One Careful Owner: Love Me, Love My Dog

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “That’s why I missed Stan’s appointment. I was getting clean. I didn’t even want prescription drugs anymore.”

  “Oh, Alex! I wish . . . I wish I’d known!”

  I looked away. At the time, it would have been the last thing I wanted—her pity. Dawn was the most compassionate person I’d ever met. But I’d never wanted to be just her charity case.

  I nodded slowly, acknowledging her words, then continued speaking.

  “When I felt . . . better, I needed to do something more—something for more than just me and Stan. So I looked for animals to rescue.”

  “All the injured animals . . .”

  “I spent a lot of hours just walking through the forest.”

  Many, many hours—most of them with Stan, before he got sick. I looked down.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said tentatively.

  “I think we’re beyond keeping anything back,” I answered cautiously.

  She nodded slowly.

  “Why did you ask for a male vet, you know, that first appointment?”

  I sighed.

  “Since . . . everything that had happened, with Charlotte, I just found it easier to talk to men without stuttering. Men, kids, dogs—I could talk to them. Women . . . not so great.”

  “I wondered if that was it. I’m glad you can talk to me now.”

  “So am I, Dawn. So damned glad.”

  I meant it. Every word.

  She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were still troubled.

  “And the dog you brought to me?”

  “I found him in Cleveland. I wasn’t even looking for trouble,” just a drink, but I wasn’t going to tell Dawn that. “Trouble just kind of naturally found me.”

  I gave her a tired smile.

  “I literally walked into a parking lot and saw this guy beating a dog. I lost my temper and . . . well, he walked, or crawled away from that. But I was too late to save the dog. When I had time to think about it after, I thought that it was one hell of a coincidence, and maybe I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do. So, I started hanging out, asking questions, and that’s when I found out about this new dog fighting ring that’s set up, shuttling between Pittsburgh and Cleveland.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I could tell you . . . or I could show you.”

  “Sh-show me?”

  “Yes. Tonight. There’s an illegal dog fight taking place in Cleveland. I’m going to stop it.”

  She stared at me like I’d lost all reason, sparking an anger buried deep inside me.

  If she wanted crazy, well, bring it on. I’d call down the darkness and watch the sky burn. I’d show her how bad it could get. I’d show her every dark place inside me. I wouldn’t hold back. She wanted to know the truth, I’d give it to her—in every black and bloody detail.

  Her eyes widened and she licked her lips, glancing at her cell phone.

  “Why don’t you just call the police?”

  I laughed.

  “Yeah, right. Because you know how much they like doing favors for me. You saw your friend, Dudley Do-Right.”

  “Dan’s a good guy!”

  “Yeah, sure he is. But he won’t help me.”

  “You don’t know that! Dan’s an animal lover, too!”

  “Listen, Dawn, I’ll tell you exactly what he’ll do. He’ll call it in to Cleveland PD and they’ll tell him that they’ll look into it. Then they’ll put it at the bottom of long list of shitty jobs, starting with patrolling the shopping malls because it’s the holidays and people are tearing each other apart over the latest PlayStation, and the next day, there’ll be ten dead dogs stuffed in dumpsters.”

  “That might not . . .”

  “That’s exactly what would happen,” I said remorselessly. “Except I won’t let it, because I’ll be there instead.”

  Dawn looked so shocked, I was afraid I’d already lost her. But she needed to understand that this drove me—helping these animals that no one else gave a shit about. Because I knew how they felt, I’d been where they were.

  And it kept me from drinking.

  “But there’s no point in this, is there?” I said softly.

  “What do you mean?” she asked nervously.

  “Talking about it when I can show you. Show you why I do what I do. Cut through all the bullshit. That’s what you want, isn’t it? The truth?” I looked away from her. “I told you I had a prior engagement tonight.”

  “You can’t go vigilante on them,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “Why not? The police won’t stop them. They didn’t last time.”

  “This is so crazy!”

  “I’m not c-crazy. Not in the clinical sense.” I gave a sarcastic smile. “I’ve had the cure, remember?”

  She bit her lip, then shook her head.

  “I can’t go. It’s too dangerous. I can’t be that . . . irresponsible. If something happened . . . I can’t rely on Katie’s father. I want to understand, Alex, I do. But I can’t go with you.”

  I felt sickened by my selfishness. Of course she couldn’t come with me. I knew how dangerous it was. These guys were mob—and they carried guns.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Wait here for me?”

  And I didn’t know if that was a question, or whether I’d want to hear her answer.

  “Alex, please! You’re scaring me! I don’t want you to go.”

  I paused and smiled sadly.

  “I know you don’t. But I have to.”

  Dawn didn’t want me to go, but it was something that I needed to do. I knew she didn’t really understand why it drove me, but she would.

  She needed to know how bad it could get.

  She had no idea . . .

  But at the same time, I’d promised to be careful and that wasn’t something I said lightly. So I abandoned my original plan to use smoke bombs to create as much mayhem as possible. Instead, I stopped at a mall in Cleveland and bought myself a state-of-the-art GoPro that could record at night, with a head cam mount so I could keep my hands free. The police needed hard evidence, so I’d give it to them. And this way, I’d honor my promise to Dawn.

  Then I drove to a sleazy part of Cleveland navigating my way through the tangle of backstreets. I’d spent a lot of time here, watching, waiting.

  It was also a red light district an area of drug dens, if the groups of heavy-looking guys hanging around outside empty shops or the women waiting under streetlights was anything to go by.

  I circled the block before stopping a short distance from one of the bigger roads, but it was still secluded enough that the truck wouldn’t look out of place.

  I looked around carefully, then jumped out of the truck and walked deeper into the knot of shadowy streets.

  I nodded at a couple of the working girls as I passed. Giselle had told them I was okay, but hands off. At least, I think that’s what she told them, because they never gave me any hassle. They just watched.

  I kept to the darkest parts of the street, then paused at the narrow entrance behind the derelict bowling alley. It smelled like something had died here.

  Giselle saw me immediately and stepped out from under a streetlight, strutting along the sidewalk.

  Her cheeks were sunken and her thin shoulders shook with a racking cough. It sounded bad, but she said that she didn’t like doctors.

  “Hey, lover,” she grinned. “On the prowl again?”

  I nodded and jerked my head at the backpack which held the GoPro.

  “Looking for trouble?” she sniggered, which started the hacking cough again. “They’re in the same place as before, lover,” she said, speaking more quietly. “A bigger than usual crowd. Some out-of-towners, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded, then passed her a fifty dollar bill. She paused, as if she was going to say something else, but then she just shrugged and tucked the note into her bra.

  “See you around, lover.”

  She slunk back to the same section of the sidewalk, her gaze retu
rning to the passing cars.

  As traffic in the area slowly increased, I waited. The first dogs began arriving—some in crates, some on chains, their handlers using brutal methods to control them, if that’s the word.

  A large group of people, mostly men and a few women, made their way into the back of the abandoned bowling alley. They were laughing and drinking, openly discussing the fights they were going to see and the bets they’d place.

  More people arrived, in groups or alone. It always amazed me how such large numbers could be involved in something illegal and the police didn’t know. Or maybe no one cared. Except me.

  When a guy dressed in a dark suit propped open the bowling alley door from the inside, I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt, casting my face into deep shadows. I might not be the only one here with a video camera. And he had mob written all over him.

  I waited, watching the fight crowd stream inside.

  Finally, the door closed and the fights started. This was the hard part—waiting until the bastards were preoccupied.

  As I inched toward the abandoned bowling alley, I saw two men leave the building by the back entrance, their faces hard, slashed with disappointment and disgust. And they were dragging something with them.

  At their feet, lay a large dog, its eyes glazed and body limp. Some sort of Pitbull, I’d guess. Even in the deep shadows, I could see the glossy sheen of blood darkening its coat.

  It looked dead.

  But when one of the men kicked it in the ribs, it whimpered softly, its paws paddling as if it was trying to get away, but couldn’t.

  “Fuckin’ useless,” sneered the vicious-looking man. “Cost me $500 and won’t even be able to fight next month.”

  “Or ever,” laughed the other.

  When they kicked the dog again, I saw red.

  People say that all the time, but it’s just words to them. If it ever really happens, you should be fucking scared.

  My vision dipped, narrowing like I was in a tunnel, the scarlet rage a vise across my eyes. And I exploded with fury.

  Adrenaline surged through me as I leapt forward, punching at exposed throats, noses and eyes—all the weak places and with the element of surprise, just like Carl had taught me. Blood streamed over my knuckles as a man’s nose erupted, and he toppled backward, clutching his ruined face. My boot slammed into the other man’s knee and he howled.

  I was lost in a blaze of hatred and lust for revenge. I couldn’t feel the punches and kicks aimed my way, couldn’t feel my knuckles splitting and my mouth bleeding, until I was stamping down on a man’s ribs, enjoying the satisfying crunch and the way his body flopped like a caught fish.

  I heard the begging and pleading of the other man above my ragged breathing and hoarse, heaving gasps.

  I hacked up a mouthful of phlegm, my spittle red and frothy like a rabid animal, and I spat at them.

  The dog’s eyes were closed, but I could see its chest moving with shallow breaths.

  I ignored the crawling scum to crouch down beside the battered dog, swallowing bile when I saw blood bubble up from a deep wound in its throat, smelling the metallic scent of gore all over his fur, all over me.

  The dog’s eyes opened when I stroked him gently. Then they rolled up in his head and he died. Right there at my feet. He just died.

  I stood up slowly, and the two men were backing away from me, one holding a hand to his broken nose.

  Picking up a loose brick from the ground, I prowled toward them, but then they turned and ran. I stared after them, torn about whether to take them down, or head for the mother lode.

  I spat on the ground. Evil fuckers.

  Sometimes I really hated people. Loathed them. Despised them. Men and women were entertained by watching two animals tear each other apart? And I was the one they called crazy?

  My head jerked up as a sudden roar rose from the building—humans cheering and shouting, jeering and calling for blood.

  Seeing the dog kicked to death in front of me, I felt a dizzying rage alongside the fear. I pulled out the camera and zoomed in on the corpse. I hoped that if I showed what happened, showed the end result, other people would understand why I did what I did. Maybe Dawn would understand.

  Keeping to the shadows, I walked further into the dark beside the old bowling alley. There was a metal fire escape swinging overhead, and I pulled it down, glancing around when it clanked into position, but no one came. The noise coming from passing cars cloaked any small sounds I was making.

  From the fire escape, I climbed a nearby drainpipe, hauling myself up easily.

  It was the screaming that I heard first. A chilling sound, and I knew that it was a dog. Shrieking with pain, its cries almost human—childlike. It was probably dying right now . . . for people’s sick pleasure.

  Hurrying, I worked my way through the series of gutted rooms that had once been offices, until I was crouched at the top of the rotting staircase and could see the small crowd of people in the main arena. I was reminded of all the gladiator movies that I’d ever seen, with the crowd shouting and yelling. But movies don’t smell so bad that your stomach climbs up through your throat. Movies don’t make you gag with the scent of urine and feces, and the deeper smell of a moldy, decaying building.

  My eyes were drawn back to the two snapping, snarling dogs.

  I felt nauseated and burning with fury as they circled each other, saliva and blood dripping from their teeth. For sport. For entertainment.

  I pulled out the camera, making sure I zoomed in on as many faces in the crowded room as possible before I filmed the sickening action in the fight pit.

  The dogs looked like Staffordshire-Pitbull-crosses and were fighting in an enclosed space about the size of a boxing ring. One was on his back, being pushed around the floor as his paws scrabbled uselessly against the other dog, who held him in a death grip.

  I could see the whites of the smaller dog’s eyes, the terror clear. And no one, no one came to help him. For the briefest second, he managed to scratch and bite his way free from the other dog, blood pulsing from a wound in his neck. He clawed frantically at the wooden panels forming the walls of the arena, but was pushed back by men with clubs. I saw his panic, his desperation, but there was no escape. And then the other dog was on him again.

  The crowd jeered and yelled, and I saw money changing hands. And every time blood was smeared on the concrete floor, they screamed for more.

  Red sheeted both animals, but there wasn’t much fight left.

  With a final shake, the bigger dog—the top dog—crushed the throat of the smaller one, ripping his teeth free, a piece of fur dangling from his jaws.

  The crowd yelled and cheered and I felt ashamed of humanity.

  Was this what we’d come to? Were we so hardened by life that entertainment came from causing suffering and pain?

  The winning dog seemed exhausted, covered in blood, some its own, one ear all but torn off. It limped around the ring until its owner grabbed it and pulled it over the side, and the next two dogs were tossed in, growling and barking at each other.

  I wanted to stop the sadistic spectacle personally. I wanted to release the rage inside me, but two things stopped me. Or, more truthfully, two people stopped me: thoughts of Dawn and of Katie. I wanted to be part of their lives even more than I wanted to taste the violence again. So instead, I’d go through with my new plan.

  I edged backward slowly, until I was out of sight and well hidden. Then I crouched down by my backpack and pulled out a burner phone. I dialed 911 and played a pre-recorded message, giving the address of the bowling alley.

  If the police were quick, they’d catch all the sick bastards who like to watch this shit, as well as the assholes who’d organized it.

  I cringed at the sound of a dog screaming, but I had to wait.

  It was the longest and most miserable two minutes of my entire life. I watched the horrific fight, keeping the head cam pointed at the ring, and listened to the gory sounds of another dog being
torn to pieces—literally tortured to death. My stomach rolled and cold sweat made me shudder.

  Frowning, I pointed my flashlight at my wristwatch, counting off another minute. The police needed to catch them in the act, but listening to the dog fight below was nauseating. I was itching to do something more than just wait and watch.

  I promised Dawn. I promised her.

  Police sirens sounded in the distance, and my eyes narrowed. It was time. I pressed my lips together in a cold smile, then headed out through the blackened rooms. I’d been here too many times to become disorientated.

  When I finally reached the window, I clambered out onto the rickety fire escape, not sure if it was the metal that was shaking or me.

  I landed silent and catlike, the way I’d practiced, then slipped away from the alley, finding a safe place to watch.

  Soon I heard more shouts and yells, but the vicious tone of approval had turned to panic as the sound of the sirens grew closer.

  Suddenly, the bowling alley doors slammed open, and two mob guys ran out, guns in their hands, as people began to pour from the building.

  There was nothing more I could do. Now it was up to Cleveland’s finest, so I jogged back to the truck and gunned the engine, speeding away as three squad cars slid to a halt behind us.

  My work here was done.

  I drove back to Dawn’s house, aware that I was covered in blood and filth, and stinking of smoke.

  As soon as I pulled up outside, the door was flung open and Dawn ran out. I just had time to climb from the truck’s cab when she threw herself at me.

  She hugged me tightly, her hands gripping my shoulders, her face pressed against my chest as heaving sobs wracked her body.

  Guilt and disgust and despair filled me. I’d done this to her. Again.

  It was several minutes before she could speak.

  “I was so scared! I thought . . .”

  I nodded, my expression stern.

  “I’m sorry, Dawn . . . but I have something to show you . . .”

  Dawn

  I WATCHED ALEX, my heart racing, as he linked his video camera to my TV.

  I studied the blood on his clothes, the bruise on his cheek, his split lip and his bleeding knuckles that were starting to swell.