The Heart of Dog

by Doranna Durgin

  THE HEART OF DOG

  Published by Blue Hound Visions

  Cover donated by Pat Ryan Graphics

  Copyright © held by each individual story author; published with permission

  Compilation Copyright © March 2011 by Doranna Durgin

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This anthology contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously—and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  License Notes:

  This efiction is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This efiction may not be re-sold or given to others. If you would like to share, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this efiction and it was not purchased for your use, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for helping the e-reading community to grow!

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  THE HEART OF DOG

  Table of Contents

  Forward and Thank You

  Feef's House

  by Doranna Durgin

  A Bitch in Time

  by Doranna Durgin

  The Right Bitch

  by Doranna Durgin

  Bitch Bewitched

  by Doranna Durgin

  Hair of the Dog

  by Doranna Durgin

  A Call from the Wild

  by Doranna Durgin

  Brothers Bound

  by Julie E. Czerneda

  Totally Devoted 2 U

  by John Zakour

  Heartsease

  by Fiona Patton

  Dog Star

  by Jeffery A. Carver

  Finding Marcus

  by Tanya Huff

  Dog Gone

  by John Zakour

  Mountain Challenge

  by John Mierau

  After the Fall

  by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Piece of Mind

  by Jennifer Roberson

  Just Hanah

  by Doranna Durgin

  Afterward: Connery Beagle's Story

  by Doranna Durgin

  Contributor Web Sites & Bios

  Forward and Thank You

  If you've downloaded this book, thank you. The sales of The Heart of Dog are funding critical medical testing and treatment for a dog who is as much a web personality as he is my beloved companion. (Connery's longstanding Twitter & LiveJournal accounts are both "ConneryBeagle.")

  Connery is a performance dog and companion who has always struggled with a mysterious autoimmune issue, which he's faced with great heart. Now, at seven years old, he's in need of specialized medical testing and I'm at the long end of ongoing publisher delays: late payments and contract slow-downs that push the next income further and further out regardless of my work delivery schedule. So I'm offering this collection, the proceeds of which will provide the means to help us understand what's going on with his health.

  The Heart of Dog includes my various doggie stories, and that's all it was initially meant to include—until my dog-loving writer friends heard about it. In short order, I had suddenly nine more stories, all from wonderful authors (go ahead, check them out at the end of the book!).

  Friends of Connery: Jeffrey Carver, Julie Czerneda, Tanya Huff, John Mierau, Fiona Patton, Jennifer Roberson, Kristine Katherine Rusch, & John Zakour (x2!); graphic artist Pat Ryan, and production assistant Tom Powers.

  So here's to my dog-loving friends, with a special thanks to award-winning author/editor Julie Czerneda, who was so instrumental in spreading the word. And here's to ConneryBeagle, for being a dog of such heart and joy that readers are already offering words of encouragement, spreading the word, and—hopefully—enjoying this anthology. And, of course, here's to all the readers who have picked up this book simply because they love the heart of dog.

  ~~Doranna~~

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  Return to Table of Contents

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  Feef's House

  by Doranna Durgin

  Feef may be an odd choice to kick off the anthology. He is, after all, not quite a dog. But he is all about heart.

  ----------

  The interact screen stared sternly at Shadia, showing her a form full of questions to which she had no answer. To which no duster would have an answer. Local personal reference. No chance of that. It's why she'd chosen the temp form.

  Commonly known as the duster form, but only if you said it with a sneer.

  Local address. Wherever she landed on any given night.

  Last posting. Three weeks Sol-ward on Possita IV.

  Shadia scanned the form with the contempt of a duster for the mag-footed perms and then, recalling that she sat in front of an interact screen connected to Toklaat Station's temp job placement system, she hastily schooled her expression to something more neutral. Jobs no one wants, jobs with no guarantee of security. The first she was used to; the second suited her. She didn't want to be here still in the first place and she certainly didn't want to tie herself to work or community.

  There. There was an empty form-line she could fill. She manipulated the interface with absent ease.

  Instantly, a woman's face filled the hitherto blank square in the upper left of the screen. "You had a terdog? A real terdog?"

  A real terdog?

  I didn't want to be here in the first place. Not filling out forms, not pretending it suited me, not remembering the sight of my friends boarding the hydropon repair ship, buying passage with three weeks of shoveling 'cycle products and glad to do it. Not hiding my reaction to such a question. A real terdog? Was there any other kind?

  Politely, Shadia said, "A kennel of real terdogs, sir. Belvian Blues, which we used to find subterr rootings for export—"

  "Yes, yes," the woman said, rude in her eagerness. "I have just the position for you. It pays well and suits your unique skills."

  Her unique skills? She had a duster's skills. A little of this, a little of that, learn anything fast. Take what gets you off-planet or off-station when you feel like going. Just like so much space dust.

  Unless, of course, you fall on your ass in front of a zipscoot and rack up such a medical debt that you're stuck on-planet until you repay. Stuck. In one place.

  Stuck.

  Most wary, Shadia said, "What's the job?"

  Her application screen rippled away, replaced by the familiar format of a job listing. Almost familiar...except for the header logo, which caught her eye before she had a chance to focus on anything else. Permtemp. "There's been a mistake, sir," Shadia said. Her recently healed thigh cramped with the sudden dread that it wasn't actually a mistake at all. She forced herself to relax. "I'm not a perm. Just a temp. I put it on my application."

  "This is a priority position, young woman. In such cases we extend our search parameters."

  "Apologies, sir, but temp is a preference, not a restriction."

  The woman's eyes flicked aside, to her own interact screen where Shadia's partially filled form would be displayed. Her demeanor cooled, enough to give Shadia that same prickly unease she got any time she stepped out of duster turf and into perm areas. "Shadia," the woman said, pronouncing it wrong, shad-iya instead of shah-diya.

  Shadia didn't correct her.

  "Shadia," the woman said, wrong again. "Why are you applying for work on Toklaat?"

  I have the feeling you know. No doubt the woman had instantly called up all of Shadia's Toklaat-based records. "Med-debt, sir," said Shadia. Damn perm. They thought themselves so superior, with their airs about commitment and stability and dependability. Dusters thought them staid and boring and knew better than to expect permanence from any part of their lives.

 
"Then you won't be allowed to leave the station until the debt is paid?"

  Shadia stopped herself from narrowing her eyes. Of course the woman knew the terms of duster med-debt. "Yes, sir."

  "Filling this job is very important to us. Our permanent residents, by definition, have little chance for exposure to pets of any kind."

  No, of course not. Only the affluent could afford a pet in a station environment, even a station like Toklaat with copious gardens and play spaces and other luxuries. And the affluent wouldn't need to check station listings for jobs, temp or perm.

  The woman smiled a grim little smile. "I can't say for sure, but I suspect that with the priority placed on filling this job, it would be very difficult to remove you as a candidate."

  And as long as she was listed as a candidate for one job, she wouldn't be considered for others.

  Oh God. Stuck.

  ~~~

  Until this moment she would have said all stations smelled the same. A whiff of artificial scent meant to cover the disinfectant that was ineffective in some places and stonishingly strong in others.

  But no disinfectant would handle this smell. No artificial scent stood a chance. Wildly exotic pet residue, abandoned and left to stew.

  Blinking watering eyes, Shadia tried to evaluate her new home.

  Home. How long had it been since—?

  But no, this wasn't a home. This was enforced labor, and as soon as her med-debt was paid, she'd find some way out of this place. Off of this station. Back to the habits to which she'd become accustomed these past fifteen years, just over half her life. Her hip twinged, reminding her why she was still here; old memories twinged to remind her why she wanted to leave.

  Shadia concentrated instead on her new environs. Two floors of space, an unimaginative floor plan that put living quarters above several rooms meant to simulate a home environment for pampered pets while offering a practical nod to the need for clean-up, food preparation, and isolation of cranky or antisocial animals. There was, of course, a tub.

  Precious water, used on dirty pets.

  There was even an old schedule tacked directly to the wall next to the tub. The hand-scrawled names were water-stained and worn, but Shadia got the gist of it. Once a week for most of them, twice for some of them. And not all of them were bathed with shampoo and water. There was one called Mokie; it seemed to be bathed with a special oil. And Tufru used a product she found in the storage bins over the tub...it reminded her of cat litter.

  Cat litter. When was the last time I cleaned a litter box? Stinky old litter box, never could have the fancy self-cleaners because Ma and Dad said we needed to learn responsibility. As if working in the kennels wasn't enough. Worked in that damn kennel from six years old to—

  Old enough.

  Shadia left the tub area behind. Hastily. By the time she reached the spartan little office, she was full of anger. The way she liked it. Good cleansing anger, snarling that the very part of her once-was that had she'd tried so hard to forget now had her trapped on Toklaat.

  Nothing's permanent. See what you can see. Drift from station to planet to orbiter, grabbing catch-work rides and reveling in the newness of the next place until it gets old, finding new friends when the old drift away, your only true bond the very thing that will eventually drive you apart. Duster ways.

  Still snarling, she found the paperwork that suggested she name the renewed facility and directed her how to hire the assistants she was allowed—just enough help so she could sleep and acquire food and personal maintenance goods, for the petcare facility served all three shifts. There was a com-pin so she could be contacted by customers or assistants at any time, a cashchip for operating expenses, and an ID set. Her ID set.

  Fast work.

  She picked it up, fumbling the slick bifold set. Employer information on one side, personal history on another, a large recent image of herself—source unknown to her—and a fourth side that sheened blankly but held all of the set's information and more in digital. She looked at the image. It showed her from the head up but somehow managed to capture her scrawniness beneath the patched duster's vest-over-coveralls she wore. Mementos covered that vest, from crew patches to a tiny shell found only in a single place on a single planet. Mementos hung within her hair, an unimpressive dark blonde never given the opportunity to go sunstreaked, but long enough to hold beads and twists of woven goods. The tactile hair of a woman who encountered very few mirrors.

  Her appearance clashed with the purple border around her likeness, the one that proclaimed her as a perm job worker. A purple border she'd never thought to see on her own ID set, not after being dragged into the duster's life while she was still young enough that her first minor's ID lived in the back of her underwear drawer.

  Dragged into it, maybe. But I embraced it. The very involuntary nature of my introduction to the life taught me a duster's way is the only way. People think we're crazy, bouncing infinitely from station to station to planetside to station. Space dust. But in reality we're the wisest of them all. They count on their lives to continue as they know them. We admit up front that it'll never happen that way, and make the best of it.

  The duster bar was easy to find from her new location; she'd been there often enough before she was hit by the zipscoot. Like most stations, Toklaat was a glorified cylinder with travel tubes down the open axis, from north to south and back again, with east and west split according to function. East-side housed station maintenance and services; west-side housed the residences and personal services. Dusters worked the eastern station-side jobs, clung to station corners, slept in station nooks.

  Now Shadia worked and lived in the west.

  The duster bar, considered both a personal service and a duster accommodation, balanced on the border between east and west. With the com-pin tucked away in her vest pocket, a duster's ubiquitous utilities under the vest, and a small advance on her personal cashchip, Shadia stood at the edge of the bar nursing a featherdunk and considering her situation. Calculating how long it might take. . .

  "Out 'tending, are you?" said a growly alto voice in her ear. "You take that duster rig off someone, 'tender? You someone's mag-bound little perm?"

  Startled from her reverie, Shadia jerked around to discover herself flanked by two women whose musculature and vest pins marked them as cargo-loading dusters. Not a worry. Dusters left their own alone. "I'm no pretender."

  Quick as that, one of them grabbed her arms, spilling her drink, while the other fished around inside Shadia's vest until a search of the many interior pockets offered success. The creditchip, the ID set. "Looks like your 'set to me," said the growly one. "Didn't anyone ever warn you that the only thing worse than a perm in a duster bar is a 'tender perm in a duster bar?"

  Shadia kicked the woman who held her, a pointy-toed kick just below the knee, snatching her ID set back as she spat a long string of blistering duster oaths. She didn't fight, she didn't get drunk, she didn't join the ranks of the dusters' practical jokers...but she had a vocabulary to make even a growly-voiced cargo loader blink. And while the one woman was blinking and the other was bent over her leg, Shadia snarled, "Med-debt. It's paid, I'm gone. Got it?" She turned her back on them and went back to her drink. They would have muttered apologies except that her turned back was a sign to be respected. Not a rudeness as the perms would have thought, but simply a gesture requesting privacy in a society where complete strangers made up a constantly shifting population. So they went away.

  But I didn't go back there. Because they were right. I might hate it, I might have been forced into it, but in the strictest sense, they were right. I was a perm in a duster bar. . . and elsewhere, a duster in perm ID. I just didn't intend to stay that way.

  ~~~

  The smell was incredible.

  "You're going to break down the 'fresher system again," Shadia told Feef the akliat, resigned to it. Each day, Feef arrived clinging to Claire Rowpin like a baby, deep blue eyes squinting fiercely against the morning sun. He
might have been a cross between a three-toed sloth and a Chinese Crested earth dog for all his appearance indicated—his hairless, suede-like skin, a poof of white powderpuff hair on the top of his head, and a deep affinity for dark corners and high places. In spite of his slow and essentially sweet nature, he emitted the most astonishing odors under stress.

  Feef. His owners, a couple named the Rowpins, had confessed to her upon first visit their intention to name the akliat Fifi. They hadn't—quite—gone through with it.

  But despite their moment of weakness with the akliat's name, they clearly adored him. They gave her his favorite towel, hoping it would ease his stress, and they often called during the day to check on him. The other owners were much the same—loving their pets, checking on them, offering advice and expending worry.

  As well they might. Of all the things that weren't permanent, pets topped the list. Shadia had known that even before she turned duster. But she didn't say anything, not to perms who would never understand anyway, people she would leave behind as soon as possible. She made the pets comfortable, read up on their various habits and habitats, and smiled at the owners who dropped them off each day. It brought her business; in some strange way the perms began to think of her as their duster.

  Ugh.

  Some of the animals gloried in their visits, with supervised play time and more interaction than they'd get at home. Some were sullen and spent their time in hiding. They all had challenging habits that served them well enough in their own environments. Feef's odors were part of his communication system, although in the pet care facility they earned him a quiet and solitary room with high perches. The Jarlsens' skitzcat shed luxurious hair with mildly barbed tips intended to line its nest—Shadia made sure it had a private bedding area and invested in high-grade cleaning equipment. The roly poly hamster-like rrhy dripped scent-mucus wherever it went as a warning of its poisonous nature. And Gite the tasglana, who looked like nothing more than a flop-eared goat in extreme miniature, liked to sharpen its claws on everything and anything—or anyone—it could find. Shadia wore leather work chaps when Gite came to stay.