths.

  Furgul couldn’t believe it.

/>   “That’s Mr. Chumley,” said Cogg, with reverence.

  “Everything we are as dogs, we owe to him,” said Baz, with wonderment.

  “I know who it is,” said Furgul.

  “Every dog knows Mr. Chumley,” said Cogg.

  “Mr. Chumley is every dog’s best friend,” said Baz.

  “Wherever a dog is hungry, there Mr. Chumley will be.”

  “He’s the Greatest Dog Lover in the World.”

  Furgul said, “This is Chuck Chumley’s house?”

  “It’s Mr. Chumley’s country house, yes,” corrected Cogg.

  “He’s got another house in the city that’s even bigger,” added Baz.

  “Mr. Chumley’s a great man,” said Cogg.

  “Probably the greatest man in the world,” agreed Baz.

  “Very possibly the greatest who ever lived,” suggested Cogg.

  “Why?” said Furgul. “Because he gives you bacon instead of Extra Meaty Dog Feed?”

  Baz made a choking sound of disgust. “Extra Meaty Dog Feed?”

  “Mr. Chumley wouldn’t allow that muck in the house!” said Cogg, shocked.

  “The smell alone makes him feel sick!” added Baz.

  “And he doesn’t want to watch us get fat.”

  “Or to see us catch diarrhea.”

  “So what’s Chuck supposed to be offering the dogs in that bowl?” Furgul asked. “It doesn’t look like bacon to me.”

  Cogg and Baz stared up at the spotlit statue. They furrowed their brows.

  Furgul caught the scent of Spotty and Tattoo. He heard noises coming from the house. “Come on,” he said.

  The three dogs stalked forward and hid behind a hedge. They spied through the leaves. The pickup truck stood just outside the house. It was half-stacked with loot—including a silver refrigerator that sparkled in the light of the moon.

  “They’ve already got the bacon!” hissed Cogg.

  “How can we save it?” whispered Baz.

  “Tattoo has a steel rod in his pants pocket,” said Furgul. “Don’t let him pull it out. And don’t attack Spotty—I want him to drive the truck away.”

  “Drive it away?”

  “With the bacon?”

  “Why?”

  “Shush,” said Furgul. “Here they come.”

  Tattoo and Spotty staggered out of the house carrying a large glass aquarium tank between them. Furgul was puzzled. The tank had no water in it.

  “Now they’re stealing Mr. Chumley’s scorpion farm!” gasped Cogg.

  “Over twenty rare species from five different continents,” added Baz.

  Tattoo and Spotty started down the wide stone steps toward the truck.

  “Let’s go,” said Furgul.

  “Why not?” said Baz.

  Cogg and Baz tore straight through the hedge in front of them, growling like bearded lunatics. Furgul jumped over and landed just behind them. He saw no reason not to let the schnauzers do their job. They caught the two men just halfway down the steps, the tank still in their arms, Tattoo backing down first in front of Spotty. Cogg and Baz sank their teeth into the calves of Tattoo’s legs. Tattoo yelled and lost his footing. As he toppled over, the tank toppled right on top of him. Tattoo’s yell turned into a scream as a mass of scorpions skittered over his body.

  Spotty started to dash back up the stairs to hide in the house, but Furgul reached the doorway first. He bared his teeth in Spotty’s face.

  Get in the truck or I’ll bite your thieving hands off.

  As Spotty reeled back down the stairs, Cogg and Baz seized one leg each of Tattoo’s pants in their teeth and heaved, their powerful paws thrusting backward. Tattoo’s pants slid right off his legs and ripped completely in two down the middle. The scorpions swarmed over Tattoo’s thighs and up the legs of his shorts. They crawled on his head and down the back of his shirt. Tattoo scrambled to the fountains and plunged into the water.

  “Help me! Help me! Help me!” screeched Tattoo.

  Spotty clambered into the truck and slammed the door.

  Furgul jumped into the back and hid among the loot.

  As Spotty started the engine, Tattoo screamed from the fountains where he tried to splash the scorpions from his hair.

  “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Tattoo pleaded.

  But Spotty was too scared to hang around. All he did was toss a cell phone out of the window. Then the pickup’s wheels spun in the gravel, and he drove toward the gates. Furgul made room as two bearded lunatics leaped right over the tailgate of the truck. They panted with excitement.

  “So this is what a real dog feels like!” said Cogg.

  “You were always real dogs,” said Furgul, “you just needed to prove it.”

  “Well, we couldn’t leave the bacon unprotected,” said Baz.

  “Speaking of bacon,” said Cogg, “isn’t it time for that midnight snack?”

  With a speed and expertise that suggested they’d done it before, Baz stood on Cogg’s back and popped the refrigerator door. Inside, every shelf was piled with packs of bacon. Cogg’s nostrils twitched like a true baconoisseur.

  “Oak-smoked, maplewood, hickory and honey, or Cajun-cured vanilla?”

  Furgul was starving. “What’s the difference?”

  Cogg and Baz exchanged a horrified look.

  “We’ve got forty-three exotic gourmet bacons in here,” chided Cogg.

  “From thirteen different countries,” added Baz.

  Furgul shrugged. “So why not try them all?”

  Cogg and Baz gaped, their tongues lolling out. They looked at each other.

  “How come we never thought of that?” said Baz.

  “Like I said the minute I saw him, Furgul’s a genius!”

  “You didn’t say any such thing!”

  “Oh yes I did!”

  “Oh no you didn’t!”

  As the truck rumbled through the night, the three dogs feasted on the finest bacons in the world. When their bellies were full, they settled down for a nap.

  “There’s something we’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Cogg.

  “Yes,” said Baz. “Where are we going, skipper?”

  Furgul looked up at the Dog Star, the brightest in the sky.

  “Looks like we’re going to the carnival.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MISSION

  The strange machines towered in the moonlight without moving. The stripy shacks were deserted. The music was silent. The crowds had gone. Throughout the huddle of mobile homes, where the carnival people slept, the windows were dark. Without the flashing lights, the creaking gears, the roar of wheels on tracks and the screams of passengers, the deserted carnival seemed like the ruins of an abandoned civilization, inhabited only by ghosts and piles of garbage.

  Furgul sensed that the fairground was a malevolent place, and not just because of such men as Spotty and Tattoo. Perhaps this spot was the crossroads of a twisted tangle of Doglines. Perhaps something bad had happened here long ago. Furgul didn’t know. In any case it gave him the chills.

  Spotty stopped the truck outside a squalid mobile home. He switched off the engine and sat cowering behind the wheel, too afraid to get out even though he wanted to. Furgul jumped off the back of the pickup. Cogg and Baz followed Furgul.

  “Let’s make him think we’ve run away,” said Furgul.

  They retreated into the shadows and waited. When Spotty thought it was safe, he dashed out of the truck and into the mobile home. A light blinked on. They could see his silhouette at the window, rushing around inside.

  “Wait for me here,” said Furgul. “Don’t let Spotty come out of the mobile home. He mustn’t get back in the truck. If you have to scare him, show him your teeth, but don’t bark or you’ll wake the other mobile homes.”

  “You can count on us, skipper.”

  Furgul trotted away through the rows of mobile homes, toward the carnival area. He lifted his nose and sniffed about, but the smells were so many and so strong—and so unpleasant—that he co
uldn’t pick up the scent he was looking for. He’d have to depend on eyesight alone. He crisscrossed the fairground in systematic sweeps, checking every shack and machine. Nothing. He spied a section used as a parking lot that was full of the huge trucks that transported the carnival machines. He headed over there.

  The first thing that caught his eye was a silver moonbeam flashing on a chain. Then a pair of tormented eyes gleamed from the darkness. Her coat was so black that she was otherwise quite invisible. She emerged from between the wheels of an enormous truck, a long chain clanking behind her.

  “You came back,” said Dervla.

  “I couldn’t leave my best friend chained up to a truck,” said Furgul.

  “You came back for me?”

  Furgul grinned. But Dervla’s face remained haunted.

  “The Dog Who Never Smiles,” he said.

  Furgul stepped closer. Dervla backed away.

  “Don’t get yourself in trouble,” she said. “Tattoo and Spotty might see you.”

  “Spotty’s in his mobile home. Tattoo’s having trouble with scorpions.”

  “Scorpions?”

  “His underpants are full of them—and he’s miles away. Let me get a closer look at that collar. Step out into the moonlight.”

  Dervla stepped out of the shadows. Furgul studied the chain. It was looped around her neck, then threaded through a steel ring that hung from the end of the chain. This created the noose of a slip collar. The harder she pulled, the more the loop of chain would tighten around her throat. He opened his mouth and reached toward her neck.

  Dervla shook her head. “You’ll never bite through it.”

  “Just hold your neck stiff,” he said. “I’ve been wearing one of these all day, and I’ve worked it out. You just can’t do it on your own. See, the slip collar works both ways: If you pull, it gets tighter, but if I pull—”

  Furgul grabbed the loop between his front teeth and gave it a steady pull. The chain rattled through the live ring—and the loop got bigger and bigger. Dervla blinked with amazement. She ducked her head backward, and the enlarged noose slid over her ears and tinkled to the ground.

  “There you are,” said Furgul.

  Dervla looked up at the moon. She glanced at Furgul.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  Dervla craned back her powerful neck. Her jaws opened wide toward the moon. The howl that was torn from her throat froze Furgul’s blood, yet at the same time his eyes filled with tears. It started low, from deep inside her, and rose into a cry from the wounds inflicted on her heart. Dervla’s howl expressed her rage at being tortured for so long. But it was also a lament of guilt and shame for allowing them to rob her of her dignity. The melancholy howl soared skyward. And when her lungs were empty, it soared on still, as if the cosmos would echo to its sound until the end of time.