Webster (2 page)

“Don't worry, boy,” Dr. K. said. “We'll take our time, and make this as easy as possible.”

The dog had his temperature taken—which was no fun. Then, Dr. K. began the full exam, checking his eyes and ears and teeth first.

The dog
wanted
to pull away from him, but made a point of trying to stay detached, instead. Let them do whatever terrible things they were going to do to him, and just not pay much attention, if possible. Besides, it was always better if people thought that animals had no idea what they were saying.

“What do you know about him?” Dr. K. asked.

“Not much, although I think he may have come from a shelter somewhere here in New Hampshire,” Joan said. “The mother said they had had him for a few months, but that he was too difficult for them to handle.”

Dr. K. shook his head, as he checked the dog's legs, hips and paws. “He seems pretty gentle to me.”

“Once he relaxes, I think he's going to be an absolute sweetie pie,” Joan said.

Was that what she thought? The dog was entirely
confident that she was wrong about that. She would be lucky if he decided to be nothing more than
ornery
, as opposed to outright surly or hostile. But, he could pretty well guarantee that “sweet” was never going to happen. Not no way, not no how.

“I'm guessing he's mostly Labrador retriever,” Joan said, “but what else do you think is in the mix?”

Dr. K. studied the dog carefully. “With the red undercoat, maybe some Rhodesian Ridgeback? Or possibly even Vizsla or Redbone Coonhound.”

Okay, now they were
both
very much mistaken. He was a black dog—
all
black, and totally fierce and independent and impressive. In fact, he was his own special breed, which could never be duplicated.

Just, you know, for the record.

“He's certainly favoring his right side,” Dr. K. said.

They could
tell  
? The dog instantly stood up straighter, even though it hurt. A lot.

“The mother said he was climbing around and fell off their swing set and might have gotten ‘banged up.' Had they ever brought him in for an exam?” Joan asked.

“No,” Dr. K. said. “They showed up out of the blue for the first time today, and she said they wanted to have
him put to sleep. So, when they wouldn't surrender him to us, we sent them over here to you, instead. I had Jeff drive over behind them, to make sure that they didn't just let him loose somewhere.”

Really? Okay, the dog hadn't even noticed that. He needed to work on his spy skills.

Joan looked disgusted. “Can you imagine? A wonderful, healthy dog like this? What's the matter with people?”

Dr. K. shrugged, putting his stethoscope in his ears. “I'm afraid I had to stop asking myself that a long time ago.”

When the vet started palpating his ribs, the dog winced in spite of himself, because it hurt so much.

“I'm sorry,” Dr. K. said, and instantly lessened the pressure. He frowned, and checked inside the dog's mouth again—although the dog couldn't imagine why. Then, he felt the dog's ribs some more, and checked his heart, stomach, liver, and kidneys.

“What do you think?” Joan asked.

“The same thing you do,” Dr. K. said. “Someone kicked him, probably more than once. I don't think anything's broken, and there doesn't seem to be any
internal bleeding, but I want to run some bloodwork and do a urinalysis. Heartworm test, vaccinations, the works. He's a little dehydrated, too, so I'd like to give him some fluids.”

To the dog's absolute horror, he had to stay in the little medical office for a few hours, lying on a fluffy towel, with a needle taped to his front leg, and a big IV bag hanging above him. He was too tense even to close his eyes, so he just waited grimly for the treatment to be over.

When the IV bag was finally empty, and Dr. K. patted him and left, Joan put a rabies tag on his nylon collar, and gave him a new name: Webster.

Webster. Hmmm. It sounded pretty smart, but he wasn't crazy about it. Although it was a lot better than “Beast.” But, whatever. For now, apparently, he was Webster. Not that it mattered. He wasn't planning to answer to it, anyway.

Joan brought him back down the long hallway, and set him up in a small wooden room, with redbrick–patterned linoleum on the floor, and a soft fleece bed for sleeping on. It was a kennel, although he had to admit that it was a lot nicer than any of the ones he had ever been in before. But, prison was still prison.

There was a low swinging door on the other side of the room, so he could go outside to go to the bathroom anytime he wanted. Not that he had the energy to go check it out. Yeah, he was still going to escape and have adventures and everything—but, maybe he would wait until tomorrow, when he was less tired.

From what he could see through the opening, the door led to a fenced-in concrete run. He was curious about what would happen if he had an accident on the floor—would they yell and scream at him, and call him a Beast? Probably, yeah.

There were other dogs in the kennels next to his, and even more dogs in the kennels across the hall, but he didn't care enough to go to the door and check to see who his new neighbors were. What did it matter? It wasn't like they were going to be friends, or anything. They were just like,
cell mates
.

There was a big sturdy bowl full of cool, fresh water in his kennel, and a dish with some hard brown kernels in it. They smelled much better than the ones he had usually been given, but he still wasn't hungry. So, he just sniffed at the food, took a small drink of water, and then stood by the wall.

“It's okay, Webster,” Joan said, and indicated the fleece bed. “You can lie down right here.”

Maybe later. When he was alone.

As suppertime approached, the atmosphere around the farm seemed to get louder and more excited. All of the other animals were eager to have their evening meals, apparently, and there was a lot of barking and meowing going on. Monica, the elderly lady who had baked the dog biscuits, brought him a dish filled with cooked hamburger, hard-boiled eggs, mashed carrots, brown rice, and other stuff. It smelled good, and even though he was exhausted, he took a couple of bites. Then, aware that she was watching him intently, he retreated and stood by the wall again.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “Don't you worry, Webster dear, soon you'll be feeling nice and strong.”

Maybe. He waited until she was gone, and then he took two more bites. But, that was enough effort to make him feel tired again. He stretched out on the floor instead, moving carefully so that he didn't jar his ribs.

People kept coming to check on him, and he would wake up for a few seconds, and then go back to sleep. To his shock, later that night, Joan brought in a sleeping
bag and slept on the floor right next to him. It made the dog uncomfortable, but he had to admit that it was nice to know that someone was concerned about how he was doing. He couldn't ever remember having anything like that happen before.

He spent the next day sitting either on the linoleum, or on the cement in the outdoor run. But, when he was outside, the dogs on either side of him—including the irritating Yorkshire Terrier—kept trying to talk to him, and be friendly, and all—and he just wasn't into it. Not even a little bit. So, for the most part, he stayed inside, where he could have some privacy.

At about noon, Monica carried in an early lunch of plain chicken, rice, and yoghurt, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to finish the entire dish of food. Partially because his stomach still hurt, but also because the simple truth was that he really didn't have any appetite, because he was sad. Very, very sad.

Maybe the family that had adopted him hadn't been nice, but it was pretty mind-blowing to get
returned
to a shelter, like a shirt that didn't fit, or something. It made him feel small. And damaged.

Which was really depressing.

It was creepy to have people peeking in at him all the time, so he got up, pushed through the swinging door, and went out to his cement run for a while. The dog in the cage on his left tried talking to him again, but he pretended he didn't hear him, and stared blankly out at the farm. It was kind of cold, but he liked being in the fresh air. In fact, he liked it so much that even when it started raining, he stayed outside.

Later, when Monica brought his dinner in, he quickly gulped down half of it, so that everyone would stop
hovering
over him already. Then, he went back outside and curled up on the wet cement.

The next time he woke up, it was dark. The rain was still coming down, and he was completely soaked. Would he get in trouble if he came inside and got the kennel all wet? Maybe. So, it was probably safer to stay outdoors and let the rain keep falling on him.

On the other hand, it was very quiet, and maybe all of the people and other animals had gone to bed. So, it might be okay to go inside and lie down on the floor. In fact, if no one was looking, he might even finally try out that tempting-looking fleece bed.

So, the dog hauled himself up from the cement and
shook off as much water as he could. Then, he ducked through the swinging door and went inside. Yes! The lights were out everywhere, and he was by himself! Excellent.

The dog immediately flopped down on the bed, and was delighted to find out how comfortable it was. Wow, he had wasted a lot of time out there on the soggy cement, when he could have been resting in here, instead. When the people got up in the morning and started looking at him, he could always go back outside, if he felt like it.

With everyone keeping such a close eye on him, he hadn't seen anything
resembling
an opportunity to run away. So, he would just have to be patient, and bide his time. Then, when the moment arrived—
whoosh!
Off he would go, never to return.

And since he wasn't sticking around, he couldn't think of any good reasons to try and be cooperative and fit in. He was a bad dog, right? That was the rumor, anyway. And bad dogs totally were not team players.

So, okay. He could make his own rules, and be a proud, noble dog that everyone would admire, but never quite understand. He would never depend on anyone again, and no one would ever have a chance to be mean
to him. He could picture himself strutting down the street, while people watched eagerly and wished that he would to choose to live with
them
—not the other way around.

Yep, that was his plan. He would be a loner. A rebel. A canine
icon
. They would write inspiring songs and poems in his honor, he would trend all over the Internet, and Hollywood would film unforgettable action movies about him, that did
huge
box office during their opening weekends.

Oh, yeah, that would be awesome.

But, he was going to need a much better name than
Webster
. It would be hard to be an icon, if he didn't have a really impressive name. Something memorable, and dashing. A name to create fear and awe in the hearts of all who were lucky enough to pass his way.

He drifted off to sleep, dreaming about what the journey towards being a canine celebrity would be like. Then, right in the middle of an entertaining part about him being the supreme commander of a pack of admiring and respectful dogs, his eyes flew open.

What was
that
?

Somewhere, out in the corridor, he could hear a
strange, scary sound. Was it—stomping? No, it was more like something
stumping
along. Stumping, and skittering, and—he had never heard anything like it.

And whatever it was, it sounded like it was headed straight towards him!

T
he dog scrabbled into the back of his kennel, hoping that the monster wouldn't notice him in the dark. Luckily, he hadn't once been named Shadow—by the crummy owners he had had
before
the mean family—because he was easy to see. He was too big and tough to be afraid of anything, but—well—monsters were different. Monsters were scary.

Stump, stump, skitter, skitter, stump.

What
was
it? Only something extremely dangerous would make eerie noises like that. Okay, it was maybe a
small
monster, but he knew for sure that it was a monster.

Then, he heard an even worse noise—
something was rattling at the latch on his kennel door
.

Okay, okay. Time to remember that he was a very
fearsome, large dog. Maybe the monster would be afraid of
him
? In fact, if the monster dared to come inside, he would show his teeth, growl fiercely, and then attack it.

Or, um, maybe slink past it, and run to safety?

There was a clank, and then slowly—ever so slowly,
terrifyingly
slowly—the door swung open.

Okay. This was it. The dog took a deep breath and promised himself that he would be brave, and go down fighting. He would make sure that the monster would remember that he had tangled with a
true
beast.

Stump, skitter, stump, skitter. Then, he heard little erratic claws scraping across the floor, and—the monster was standing right in front of him! It had big crooked yellow eyes, and long talons, and—oh.

It was a cat. A weird-looking, tiny—but frightening—cat, with slightly crossed eyes and a big black splotch across its white face, like a defective mustache.

Then again, lots of times, cats were untrustworthy and vicious, right? And violent? So, the dog waited, tensely, to see what was going to happen.

“Hello,” the cat said. “I am Florence.”

Wait, the cat had a British accent. What was up with that?

“It's all right,” the cat said. “Joan and Thomas are upstairs asleep, and it's after midnight.”

Even so, the dog just stared at her.

“Please tell me you know how to talk,” Florence said. “It will be most unsettling, otherwise.”