Scents and Sensibility (28 page)

“There you go again with the overthinking,” said Mickles.

Winners laughed and said, “How does a third grab you?”

Mickles laughed, too. None of this laughter was the kind you hear when humans are enjoying each other's company—in fact, all I felt between them was mutual hate. Mickles said something about how a third grabbed him, but they were over the rise by that time, and a breeze had sprung up at my back, blowing their talk away. All I knew was that they didn't like each other and they were both right. As for Bernie not having a pot to piss in, Mickles was clueless. We had two toilets at our place on Mesquite Road, one in the hall bathroom, the other in the bathroom off Bernie's bedroom. Also, once when Bernie'd had maybe one bourbon too many, he'd peed into the swan fountain on the patio out back. “You didn't see this, big guy,” he'd said at the time. So forget I mentioned it and stick with Bernie having two pots.

The sun vanished behind the faraway mountain, the sky turned dark purple, and shadows started roaming around. I thought about water and Bernie. Was I hungry as well? Possibly, but when you're as thirsty as I was, you don't think about hunger. Plus my face was all caged up and my tongue couldn't be free. Even if it couldn't have water, at least it wanted to feel some air. I gathered my strength again—although it didn't all seem to be there, kind of mysterious—and surged forward. The chain held me in place, and I got nowhere. That didn't stop me from trying again. And again. And some more times, way beyond two. When it comes to numbers, I stop at two, but I never stop when it comes to some other things. So later—the sky fully dark now, except for the pink glow of the city out beyond the distant mountain—when I finally crept back into the ruined hut, it didn't mean I'd stopped trying to be free. I was just taking a break. We took breaks at the Little Detective Agency, just another feature of our business plan.

•  •  •

One thing about this particular night: there were more shadows on the move than on any other previous night I remember.
He's afraid of shadows
is something you hear humans say—not about me, of course. I'm not afraid of shadows or anything else that comes to mind, but shadows are different when you're chained to a stone wall and wearing a muzzle. I mulled that over for a while—lying way back in the farthest corner of the hut, where the two remaining walls joined up—and then returned to thoughts of water. The best water I'd ever tasted came flowing right out of a rock in a high mountain forest on the day I first saw snow. Bernie made a snowball—what an amazing idea, would never have occurred to me, but that was Bernie—and we played us some fetch, although not for long, what with the short life spans of snowballs. Never mind snowballs. That water, flowing out of the rock, so clean and cool and perfect, took over my whole mind. “Lifeblood of the planet, right there,” Bernie had told me, which I didn't get, on account of it tasted very different from and much better than blood. Sometimes Bernie's so smart no one can understand him.

If only he could be here now! He'd rip off the horrible muzzle, whip out my portable water bowl, fill it to the top again and again. I'd slurp and slurp and splash water all over the place. The fun we'd have!

Bernie didn't come. The night grew cooler. The moon rose. Just half a moon, and it was having one of those real pale nights. I preferred the moon in a warm and yellow mood. Somehow tonight's pale moon brought to mind those bleached-out bones you come across in the desert. A bad thought, and maybe because I was so thirsty I started having others, like if Winners or Mickles—or even Vroman, the worst thought of all—would only come and take off the muzzle and let me drink, I wouldn't do anything bad to them, just lie down meekly at their feet and be their friend. Oh, no! Help me, someone! But there was no one so it was up to me. I made the bad thoughts go away and replaced them with thoughts of what Chet the Jet would do to those men when he got the chance. With bells on, whatever that meant exactly. That made me feel much better, if you forgot about the thirst.

But I couldn't.

•  •  •

After a while, something rustled in the thorn bushes nearby. Not just something, of course, but a snake. Hard to miss the smell of snake, a bit lizardy, a bit froggy, with a strange add-on that always reminded me of a time Bernie and I searched a chem lab at the college. Bernie had picked up a test tube and said, “Just about the deadliest poison known to man.” And then: “Oops!” But he hadn't dropped the test tube, meaning it was one of Bernie's jokes. There's no one like Bernie when it comes to jokes. I squeezed myself as deeply as possible into the corner of the hut. If the snake came in I could . . . I could . . . I was still figuring that out when the snake rustled off in another direction. I closed my eyes, waited for sleep to come. That's never a problem for me.

Sleep wouldn't come, or at least not come close enough. It lingered just out of reach, what could have been a dark and comforting blanket. I was too weak to make it drift that last little distance and settle over me. So I just lay in my corner, eyes open, breathing in a shallow sort of way through the muzzle, alive. In the morning I would do something about all this. For example—

Before any examples popped into my mind, I heard more sounds from outside the hut. Snake? No. Neither was it a javelina, turtle, mouse, rat, cat of any kind, big or small, and also not human. None of those things. There's only one creature that moves in those quick fits and starts, a certain type of creature following a scent, tail up high. Sure enough, Shooter came zigzagging into my hut, tail high, no question, the pale moonlight in his eyes, making them appear a bit on the crazy side. He saw me in my corner, and trotted right over, tail wagging a mile a minute, which actually turns out not to be that fast, Bernie and I having hit two miles a minute more than once in the Porsche—although not the one we have now. I'm referring to the one that got blown up. That baby could fly!

Shooter stood before me, wagging away and making a breeze that felt good. He pawed at my shoulder, just meaning let's play, but my shoulder happened to be a bit on the sore side at that moment, and I growled at the little fella. He backed away, tail drooping. Then he got another idea—in a way that reminded me of me getting another idea, kind of odd—and went sniffing around the hut. Whatever scent had caught his attention led him toward the front of the hut and outside, where he quickly disappeared in the night.

Shooter! Come back!
Maybe not me at my best, trying to lean on such a little dude. I told myself not to do that again. There's nothing worse than not living up to your own standards, as I'm sure you know. And what was my standard? To be up and doing, to take charge, to be the guy. Therefore I rose and—

Except I couldn't seem to get to my feet. I was still trying—and doing pretty well, lifting my belly off the ground, legs not shaking too bad—when Shooter came zigzagging back into the hut, exactly as he'd done the first time. And exactly as he'd done the first time he trotted over and pawed my shoulder. This time I kept the growl inside. He pawed me again, tried a quick, low bark, meaning
Let's go, dude!
Oh, how I wanted to! With a real big effort, I rose to a full stand, first time in my whole life it had taken any effort at all to do that, which just goes to show you. Shooter's tail started wagging again, a moonlit blur. He barked the “let's go” bark again, followed it up with a few quick fake lunges toward the opening in the hut, just to give me the idea. No need for that: getting away from here was the number two idea in my mind, number one being water.

I gazed down at him. He gazed up at me. For some reason, I settled back down on my belly, making us more or less eye-to-eye. Around about then was when Shooter seemed to notice the muzzle.

He came a little closer, nostrils twitching. Then, closer still, he sniffed at the muzzle. He made a sort of whine, high-pitched and soft at the same time, and sniffed some more. After that, he backed away and went through the whole fake lunge, let's go thing again. He followed that up by prancing out of the hut in a slow and exaggerated kind of run, almost like he was trying to teach me, Chet the Jet, how to run. Shooter was a very annoying dude, but when he went prancing out into the night, I found myself hoping pretty hard that he'd be coming back.

Which he did, still prancing. This time he paused in mid-prance, one paw raised, and noticed the muzzle again. That led to a repeat performance—nostril twitch, whine, sniff. Only now he leaned in much closer and gave the muzzle a lick. The muzzle was partly metal but mostly leather, and had a leathery smell with some bloody under-scents, old and new. Shooter did a little more licking and then gave the muzzle a nip, the exploratory kind. He drew back quickly, as though expecting the muzzle to do something. It didn't, of course. Muzzles couldn't come and get you: that wasn't how they did their nastiness. Shooter had a lot to learn.

He stood there in the middle of the hut for a bit, doing pretty much zip. Was prancing next? That's what my money would have been on, if I'd had any, meaning if me and Bernie had any, which we did not at the moment. But I'd have lost that bet, because no prancing happened. Instead, Shooter emerged from what humans maybe call a trance and gave himself a good long stretch, head way down, butt way up, a stretch that reminded me so much of my own. A lot to learn, maybe, but some things the little fella had down perfectly.

All nicely stretched out, Shooter came over and gazed at me for some time. I gazed back. He moved in closer and licked the muzzle again, over on the side that had shifted across my eye. He licked it once or twice and then took another nip. Normally nobody gets to nip anywhere near me, but I wasn't at the top of my game, and for some reason Shooter seemed to be a special case. Don't ask me why. He nipped again a few times at the muzzle, over on the side and higher up where the muzzle felt kind of strappy against my head. Nipping soon turned to gnawing. Gnawing leather is a fine way to pass the time, completely understandable. I didn't mind at all, felt glad for his company. There was something about Shooter, although I couldn't take it further than that. His teeth—small but amazingly sharp—raked through my head and neck fur occasionally as he gnawed away. My world shrank to gnawing sounds, the smell of freshly gnawed leather, and the touch of those sharp little teeth. And then it began to shrink some more, as though . . . as though . . . I didn't want to go there, even though “there” was a place with cool water flowing out of the rocks, all the cool water anyone could ever want, lifeblood of the planet.

Bernie!

I
drifted through a world that was all about gnawing, its sounds and smells. Although I'm a world champion gnawer, I myself wasn't doing the gnawing. Except in a way I sort of was. That was one strange thing. Here's another: My eyes might have been closed, but I saw the pale moon anyway, certainly felt its stony light. Even stranger, I was suddenly on the moon myself, gazing down. I saw Chet and Shooter in the ruins of an old stone hut, out in the desert. They looked like they were made of stone themselves.

And then came a new sound, a sound a lot like ripping or tearing. It reminded me of something bad that had once happened to a shoe of Leda's; this shoe had a name, by the way, kind of odd. Manolo? Was that it? Not important. The important thing is that just after I heard the ripping sound, the muzzle seemed to go slack on my face. After that the gnawing continued, but in a far-off way. Also there was no more of the pointy-toothed raking through my fur. I missed that.

I lay quiet, listening to the gnawing, missing the raking. The moon slid down a bit in the sky, brightening up the inside of the hut. I realized that Shooter had moved off. There he was, curled up near the opening of the hut, busy gnawing on the muzzle, held securely between his front paws in proper gnawing style, a style exactly like my own. There was hope for Shooter, no doubt about it.

So that was the situation in the ruined hut. Night, moon, me—not at my best and getting worse, and Shooter—still a puppy, but off to a promising start. Who knows how much longer we could have gone on like that? We never found out, because from out of the blue came an idea: What if I tried opening my mouth?

Nothing to lose. I tried opening my mouth. And what do you know? It opened right up! A little stiff and sore, maybe, but open. Was opening wider possible? Oh, yeah, baby! I opened my mouth to the max. Ahead lay all kinds of exciting possibilities; I just knew it.

How about my tongue? Could I stick it out into the fresh air where it wanted so badly to be? I gave it a whirl. And out came my poor tongue, all hard and bone-dry, but out. Out in the world! I looked over at Shooter, gnawing busily on the muzzle. He caught my look and folded himself around the muzzle in a possessive sort of way, like . . . like he'd pulled a fast one!

No way I could let that happen. The next thing I knew, I was on my feet, perhaps a bit unsteady, but up. I took a step or two in Shooter's direction. That was when the smell of the water in the trough outside the hut struck me full force, like one of those waves off San Diego. I went right by Shooter—he wriggled to the side, protecting the muzzle, or what was left of it, not a bad sight at all, how mangled it was—and made my way to the trough. What a long time that took! But when I got to the trough I lowered my face into it and drank and drank, slurping up lovely and delicious scummy and buggy water like there was no tomorrow, a human phrase I understood like never before. And guess what? There was a tomorrow! I filled myself up with the lifeblood of the planet.

How much better I felt, and practically right away! I began to notice my surroundings, including the huge golden tent, soft glows from inner lights showing through the walls in one or two places, but mostly dark, and off in the distance strange small fires that seemed to be burning here and there. I picked up the scent of burgers, faint, yes, but no one could miss that smell; no one in the nation within, I mean. No offense. I moved off to get a better—