I sat outside, enjoying the sun on my fur, and the scent of the rich dirt. I licked my balls thoughtfully. I was very proud of my balls—they were large and shiny and swayed pendulously when I walked, a punctuation mark against my sandy fur. I paused to stare up at the boss, my chocolate eyes sympathetic. Maybe if he could lick his own balls, he’d be happier.
Or maybe getting royally screwed by his cheating ex-wife and losing his business meant that nothing made you happy anymore.
And he’d lost Carl. We both had.
My own contentment drooped at the memory. My friend. My first protector.
I used to think all humans were cruel, monstrous, until I’d met Carl. He was gentle, kind to me. And his brother was exactly the same.
The boss plopped down in the dirt next to me and I leaned against his sun-warmed back, soaking up the evening rays.
“I couldn’t do this without you, Stan,” he said softly, sinking his fingers into my fur. “You’re the only person I can talk to. You’re the only one I trust—every other sonofabitch isn’t worth the air they breathe. You’re the only one.”
My heart ached for the boss. He needed more in his life than a beaten up ole hound dog, but I was all he had.
When we’d left the mountains behind, we’d traveled east, watching the sky grow larger, the horizons wider. Now we sat in silence as the sun slunk across the sky, the lake glinting in the distance.
There’s nothing as satisfying as an afternoon nap.
It was two days later, and I’d fallen asleep in the shade of my favorite tree. It was old, rising silent and solemn, a large copper beech that cast a soft amber light throughout the cabin across and the wooden deck. I listened for the boss, but all I could hear was thunk, thunk, thunk, a rhythmical ringing as he chopped wood, somewhere in the distance.
I stood up, shaking out the kinks in my spine, and ambled off for a stroll through the woods to find him, feeling at peace now the boss was healthy again.
But then my nostrils quivered as I picked up a new scent. Sweet and cloying—the scent of death.
My hackles rose as I paused, checking the direction of the wind, listening for anything that didn’t fit.
I stepped lightly, keeping all my senses on high alert. Creatures were born in the forest, lived their whole lives, then died here. But this didn’t feel right and a low growl rolled out of my throat. Underneath the odor of rotten flesh, I could smell Man. Someone who wore cologne. The same scent that hung around our porch sometimes, but fainter now, almost hidden.
And then I found it: the body of a cat with a collar around her neck—dead some time and already decaying in the summer heat.
I barked for the boss. He had to see this. He should know that someone had been on his land again. Someone who liked to kill animals. I barked more urgently, and after a short pause he came jogging through the trees, an axe still grasped in one hand.
“Stan? What’s up, buddy?”
I stared at the cat, and he wrinkled his nose.
“Ah, shit!”
And then he looked closer. A thick piece of wire was wrapped around the cat’s neck. She’d had been caught in a snare. I didn’t think her neck had been broken, so she’d probably choked to death. I didn’t like cats—always showing off, always pretending they were too good to enjoy a human’s company. No, I pretty much hated them, but even so, I wouldn’t have wished this end on my worst enemy. It was a slow and miserable way to cross over the rainbow bridge. And alone. She’d been alone.
No one should die alone.
The boss frowned, his lips pressing together in a flat line that meant he was upset or angry.
Sighing, he laid the axe on the ground, carefully untangling the wire as he dismantled the trap. Then he took off the cat’s collar, putting it in his pocket and grimacing over the stench from the animal’s body.
“I should get a spade,” he muttered to himself, but I knew he had no more interest in having to come back here than I did.
It didn’t take long to scratch out a shallow grave using the axe. Then he picked up the cat’s body, laying it gently in the depression. Finally, he sprinkled dirt on top and found a few flat stones to lay over it, but I knew that scavengers would be feasting tonight.
My ears pricked up as I heard a new sound, and I followed it to the source. Three tiny kittens mewled weakly, their cries tired and desperate, eyes still tightly shut. They were hungry, thirsty, and very scared. A fourth was already dead, it’s tiny body too still.
The boss cursed when he saw them, gripping the axe so his knuckles turned white. Then he laid the axe on the bed of pine needles, peeled off his shirt and picked up the kittens, one at a time, carefully wrapping the faded plaid around them.
He shook his head, his eyes sad when they met mine.
“They’re in pretty bad shape,” he said, his voice raw. “Their mom has been dead a while. They must be hungry and thirsty. Shit, I’d better call that vet.”
He cradled the kittens with one hand while he pulled out his phone. I sniffed them thoughtfully. The boss was right—they were weak and hungry. One of them was barely moving, too exhausted to cry.
There were times when I really hated humans.
The call connected and I heard the tinny voice at the other end.
“Petz Pets, how may I help you?”
“Ah . . . Ah . . . k-k-kit-t-t-t . . .”
“Hello?”
“K-k-k . . .”
“What? I can’t hear you. This is a really bad line. Try calling back.”
The boss slammed the phone against his forehead when the call was cut.
“Fuck,” he swore softly.
He held the kittens against his chest and scooped up the axe with the other.
But then I heard the sound of footsteps coming toward us. There were too many for it to be the lone killer, and I could hear a child’s bubbling laughter.
A little girl ran toward us, giggling at something. Then she saw the boss, standing there with an axe in his hand, sweat streaked, hair matted, clothes ragged—and she screamed.
Over and over again, she screamed, her small body stiff with terror, her eyes wide and fearful.
The shrill, piercing shriek made me wince, but the boss just stood there, frozen in shock.
A man and woman came crashing through the trees, calling the girl’s name. They shuddered to a stop when they saw the boss.
“Please don’t hurt her,” whispered the woman, her hand over her mouth as her husband crept toward the sobbing girl.
Keeping his eyes on the boss, he reached out, grabbing the girl’s hand and backing away slowly.
“It’s cool, man! We’re cool! Nothing to worry about! Don’t do anything you’re going to regret. We’re going now. It’s cool!”
He kept babbling as they edged away, and all the boss could do was stare, his mouth turning down when he realized that they were all terrified of him.
He looked at the axe hanging loosely in his hand, the kittens hidden in his shirt, and then he turned away, his shoulders stooped as he strode toward the house.
I followed behind him. Because that was all I could do: let him know that he’d never scared me, never hurt me, and never would.
My own heart ached for the loneliness I felt in his.
Dawn
I’d sent my last patient away half-an-hour ago with drops for a nasty flea infestation, and then spent the time spraying the office and examination rooms to make sure other patients didn’t end up with fleas.
Ashley was annoyed at having to wait while I finished up, but not so annoyed that she offered to help. But since she was Gary’s daughter-in-law’s sister, I couldn’t say anything. And she knew it.
I’d just changed out of my scrubs and into jeans, when Ashley called me to the front office, her voice shrill with excitement.
“Look!”
Pulling into the parking lot was Mr. Winters’ rust-bucket truck, closely followed by a police cruiser, blue lights flashing.
�
�Oh my God! It’s the crazy guy!” Ashley breathed, her hand gripping my arm as we both gawked out the window.
I saw Jon Eastman, Dan’s deputy approach the driver’s side of the truck. I couldn’t see what was happening after that, but then he stepped back and rested his hand on his service revolver.
I jerked backward, but Ashley was still watching, her eyes bright with interest, her hand clutched to her chest.
“STEP OUT OF THE CAR AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE HOOD RIGHT NOW!”
I saw the truck door open and Mr. Winters climbed out, his movements deliberately slow. I couldn’t tell if he was scared because his hair was hanging in his face, but his body moved stiffly.
He was holding a cardboard box, and he placed it carefully on the driver’s seat before obeying Jon. Then he put his hands on the hood and leaned forward, spreading his legs.
Jon stepped closer, pushing Mr. Winters’ feet further apart and then brought out the handcuffs.
I watched, horrified, as Mr. Winters tried to twist around, but Jon shoved his face against the truck’s hood, and when he turned in my direction, I saw blood. I think his lip was split, but it was hard to tell.
I didn’t know what was going on, but I could hear Stan’s distressed barking, and I knew I had to do something to calm him in case he tried to attack Jon and ended up being shot.
I tore open the door while Ashley clung to me.
“What on earth is going on here?”
“Stand back, ladies,” barked Jon. “He could be dangerous.”
“What’s he done?”
Jon ignored me, tightening his grip, intoning loudly, “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
The words spurred me into action. I knew that Mr. Winters didn’t communicate well, even when he wasn’t severely stressed.
“Jon, he has a serious speech impediment—in all probability he won’t be able to do anything except remain silent!”
There was a short pause.
“You know this guy?”
“Yes. Well, he’s one of my clients. His dog had toothache. He brought him in a few weeks ago.”
Circling behind Jon, I walked over to the passenger side of the truck and laid a soothing hand on Stan. His growls lessened immediately, his gaze becoming pleading as I continued to stroke him.
“What’s in there?” Jon asked looking at me and Stan, then jerking his chin at the cardboard box.
I tried not to roll my eyes. Jeez, did he think Stan was Lassie? One bark, one grunt and he’d know, Gee, Jimmy’s in the well, I’d better go rescue him. Idiot.
I thought I could guess—probably another injured animal—but Mr. Winters looked so wild, I decided to let Jon look first, just to be on the safe side.
He peered in the truck, then cautiously opened the box. We could all hear distressed mewing, and I knew immediately that I’d guessed right.
“That sounds like . . . oh, what’s this?”
I stepped forward and gazed down at the box.
Three tiny kittens, just a day or so old. Two were crying weakly, but the third . . .
“Oh, poor little things! Did you find them? Where’s their mother?”
Mr. Winters nodded wordlessly, then shrugged his shoulders. Of course he couldn’t explain—not like this.
He met my eyes briefly, then looked down at the box again.
“This one didn’t make it,” I said softly.
He closed his eyes, his mouth grim, his expression full of compassion. And the thought filtered through my confusion, He cares.
But then his head drooped and he wouldn’t look at any of us. In fact, he looked guilty, and a kernel of doubt bloomed.
Then a second police cruiser pulled up and Dan climbed out. Thank goodness!
“I’ve got him, Dan,” Jon called excitedly. “He didn’t put up much of a fight. I haven’t had a chance to look for the axe.”
What?
“He say anything?” Dan asked, glancing at me, taking in the whole scene.
“He has a severe speech impediment,” I said impatiently. “I was just explaining to Jon that he’s my client. He brought in his dog a few weeks ago—and that Golden Eagle I told you about. Oh, and a raccoon! In fact, he’s saved quite a few wild animals since he’s been here. He bought Old Joe’s place.”
“That so,” Dan said thoughtfully.
Mr. Winters watched cautiously as Dan wandered around the truck to stroke Stan, examining everything with his usual careful consideration.
“Dan,” I said urgently, “he was bringing me these kittens. They look in a bad way and one has already died—I have to get some IV fluids into them immediately. Why don’t you all come inside? We’re officially closed for the day now, and I can check on Stan, as well.”
“Who’s Stan?”
“Mr. Winters’ dog,” I said over my shoulder, as I carefully lifted the box out of the truck, trying not to jolt the two surviving kittens.
But not before I heard Dan questioning Jon.
“What happened to his lip?” he asked coolly.
The younger officer flushed.
“He was resisting arrest and . . .”
“Thought you said he didn’t put up much of a fight?”
There was a heavy silence loaded with meaning.
“We’ll talk inside,” said the Sherriff, at last.
I frowned as Jon pushed Mr. Winter’s shoulder to make him move, treating him as if he was deaf as well as mute. I was angry, but my focus was on the kittens. They were so tiny, I’d have to use my smallest gauge needles.
Stan whined, and Mr. Winters planted his feet in the dirt, unwilling to leave him in the truck by himself.
“Get moving!” Jon snapped, pushing him again.
Mr. Winters let out a growl of frustration that made Dan pause, his eyes flicking from him to Stan and back again.
“If I let your dog out of the truck, is he going to behave?”
I opened my mouth to answer that Stan was gentle, but in all truthfulness, I couldn’t be sure when everything was so tense.
Mr. Winters nodded furiously, and after a dubious look, Dan opened the passenger door. Stan all but fell out of the truck, sprawling painfully in the dirt as his back legs gave way, and Mr. Winters scowled angrily.
But then Stan shook himself and limped over, rubbing his heavy head against his owner.
“Okay,” said Dan, scratching his mustache, “let’s get this circus inside and find out what the hell’s going on.”
I took the kittens right into the consultation room and started to work on them immediately. Satisfied that their IV fluids were flowing, I went and found them some suitable milk substitute to drink.
When I returned to the front office, Mr. Winters had been handcuffed to a chair, leaving his left hand free to stroke Stan, who was much calmer now. Ashley was sitting in her usual seat, watching everything avidly and discreetly texting under her desk. Half of Girard would know about this within the next two minutes.
“Have you arrested him?” Dan asked, raising his eyebrows at Jon.
“I was just getting to that when you drove up, Dan. I only got half way through Miranda.”
Dan winced and I knew what he was thinking—Mr. Winters had been wrongfully detained and could sue the police department. And now I could see him up close, he had a split lip and blood was trickling into his beard.
“Well, Mr. Winters,” said Dan, turning to him. “Looks like we’ve all gotten ahead of ourselves,” and he threw a look at Jon. “But we had a complaint about a man with an axe terrorizing a young family out by your property. You know anything about that?”
Mr. Winters stared at him, and I knew that there was no point in him trying to speak. Then I saw him wiggling his left hand. Then he did it again, clearly trying to send Dan a message.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” Dan said, equally frustrated.
“T-t-t . . .” he stuttered uselessly. “T-t-t . . .”
“Shit,” mumbled Dan, rubbing his
hands over his face.
“Uh, maybe he’s saying that he wants to type his answers,” I suggested. “Is that right?”
Mr. Winters nodded in relief, grateful that someone understood.
“This should be good,” Jon muttered. “The guy’s a freakin’ hobo.”
“Knock it off,” said Dan crisply.
He unlocked Mr. Winters’ handcuffs and stood back cautiously.
Mr. Winters rubbed his wrists, whispering soothingly to Stan, then took a seat behind Ashley’s computer. We all gathered behind him in a semi-circle, burning with curiosity to see what he’d write.
My mouth dropped open as his fingers flew across the keyboard, touch-typing with the speed of a trained secretary.
I WAS CHOPPING LOGS FOR THE FIRE WHEN STAN BARKED. I COULD TELL HE WAS WORRIED SO I WENT TO LOOK. I FOUND A DEAD CAT. I HAVE THE COLLAR.
And then he pulled a pink leopard-skin collar out of his pocket and handed it to the Dan.
“Wait! Let me see that!” I took the collar and my lips turned down. “ ‘Missy’. Mrs. Humpries’ cat.”
Ashley’s snort of disapproval brought ugly suspicions to the fore.
“How did Missy die?”
SHE HAD BEEN CAUGHT IN A SNARE. I HAVE IT IN THE BACK OF MY TRUCK. I DON’T KNOW WHO SET IT ON MY LAND, BUT IT LOOKS FAIRLY NEW. THEN I FOUND THE KITTENS. I WAS HEADING TO MY TRUCK SO I COULD BRING THE KITTENS TO YOU WHEN A GIRL CAME RUNNING OUT OF THE FOREST. SHE SCREAMED WHEN SHE SAW ME AND HER PARENTS THOUGHT I WAS THREATENING HER. I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!! THEY LEFT, AND I CAME HERE. THAT’S IT.
Then he turned to look at us. I wanted to believe him, but it seemed a huge coincidence that the increase in injured animals had begun after he’d arrived in Girard. But . . . he just didn’t seem the type.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “If you’d waited any longer . . . well, the surviving kittens are very weak, but I think . . . you got to them just in time. Mrs. Humphries will be devastated about Missy, but at least you saved two of them.”
He nodded, his eyes darting to Dan and Jon.
Dan pulled at his mustache thoughtfully.
“That fits with what Mr. and Mrs. Metzner told me. They admitted that they’d pretty much freaked when I got them to describe exactly what happened.” Then he turned to Mr. Winters. “I can only apologize, Mr. Winters. It seems everyone over-reacted. There won’t be any formal charges.”
One Careful Owner: Love Me, Love My Dog Page 3