I Kissed a Dog (Werewolves of the West 1)
Page 1
I KISSED A DOG
Carol Van Atta
WEREWOLVES OF THE WEST
BOOK ONE
Copyright ã 2012 Carol Van Atta. All rights reserved.
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
I Kissed a Dog / Carol Van Atta
First Edition EBook: October 2012
ISBN 13: 978-1-936185-73-3
ISBN 10: 1-936185-73-3
Editor: Mary Belk
Interior Design: Roger Hunt
Cover Design: Ann Falcone
Readers may contact the author at:
www.werewolvesofthewest.com
Published by Charles River Press, LLC
www.CharlesRiverPress.com
Dedication
I dedicate this book to you, Jordyn and Jade, for putting up with all my whims and wackiness when I’m writing, and the rest of the time too. You are the best kids a mom could have. And to my mom, who instilled the love of reading in my life at a young age. Reading is better than TV, hands down. And lastly, and most importantly, to my Awesome God who gave me any talents I might have. Without You, I would be lost.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people to thank, individuals who helped make I Kissed a Dog come to life. If you played a role in this book’s publishing process please know I appreciate all your help. It must be said: without seeing Tessa Dawn’s book ad on Facebook, I might not have discovered my wonderful publisher, Charles River Press/Cambridge Press US. Her book promotion prompted me to buy her book, which led me to Charles River Press and the purchase of more books, where, ultimately, I realized I’d found a great place for my own series, if they’d have me. Thankfully, Jon Womack, a talented author in his own right, gave the green light for the book you’re reading. Thank you to the Dogman! To Mary Belk, editor extraordinaire, thank you for continually reminding me that more isn’t always better; you made the clean up process fun. Packaging a book is always important. Having a cover I love, but more importantly one that grabs you, the reader, enough to peek inside is a gift. This gift was made possible by my talented and creative cover designer Anne Falcone. Roger Hunt, your skills made the pages inside the cover reader-ready, thank you. Lastly, I want to mention those early readers who encouraged me to keep writing and gave invaluable feedback along the way: Jade (my daughter), Sean (who is always scaring me), Mariah, Michael, Becky, and my mom, and to author of the Blood Curse Series, Tessa Dawn, for her kindness and input with post writing tips and suggestions for marketing and more. A book is without a doubt a team effort, and I needed all of you!
Chapter 1
June 12, 2011 – The Oregon Coast
The lion paced to the left, top lip curled back, revealing his pointed teeth; he snarled at me for good measure.
Wary, I watched as his tail whipped from side to side, and he shifted into a crouching position, his eyes never once straying from mine. He was perched above me on the rocky ledge where he spent hours lounging in the sun.
Planting my fists on my hips, I stood taller, squaring my shoulders, and glared up at Butch, a regal three-year-old lion I’d known since I first started working for Luke Snider at the Plum Beach Wildlife Park, over two years ago. Never had I experienced the wrath of this particular animal, and I wasn’t enjoying being on the receiving end of the young cat’s fury.
Fred, one of the park’s volunteers, had gotten the absurd notion that lions were just bigger versions of their housecat cousins, and based on the faulty information, decided to enter the cage for a feel of their fur.
The two females were eating and ignored the intruder. Butch, always curious and fiercely territorial, wasn’t quite as welcoming. He’d cornered Fred and was preparing to paw at him when I’d noticed his dilemma. Counting on my positive relationship with Butch, I’d helped Fred escape and was turning to leave.
Butch had other ideas and decided to get frisky with me. Something I hadn’t anticipated.
Now I was stuck and angry. How dare Butch treat me like a prospective snack?
I could hear Luke, off to my right, warning me to exit the cage — now, but I refused to surrender to my growling challenger. This was one battle I didn’t intend to lose.
It appeared Butch felt the same.
My pride alone wasn’t holding me back; I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced I could escape unharmed and wasn’t ready to risk it.
To make matters worse, I’d become the animal park’s featured entertainment.
A considerable, mid-afternoon crowd swarmed the lions’ enclosure eager for some action. As if the town’s recent murders weren’t enough. Granted, most of the park’s patrons were tourists with their cell phones raised in hopes of capturing footage worth posting online later.
If I had any say, it wouldn’t be me dangling from the jaws of my former feline friend. Some vacation memory that would be for the kids watching.
Butch roared, sending a wave of nerve-induced nausea crashing through my midsection. His hindquarters quivered in preparation for the sure-to-come pounce. If I was going to divert a catastrophe, and my funeral, I had to act now.
Backing away, I used my coma-acquired communication skills, and sent what I hoped was a soothing mantra into the lion’s mind: You’re okay. It’s me, Chloe. Calm down. Relax. I have treats for you. Relax. Good boy. That’s it. Relax.
Butch cocked his head, responding to my calming thoughts. He looked, for a brief moment, more like a dog with a mane than a menacing lion. I sensed him relaxing, his rage receding, but before I could release the lung-tormenting breath I’d been holding, a child screamed loud enough to crack glass, inspiring several more children to add their piercing shrieks to his, creating a chaotic chorus.
The lion, startled by the commotion, roared a final warning and sprang, arcing toward me; front paws, lined with stabbing claws, extended my direction.
To avoid direct impact, I dove to the ground, bundling myself into a ball, making sure to cover any vital organs and the soft flesh of my neck.
With my head tucked to my knees, I shielded the back of my head with my arms, and waited.
And waited …
Instead of the lion’s victorious roar and sounds of my tearing flesh, loud applause and cheers erupted around me. Encouraged, I raised my head, peering out from the mass of unruly curls that had escaped their ponytail.
Cameras flashed while camcorders and cell phones filmed the extraordinary ending to a daring rescue, performed by the most delectable specimen of manhood I’d ever had the pleasure of ogling. Appalled by my sinful assessment, I was quick to blame it on shock; after all, I’d almost died — again.
Almost dying was becoming a bad habit. A habit I needed to break before my luck ran out.
Turning my attention back to my savior, I watched my boss shake his hand. I had no idea how he’d stopped the lion, now pacing in an isolation cage attached to the enclosure. A line of well-wishers had accumulated and were waiting to congratulate him. It was then I realized I’d somehow been removed from the cage, without my permission or knowledge, and people, now surrounded me.
My co-worker, Rhonda, leaned in close. “Just had to find a way to get the hot guy’s attention, didn’t you?” Her sneer drew my attention to her ma
keup-caked face.
Rhonda was my high school nemesis reincarnated. I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. Like my former rival, her bark tended to be much worse than her bite. As long as she was center stage, she was content. Right now, I was the center of attention, guaranteeing her displeasure.
Ignoring her question, I accepted a water bottle and several concerned pats on the back before circling around behind the lions’ enclosure where I could gather my wits. I was more shaken than I cared to admit. At last alone, my scattered thoughts narrowed to Senior Prom 2004, another prime example of how my coma-acquired-ability caused a major commotion while leading to an overwhelming sense of discomfort.
Darlene Davenport, the school’s self-proclaimed fashion authority, who could’ve been Rhonda’s twin sister, had manipulated our vice principal into letting her bring Queenie, a miniature poodle, to the prom, by insisting the ball-of-fluff was a necessary accessory for her already-garish fuchsia gown.
Peeking from a sequined handbag, the dog looked cute enough — so cute that my normal fear of dogs was absent for the evening, causing me to forget about Darlene’s ongoing desire to dethrone me from my ever-tentative popular-girl status.
Like her successor, Darlene Davenport was no fan of mine.
In fact, she was one of three girls who made it their priority to gossip and grumble about me anytime anyone would listen, which was too often for my liking.
Bob, my stepdad, a police officer, the always-conservative and overprotective parent, banned any article of clothing that might accentuate my figure. Form-fitting or low-cut were not in my clothing vocabulary, or closet, leaving me little to wear that was teenage-girl approved.
Sure, my clothes were cute, practical, and probably cost more than the fashionista’s, Darlene’s. However, Darlene and her few followers made their disapproval known in a number of creative ways that I’d prefer to forget.
Still admired in spite of my conservative attire and their unrestrained bad mouthing, I was up for the coveted title of prom queen. My chief competitor was, of course, none other than Ms. Diva Davenport.
Hoping to tame my hair, I met up with Darlene primping in front of a mirror. Her precious baby, Queenie, succumbed to my mental probing with ease. Queenie’s doggy thoughts revealed that Darlene and her gal pals had bribed one of the stage hands into hanging a bucket of Queenie’s poo poo over a letter X, chalked on the exact spot where the elected queen would make her royal appearance. The whole scene was reminiscent of a 1970’s horror movie that left the prom queen in a telekinetic frenzy.
And if that wasn’t enough to churn my stomach, Queenie’s vision featured me bowing to receive the crown, followed by the bucket tipping. The squishy brown downpour made me gag.
Should by chance Darlene win, the bucket would remain upright and unused.
How convenient.
Let’s just say that when all was said and done, I won the crown and Darlene was covered in her beloved pooch’s poop.
“How did you know?” she’d screeched through the stinking mess.
Making sure to smile and pat Queenie’s head, I replied cheerfully, “Your dog told me.” After all, Queenie had saved the queen.
The Monday following prom, Darlene told anyone who would listen that I was a mind-reading witch and explained how her parents were suing me for the irreparable damage to her dress. In the end, she succeeded in making herself look crazier; and I became, much to her chagrin, even more popular.
Rhonda experienced the exact problem as Darlene. The more she tried to destroy my reputation and make my life miserable, the less people liked her. After two years, she still couldn’t figure out why everyone favored me.
I remembered the gorgeous stranger who Rhonda favored, and who’d saved me. I felt sorry for him. Given the chance, Rhonda would pursue him like he was the last man alive.
Damn! With all the craziness, I’d failed to thank him for his lion taming heroics. I assumed Luke would know how to reach him. The least he deserved was a kind word.
With the shock subsiding, it occurred to me it was my day off. I should have stayed home. At least I’d have been safer there. With me, absolute safety was never an option.
“Ms. Carpenter, can I get a word with you?” an unfamiliar voice called from behind.
Waving him off, I exited through the side gate. Monday would be here soon enough. I trusted it would be better than today.
Chapter 2
Monday, June 13, 2011 – The Oregon Coast
When my dog, Buddy Boy, communicated with me for the first time, following what I now refer to as “the incident,” AKA coma catastrophe, I decided a smaller community was the best place for someone with my disability, or talent, to put down roots following high school and a few unsuccessful years of city living.
What I think about my special ability changes day to day, all depending on what type of trouble I end up in because of it. So far, it’s been a pretty good summer, but it’s only the second week in June. A lot can happen before September. I’ve found that out over the years.
Luke Snider loves my talent. I’ve saved him tons of money since I started working for him. At first, like everyone else I’ve told — Mom, Bob, Melanie, and Jordon — he doubted my ability. After I diagnosed his male tiger with depression and provided the solution, he was real appreciative. He knows the entire story. The other employees understand that I have a unique connection with the animals, but they give me a pretty wide berth.
The animals have shown me how they (humans) gossip — about me.
It’s something I’ve come to expect and accept. True, my ability isn’t quite as threatening as mind reading. Yet imagine if a friend (or enemy) was complaining about you, your dog overheard, and could show you the unpleasant scene’s images and audio. Pretty uncomfortable.
Yesterday had been beyond uncomfortable, but gossiping coworkers were always preferable to a near mauling. The naughty lion would be getting a serious scolding today, and I could count on Rhonda to spend more time complaining about me than working. I’d choose confronting a lion over dealing with her any day.
Cracking the window, the fresh ocean air poured in, refreshing me. I found myself replaying that fateful spring day when my life came to a screeching stop and made a U-turn toward a traumatic death. The unforeseen events from 2002 were etched in my memory:
Free from our final class, I glanced at my BFF, Melanie, and I decided a little girl-time on my fifteenth birthday might be fun. “Hey, want to walk home with me?”
“I would, but my mom wants me to help her at the grocery store. When’s your party?” Melanie said the party word loud enough to turn a few heads as we made our way into the crowded hallway.
Great, now I’d have to deflect the interest directed my way. “Uh, I’m not sure. I’ll let everyone know.” I made sure to say everyone in a way that demonstrated my inclusive nature, all while knowing there wouldn’t be any big birthday bash.
An event involving boys would never gain Bob’s approval. My mom would find the idea uncomfortable, her tag word for anything she wanted to avoid, which was pretty much everything.
“Call me later,” Melanie commanded, before digging into her locker.
I knew if I didn’t, she would. Melanie wasn’t just persistent about parties.
Leaving her to sort through the mess in her locker, I hurried outside, eager to embrace the sunny spring afternoon. Celebrating my birthday by taking the longer route home, through a small, wooded area, seemed like a safe way to rebel against my stepdad while enjoying the scenery.
Taking the long way wasn’t my parents’ idea of safe or responsible behavior. Bob was near neurotic about my walking alone. He’d seen too many crime scene photos. My mom went along with him to avoid creating any waves. She was vigorous when it came to maintaining an environment void of any unnecessary discomfort.
I refused to let their paranoia infect me. It was like a plague to be avoided at all costs. Doing something they wouldn’t a
pprove of was how I inoculated myself from their fears. I didn’t push the limit too far, just enough to maintain my independence.
Flinging their warnings aside, I marched through the school’s manicured lawn toward the tree line where the brush parted and a trail waited.
I turned onto the narrow path. I could hear a baseball game starting back at the ball field and school buses chugging away to nearby neighborhoods — safe sounds. Basking in the moment, I took several graceful spins and celebrated my few minutes away from prying eyes.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees’ canopy, giving the path an other worldly appearance. Birds chirped and the wind rustled the leaves. Talk about a fairytale scene. At the trail’s end, the foliage parted, revealing a suburban Troutdale neighborhood, and a huge growling dog.
I wasn’t familiar with the breed, but recognized, at first glance, its eyes were full of suspicion, and its lips were curled back and trembling, revealing two gleaming canines.
A five-foot fence, just to the left, would have to serve as my escape.
I lunged toward it.
Snarling, the dog charged forward, planning to intercept me.
I scrambled over the railing, thankful for my long legs and above average height. My gratitude was cut short when, to my displeasure, I landed with a painful thud on concrete. My head spun as I tried to right myself. Instead of standing, I collapsed — this time plummeting into the icy depths of a stranger’s uncovered swimming pool.
My head thudded against the wall.
Little pins of light blinked behind my eyelids, giving way to murky darkness.
Several disjointed thoughts managed to linger in the moment before blackness swallowed me whole. Happy Birthday, Chloe. Today you die. Cause of death: Attacked by a dog; drowned in a pool. Not so cool.
I’d always heard that near-death experiences were strange. People have no idea just how strange. Being in a coma for seven months can also be considered more than extraordinary.
Lucky me, I experienced both.
To everyone’s surprise, I woke up with total recollection of the events leading to my coma.