Dog On It (9 page)

The brakes squealed. The car stopped, so suddenly I went
crashing into the front wall of the trunk. A door slammed, and another. Then I heard footsteps, coming close. The car made popping metallic sounds. Above them, I could also hear the wind, a high whine.

A man spoke. “What in hell this is?”

“Well, Boris, looks like the taillights went blooey,” said another man. I recognized his voice: the little driver whose eyebrows met in the middle.

“Blooey?” said Boris.

“You know. In the crapper.”

“This I am seeing,” Boris said. “I am questioning why—maintenance of car is your responsibility.” Or something like that. Boris was hard to understand.

“They were workin’ this morning,” the driver said. I heard a tap-tap, maybe the driver’s hand on a taillight cover. “Dog must of done it.”

“The dog broke the lights, you are asking me to believe?”

“You heard ’im bangin’ around in there.”

“Dogs breaking taillights, Harold?” said Boris. “Is not logic.”

“Huh?” said Harold.

I didn’t get it, either.

“Wan’ me to pop the trunk?” Harold said.

That I got. I squirmed over onto my belly, pressed my paws down under me, crouched, all ready. This was my chance! There was going to be a moment when the lid went up and—

“No,” said Boris. “Not now. At ranch, we pop.”

“Your call,” said Harold. “But what are we gonna do about the damn dog?”

“I am not knowing,” said Boris. “This dog is trouble.”

“Then why don’t we shoot him right now, leave him by the side of the road?”

“Hmmm,” said Boris. There was a pause. Then he continued, “Mr. Gulagov is master of logic. He will make decision.”

Their footsteps moved away, crunch crunch. The doors opened and closed. And then we were on the move again. I scratched around for a little bit, but nothing happened. I lay down. The ride got bumpy.

Time passed, a long time, it seemed to me, a bumpy time of total darkness with no new sounds or smells. I kept my eyes open even though there was nothing to see. Important to stay alert, to be ready at all times. Bernie had a saying: something—couldn’t remember exactly what—depended on preparation. My mind wandered over to Bernie. Did I mention his smell? The very nicest of any human I’d ever come across—actually, a bit doglike in some ways. Yes, that good. Nothing like mine, of course. Mine is the best. Hard to describe my smell: a mix of old leather, salt and pepper, mink coats—I know about mink coats on account of Bernie had one, his grandma’s, that he gave to Leda—and a soupçon—a favorite word of Bernie’s, meaning, I think, a tiny drop of soup: in my case, cream of tomato. I remembered the first time I smelled Bernie, back in K-9 school. This was just before the unfortunate—

The car came to a stop. The doors opened and closed. I got in my crouch, ready to spring. But nothing happened. Yes, there were footsteps, but they moved away. After that, silence except for the wind, very faint.

What was going on? I was ready, all set to spring, to attack, to fight my way out, but there’d be none of that until the trunk popped open. What could I do? Nothing came to mind. Except: Bernie.

I waited, and waited some more. Had to be prepared, had to
stay alert. Bernie would have been proud of me, how long I stayed prepared and alert before my eyelids got very heavy.

Squeak. Thump. Where was I? What was—

The trunk was open, the lid still vibrating. They’d popped it! I could hear it going sprong-sprong but couldn’t see—all this blinding daylight was flooding in. But I could smell, and smell plenty: men, all nasty. Now! I sprang toward the light.

Then came confusion: metallic gleams, human faces, a hard landing. I bounded forward and thudded right into something solid. What was this? I’d leaped into a—

Clang.

A cage? A cage. Oh no.

I wheeled around, my eyes adjusting, too late. Boris slid the bolt into place, locking the door. I hurled myself against the bars, barking in fury, shaking the cage, but for nothing. After a while I just stood there, growling, looking out.

Three men were looking in: Boris, Harold the driver, and a short but very powerful guy with a thick neck, thick arms and legs, and a shaved head.

The third man spoke. “A fine animal,” he said. The way he talked reminded me a little of Boris, but less strange.

“You think so, boss?” said Harold.

“He has given me lots of troubles, Mr. Gulagov,” said Boris. “Even he was biting my arm.” He held up his arm. “Look—Band-Aids.”

Mr. Gulagov didn’t look at Boris’s arm. He was looking at me. His eyes were small and colorless, also in shadow under his heavy brow. “Perhaps we could train him.”

“To do what?” said Harold.

“Fight other dogs, what else?” Mr. Gulagov said. “There is
good dogfighting in Mexico, I believe. I have contemplated investing.”

“Is money in that?” said Boris.

“Where you find gambling, you find money,” said Mr. Gulagov. “Remember this lesson, Boris.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll remember, too,” said Harold.

Mr. Gulagov paid Harold no attention. He was gazing at me. “Yes, a fine animal. Get him some bones.”

“Bones?” said Harold.

“For rewarding.”

“Rewarding?” said Boris. “He is enemy.”

Mr. Gulagov smiled. He had huge teeth for a human, and bright, the brightest I’d ever seen. “You watch, Boris. I will make him friend.”

“With bones?”

“Sure, bones, but not only bones. We have reward, we have punishment. This is math, Boris. Reward plus punishment equals loyalty.”

“The dog’s going to be loyal to you?”

“One hundred percent,” said Mr. Gulagov. “He will live and die for me. But first we must give him a name.”

“I think he already has one,” said Harold, “there, stamped on his coll—”

Mr. Gulagov gave the driver a look; the driver went silent. “We will call him Stalin.”

“Stalin? Like the guy who—”

“This name sends a message,” said Mr. Gulagov. He lit a fat cigar, talked around it. “Bring Stalin around to the barn.”

All that went by quickly, hard to understand. But loyal to that guy? Never. And my name was Chet, pure and simple.

They all walked away, toward some buildings. We’d gone to a ranch once, me, Bernie, Charlie, Leda—did I already mention that? This place reminded me a little of the ranch, except everything was all run-down, and there were no horses around; I knew that right away from the lack of horse smell. Beyond the buildings rose a steep rocky hill, very high, with cactuses poking up here and there. And other than the hill, nothing: just desert all around, plus the wind, making a high-pitched sound like it was blowing hard, even though I couldn’t feel any wind on my coat.

A motor started up, and out from behind one of the buildings came Harold at the wheel of a yellow forklift. I knew forklifts from a case of warehouse theft Bernie and I had cracked a while back. The forklift came close up and stopped. Then, with a little whine, the forks slid down. The truck moved even closer, getting the forks right under the cage. Harold’s face was very near. I didn’t like that face with its single heavy eyebrow, not one bit.

“Easy there, Stalin,” Harold said.

I didn’t think for a moment, just took off and flew at him. I forgot all about the cage until I crashed into it and fell to the floor. After that, I was a little woozy, barely aware of Harold’s laughter.

We rolled slowly toward the buildings—a long, low house, a barn, some sheds—their wooden sides cracked, the paint peeled off, a broken window or two. Harold headed around the barn, lowered the cage, backed away, drove off.

It was very quiet. The sun rose higher. The heat rose, too. I couldn’t smell water, not in the cage, not anywhere. I was pretty thirsty. I paced back and forth. Saliva started leaking out of my mouth, even foaming a little. I lay down. That was when I noticed a big black hole at the base of the rocky hill across the way, with a pair of rusty train tracks leading in. I knew what that was: a mine. Bernie had a thing about old abandoned mines in the desert. We’d
explored lots, and one thing I knew—how cool they were inside. That stayed on my mind as the day grew hotter and hotter.

The sun sank behind the hill. The air cooled down, but that didn’t help my thirst. My tongue felt thick and dry, a strange thing, like it wasn’t part of me. Long shadows appeared. The sky grew dimmer.

All at once I smelled water, a clean, lovely smell with hints of rock and metal. Then I heard footsteps. I rose.

Mr. Gulagov appeared from around the corner of the barn. He carried a big bowl. Water slopped over the sides. He stopped in front of the cage, set the bowl on the ground. I almost could have stuck my tongue through the bars and lapped some up; it was the tiniest bit too far away.

He looked down at me. “Hello, Stalin. How is life treating you?”

I didn’t do anything, didn’t move a muscle, didn’t make a sound. My name wasn’t Stalin.

“You and I will be good friends, Stalin,” Mr. Gulagov said. “It’s a little warm out here. Are you thirsty?”

I stayed still.

“Here is water. We have well water at this old mine, nice and cold.” He toed the bowl; a tiny wave of water broke over the side. “Want some nice cold water? I can move it closer, no problem. All you have to do is one simple thing—sit.” He paused. “Ready? Stalin, sit.”

I remained standing.

“Sit.”

I stood a little taller.

“Don’t disappoint me, Stalin. You must have been trained. You must know ‘sit.’”

What I knew was between me and Bernie.

“There’s something you will soon learn from me—I do not tolerate disobedience. And I always win.” His voice rose, and his face got flushed. “Sit! Sit! Sit, you stupid cur.”

No chance.

Mr. Gulagov kicked over the water bowl and stomped away. When he was out of sight, I stuck my tongue through the bars and licked up some of the moist dirt.

I was lying down, my tongue hanging out. I started to pant, couldn’t stop. My mind drifted back to the one time I’d seen snow. This was on a hike Bernie and I had taken in some mountains, not exactly sure where. First there’d been a long ride in the car. Then we’d started walking, up and up, and all of a sudden, white stuff covered the ground. What a surprise! White stuff, everywhere. I zigzagged around.

“Snow, Chet,” Bernie said. “This is snow.”

I’d never even heard of snow. I sniffed it, tasted it, rolled around in it. Whooo—it gave me the shivers. Bernie threw snowballs. I caught them in midair. They went splat against my nose. I skidded all over the place, on my side, back to front, every which way. We had fun like you wouldn’t believe, and after, on the way down, we came to a spot where the snow melted into water between some rocks and ran—burbled, that was how Bernie put it—into a stream. I lowered my face right in the flow. That was the best water I ever drank in my life. I thought of it now—couldn’t think about anything else, really—in the cage behind Mr. Gulagov’s barn, and stopped panting.

It was still light out, but just barely, when I heard them coming back. I got up, feeling a bit funny, not quite myself. This time there were only Boris and Mr. Gulagov, neither of them carrying water.

“Wow,” said Boris. “The tongue is looking like a block of wood.”

“A minor matter,” said Mr. Gulagov, waving his hand. Big rings on his fingers caught what was left of the light. “Dogs can go for many days without water.”

“I was thinking that was camels,” Boris said.

Mr. Gulagov went very still. “Is this a joke?”

“Oh no, sir. No joke.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Gulagov. “Humor is tricky.”

“I will remember.”

“Tricky and not for everyone.”

“Never again,” said Boris.

“I will handle the joking,” Mr. Gulagov said. “Let us get started.”

They walked up to the cage. Boris reached out. “Now?”

“Now.”

Boris slid the bolt, opened the cage door. Big mistake, my friend. In a flash I was up and charging, right through that open—

But no. I heard a jingling sound; saw a metallic flash; felt something tight squeeze around my neck. I lost my balance, and then I was down flat in the dirt, my neck getting squeezed tighter and tighter. Looking up, I saw Mr. Gulagov planted right in front of me, leaning back, pulling hard on the end of a choke chain, gritting those huge teeth of his. I knew choke chains, had seen them being used once or twice on new puppies in the neighborhood, but not like this, and no one had ever used a choke chain
on me, not even in the time before Bernie. I fought against the hard metal links, squirming and struggling, but that only made things worse.

“That will only make things worse,” said Mr. Gulagov, pulling tighter, dragging me upright. I couldn’t breathe. I strained and strained to suck in air but couldn’t get any. “Do I have your attention now, Stalin?” He paused. Everything began turning white. “Sit,” he said.

He moved his hands. The chain loosened. I breathed in air, breathed and breathed. The chain was looser now, but not so loose that my breathing didn’t make squeaky sounds.

“Sit.”

I stood there, feeling not quite myself; but I stood.

“Maybe his hearing is bad,” Boris said.

“No,” said Mr. Gulagov. “That is not the bad part.” He smiled, smiled right at me with those big bright teeth. That confused me, because the human smile always went with nice things, in my experience. And in that moment of confusion, Mr. Gulagov jerked the chain down with huge force. I sank back down on the ground, the chain digging deep in my neck.

“Now we try again, yes?” said Mr. Gulagov, still smiling. He loosened the chain enough for me to breathe a few more squeaky breaths. “Up,” he said. I lay there. Mr. Gulagov sighed. “Boris?” he said. “The whip.”

“Regular whip or horsewhip?” said Boris.

“Horsewhip, I think.”

“Where is it?” said Boris.

“Must I do everything myself?” Mr. Gulagov said. “You will have to look.”

Boris moved off.

I lay on the ground, my tongue in the dust, unsure what a
horsewhip was. Mr. Gulagov gazed down at me. There was something about his eyes that made me look away.