Canis Major
Page 81
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"No, Tommy!! Don’t go!!"
Mike clutched the Doberman’s rear right leg while the front two furiously clawed the yard’s parched grass. Tommy had been sneaky. He had squeezed underneath the fence while Mike was searching for Huey and had nearly escaped.
Mike’s hand slipped over the nob of Tommy’s knee. Now he had the dog by the foot. "Why are you trying to leave me? I told you: We hafta be strong."
Tommy wriggled and kicked.
"I know it smells good, but we hafta wait till they all get here."
Mike’s grip on the Doberman’s foot faltered, and the extended claw raked a stripe of fire across his left palm. When he let go, Tommy bolted for the back door, barking raucously the entire way.
"Shit!" Mike said out loud, forgetting that he was supposed to whisper.
Why should I whisper now? Tommy’s ruining everything.
"Tommy, get back here!"
It was no use. The Doberman was already halfway across the yard.
"Aww, man…" O’Brien said, lifting the bottom of the fence. "If you mess this up…"
In the time it took Tommy to reach the porch and press his front paws against the screen door, Mike shimmied under the fence and ran across most of the lot. When Mike arrived at the porch, Tommy was scratching the wire mesh, and the two vague, backlit forms were moving toward the door. Not knowing where else to hide, Mike jumped to the side and pressed his chest against the house.
The inside door opened, then the screened one, and the profile of the lady’s head entered the night.
"And just who are you?" she asked, stooping down to pat Tommy’s head.
A twinge of jealousy and confusion twisted Mike’s guts.
He’s supposed to be mean. He’s a Doberman, for—
"Freddy!" the girl exclaimed, rushing in front of the lady. "Is that you, Freddy?!"
Why’s she calling him Freddy? His name’s Tommy.
Once again, the splendor struck him, this time full-on. Mike could almost see the aroma waves escaping over the heads of the two females standing in the doorway. Those unseen blueberries, so ripe and juicy, melting and bursting nectar over sweet, hand-kneaded dough, radiated pure ambrosia into the thick night air.
Saliva sluiced from the corners of Mike’s mouth. A thread of drool traced a slug’s path down the white, flaking wall and collected in a small pool on a weathered plank by his feet. He tried his hardest to resist it—that animal urge—but the will to do so was no longer there.
Stepping away from the wall and into the glow of the orange porch light, the board under his foot creaked. The two females looked up to the sound.
Then they saw O’Brien in his entirety.
And they screamed.