The Last Dog on Earth (6 page)

“Well, that's all the dogs we have, sweetheart. They're all such darlings, I'm sure it's hard to choose. Would you like to take another look?”

Logan shrugged.

Coming to the shelter wasn't turning out to be such a great idea. For one thing, it reeked. There were rows and rows of cages—probably thirty in all—and the dogs didn't just live in them; they went to the bathroom inside them, too. (Quite a bit, it seemed.) The dogs wouldn't shut up, either. Logan had never heard more barking, yowling, and whining in his entire life. The actual shelter part of the building didn't have any windows, so the racket and the stink got trapped inside. The whole place was lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes, the kind that made everybody look as if they hadn't slept in years.

But the worst part of all was this woman—Ms. Dougherty, the one who was in charge. She was a chubby, annoying, all-smiles type who insisted on calling everybody “sweetheart” and who talked to the caged-up animals in one of those idiotic baby voices:
“Oh, yesh. You're shuch a precioush li'l baby girl. Yesh, you are.”
Whenever she opened her mouth, Logan felt like barfing.

He glanced at the cages again. “You really don't have any other dogs?” he asked. All the dogs here were too … well, for lack of a better word,
cute.
Most of them were puppies, all fuzzy and cuddly.
Weren't animal shelters supposed to house the dregs of doggy society? The ugliest of the ugly? The exact opposite of Otis?

Ms. Dougherty looked surprised. “No. I'm afraid we—”

A sudden commotion erupted behind the double doors at the far end of the room. Logan could hear shouting, mixed with a highpitched bark. A moment later the doors burst open and a stocky man barreled out, clutching his arm. “Get that needle into her before she bites one of you, too,” he called over his shoulder. He glanced at Ms. Dougherty and shook his head. “I don't think this one is worth saving, Ruth.”

“Do you have a dog back there?” Logan asked.“Another dog?”

Ms. Dougherty's smile had vanished. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “The dogcatchers found a wild dog out on Route Seventy-eight, in the Cascades. She's in the examination room. But the problem is that—”

“A wild dog?” Logan interrupted. His hopes rose.

“That's right,” Ms. Dougherty said. The smile returned, a shade wider and more sugary than before. “And that's the problem, sweetheart. She's a
wild animal.
Ed's the third person she's bitten since she was brought in. I wouldn't recommend her as a pet.”

“Can't I take a look at her?”

Ms. Dougherty hesitated. “Well, I—I guess it wouldn't do any harm to take a look,” she mumbled with an awkward, squeaky little laugh. “Why not? Come this way.”

She turned and walked toward the double doors. Her shoes clattered on the tile floor. Logan and his mother followed her into what looked like a big hospital emergency room. It was sterile and white, lined with shelves full of pill bottles. There was an electronic scale, an IV unit, and other sorts of medical machinery. It smelled sort of like a dentist's office.

In the center of the room was a metal table. A skinny reddish dog lay on it, flanked by two guys. They were wearing white lab coats, but they clearly weren't vets—they looked like teenagers. One of them held a hypodermic syringe in his hand. It was empty, as if he'd just injected whatever it held into the dog.

Logan stepped forward and peered at the dog.

She looked half dead. She was almost as big as Otis—but much, much thinner. Her coat was filthy and matted. Logan could see the outline of her ribs. Her tongue lolled from her mouth. Her eyes were wide and glassy. One of her legs was bleeding.

“Here she is,” Ms. Dougherty said.

Logan glanced back at her.
And?
He was waiting for Ms. Dougherty to walk up to the dog and start talking to her:
“Hel-looo, li'l ba-beee, yesh, yesh.”
But Ms. Dougherty stuck close to the door and didn't say another word.

“Her rabies test came back,” the guy with the syringe said. “It was negative.”

A look of relief flashed across Ms. Dougherty's face. “Let Ed and the others know immediately.”

Still, she didn't go up and start cooing over the dog.

“How old is she?” Logan asked.

“About ten months,” the other guy said. “She may not look so good, but she's actually pretty healthy. More than you can say for a lot of the strays we've found recently. There's a disease going around, you know. But this one doesn't have it.”

“So how long will it be before she can go home with someone?” Logan asked. He couldn't take his eyes off the dog. She was just so …
ugly.
So not Otis.

“I really don't know about this, Logan,” Mom whispered.

All of a sudden, the dog started to squirm. The two guys grabbed her. She ran in place, almost like a cartoon animal—her paws scratching the slick surface of the metal with a sputtering
click-click-click.
She barked at Logan.

“This one just doesn't go under,” the guy with the syringe said. “We gave her enough tranquilizer for—”

The dog barked again, this time so loudly that Logan flinched. She wouldn't stop wriggling. A moment later, she twisted free of the guys and jumped off the table, scrambling straight for Logan.

His body tensed. But the dog stopped in front of him and gazed at him. Her eyes never wavered for an instant. They were locked on Logan. She wasn't wagging her tail or panting in his face, the way Otis always did. She was just standing there.

Slowly, her paws slid out from under her, until she was splayed on the concrete floor. And still she stared up at Logan. She almost looked as if she were trying to tell him something.
Please get me out of here. Please. I can't stand another second with Ms. Dougherty.

Cautiously, he bent down and touched the dog's head. She looked at him for a moment longer. Then she closed her eyes.

The guys in the white coats exchanged puzzled glances.

“What's the matter?” Mom asked.

“Well, actually, I was worried she was going to bite the kid,” the guy with the syringe said. “She's never let anyone touch her without a fight.” He shook his head. “It must be the tranquilizer.”

“Maybe she likes me,” Logan said.

Nobody answered.

Logan smiled.

“What is it?” Mom asked.

“Nothing.” Logan glanced up at Ms. Dougherty. “So. How long before we can take her home?”

Ms. Dougherty blinked. “You want this dog?”

“Logan, please,” Mom said. “This isn't a good idea at all. She's completely wild. We should go to the breeder, okay? Coming here was a bad idea. I'm sorry. It was my fault.”

“But this dog needs help,” Logan said. “And I'm willing to help her. Robert wants to teach me the value of discipline, right? What better way to learn discipline than to tame a wild dog? Besides, if there was ever a dog that needed rescuing, she's it.”

Mom sighed.

“Well, you'll have to wait until she's had all her shots,” Ms. Dougherty said. “And you'll have to fill out some paperwork, too, of course. Just some forms and waivers and things like that, so we can be sure that you're serious about owning a dog.”

“I'm serious,” Logan said.

“Logan,” Mom said. “Please.”

“I am,” Logan insisted. “She'll be
my
dog. I'll take responsibility for her. I'll buy all the food and her leash and water dish and everything. And if you're worried about Robert, I'll tell you what. I'll throw him a bone. I'll name her Jack in his honor.”

Mom frowned. “It's a girl dog, Logan,” she said.

“I know. But look at it this way. Robert wanted a dog named Jack. Now he'll have one. So we'll all be happy, right?”

Mom didn't answer. She just gave a weary sigh.

“Everybody has to make compromises sometimes,” Logan murmured, mostly to himself. He glanced down at the dog. “Right, Jack?”

The phone was ringing. Westerly could hear the bothersome jangle from the dirt driveway. He shook his head. He wasn't going to let a phone call disturb the final moments of his walk with Jasmine. This was their favorite time of the week: the Wednesday afternoon hike into town for food and mail. It was five miles each way, half on roads, half on mountain trails. Four hours total of fresh mountain air and sunshine. Or rain. But not today.

Jasmine loved it. She loved visiting Joe Bixby's general store. Her tail would start wagging about a hundred yards away because she could smell Sam—Joe Bixby's big, rangy, blue-eyed Siberian husky. The second she burst through the door, she and Sam would start jumping on each other and barking. They would scurry around the aisles and chase each other while Westerly loaded up his backpack. And when they were too tired to keep playing, Joe Bixby would give them each a little treat: a piece of salami, a hunk of cheese. It was always enough to perk Jasmine up for the walk home.

That Wednesday afternoon hike to town was pretty much the only time Westerly enjoyed dealing with other human beings. Or
one
human being, anyway. Joe was a decent sort. Like most of the people in town, he was scruffy and rugged. He understood that Westerly preferred to be left alone. He wasn't much of a talker himself.

“So,” Westerly said to Jasmine. He grunted a little under the weight of the backpack as he walked around the side of the house. “Who do you think could be calling me?”

Jasmine growled, then ran up the porch steps. She stumbled a little at the top. She nearly lost her balance, her eyes darting between Westerly and the screen door.

Westerly grinned at her. She wasn't a huge fan of the phone, either.

“Don't worry about it, Jazz,” he said. He trudged up behind her, slinging the pack off his shoulder and unlocking the door. “We'll let the machine pick up.”

Truth be told, he would have let the machine pick up no matter what. He always screened his calls. Usually it was just a salesperson wanting Westerly to subscribe to
Time
or to buy a cell phone or some other nonsense. People who knew Westerly knew better than to call him. E-mails or letters were the best ways to communicate.

The machine clicked.

Westerly stood next to Jasmine and rubbed the back of her neck, staring at the little black box beside the phone.

“You've reached Dr. Craig Westerly,” the machine announced. “Leave a message.”

There was a beep.

“Craig, it's Harold. If you're there, pick up.”

Harold?

Westerly's stomach dropped. Harold would never, ever call him. Not unless—

He darted forward and picked up the phone.

“Hello? I'm here. Harold?”

“Craig,” Harold replied. His voice sounded strangely high-pitched. He exhaled. “We've got a problem.”

Westerly stared out the window at the evergreen tree. “What's up?”

“We need your paper on prion diseases,” Harold said. “The situation here has changed.”

“Didn't you get my e-mail?” Westerly asked. He drummed his fingers on his jeans. “I couldn't find it. I looked all over.” He really
had
searched high and low for the paper. But after a couple of hours of rummaging through dusty old boxes and file cabinets, he remembered that he'd tossed it out years ago. The only papers he'd kept were those having to do with his
new
research—like inventing an inhalable flu vaccine.

“Yes, I received your e-mail,” Harold said. “I just assumed you didn't want to be bothered. I figured you were still angry.”

Why would I be angry?
Westerly wanted to say.
Oh, right. Because you fired me seven years ago just for spite.

“Craig?” Harold asked.

“If I had found it, I would have sent it to you,” Westerly said.

“You always wanted to be a respected scientist, didn't you?” Harold asked.

Westerly frowned into the phone. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm offering you a chance to make that happen,” Harold said. “I'm offering you a chance to come back to the university.”

“Excuse me?” Westerly couldn't quite grasp what he was hearing.