Dog On It

by Spencer Quinn

  “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.

  “You have spirit,” he said. “You will make a good fighting dog after I break you.”

  Boris returned. I saw what a horsewhip was.

  “Crack it for demonstration purposes,” said Mr. Gulagov.

  Boris flicked his hand. The whip cracked like lightning, not far above my head. Mr. Gulagov tugged at the chain, pulling me up. “Stalin,” he said. “Sit.”

  I stood there. It was dark now. Lights went on in one of the barn windows, high up. I saw someone at the window—a girl, and not only that but a girl I recognized: Madison Chambliss. Hey! I’d found her.

  “Boris?” said Mr. Gulagov. “Now show him how it feels on the flesh.”

  “The whip?”

  “What else would I be talking about?”

  Madison opened the window and stuck out her head. “Don’t you hurt that dog,” she said.

  Mr. Gulagov and Boris looked up. “Where is Olga?” Mr. Gulagov’s face swelled up, getting flushed again. “What is going on?”

  A big woman with her hair in a bun rose up behind Madison, arms raised high like a witch in one of Bernie’s old horror movies. She started pulling Madison away. Madison’s eyes opened wide. “Hey. Is that the dog who—”

  Then she got yanked out of sight. At that moment I realized there was almost no pressure around my neck. I gave Mr. Gulagov a sideways glance. No need to turn my head for sideways glancing, just another one of my advantages, not having my eyes bunched so close together, human-style. Mr. Gulagov’s gaze was still on the window, his hand on the choke chain relaxed, half open.

  I bolted.

  “What the hell?” said Mr. Gulagov.

  The choke chain tightened, but only for an instant, and then got ripped from his hand. Free! I ran, swerving toward the far end of the barn, the chain dragging behind me. A barn door opened, and Harold stepped out. I smelled something new on him, a smell Bernie and I had worked on a lot: the smell of a gun, recently fired. Harold’s hand moved to his pocket. Had I seen what guns could do? Too many times. I cut the other way, but Boris was already on the move, horsewhip raised high. I turned again, going all out in the only other direction, toward the rocky hill. If only I could get up there, maybe—

  “Kill him,” Mr. Gulagov shouted.

  A gunshot rang out, and then another; a bullet pinged against a rock right beside me. I reached the base of the hill and bounded into the mine without a second thought, or even a first one. Guns fired and fired again. I kept going; I’d seen what guns could do.

  The faint light from outside penetrated a short way into the mine, then got swallowed up in darkness. I felt railroad ties under my paws, cool hard-packed dirt between them. After a while, I looked back. The mouth of the mine was a dark and fuzzy circle in the blackness. Beyond it, I could see lights shining in the barn. I listened with one of my front paws raised off the ground, the way I do when I’m listening my very hardest. Silence, except for the high desert wind. I crept back toward the opening.

  Slow, very slow. I can be real quiet when I want to: quiet as a shadow, Bernie said. I moved like a shadow now, was only a few steps from the opening. And then? Zoom. I’d be flying out of there, melting into all the other night shadows, on the way home. But as I took my last slow step, the end of the choke chain—I’d forgotten all about it—clanked against one of the rails.

  Lights flashed on, bright as the sun.

  “There he is.”

  I wheeled around and sprinted back down the tunnel, the choke chain clinking and clanking behind me. A gun went off, and then came a high-pitched ping off one of the rails, so close I jumped right into the air, all four paws off the ground. Mr. Gulagov, not far away at all, called out, “After him, but use your brains—there is only one way out. You know that. The animal does not.”

  That was me? The animal? And there was something I didn’t know? But what? I didn’t understand. I just ran, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the mine. Glancing back, I saw a bright gleam on the track, chasing after me. My thirst, my tiredness—I forgot all about t
hem, went flat out. Was there a man on earth I couldn’t outrun? No.

  I heard voices behind me, farther back now: “Follow the sound.”

  Sound? What sound? I was like a shadow. Then I remembered the choke chain, remembered it again. Why did I keep forgetting? I slowed down, twisted my head, bit at the cold metal, bit as hard as I could. Nothing happened. Cutting through the choke chain was beyond what I could do. I kept trying anyway. Then all at once, the gleam caught me, raced by. Can’t slow down, Chet. Up ahead I glimpsed the tunnel, bending around a curve. Crack: another gunshot, very loud in the mine. Something buzzed right through the fur at the end of my tail, and then wood splintered nearby. I took off, darted around the curve, back into darkness.

  I ran and ran, ran my very fastest, on and on, but the sound of the chain followed me all the way, and glancing back, I saw the light following me, too. This was bad. I needed something, but what? I needed, I needed . . . And then I knew: a hole, a place to lie quiet. But there was no hole, so I just ran, maybe not my fastest anymore. Another glance back: The gleam came closer and closer, was going to catch me again for sure. I tried to run harder, and maybe I was a little, but after not many more strides, I smelled something new: water.

  Water.

  I followed the smell, the best smell there was—second best, maybe—up the tunnel, then lost it almost right away. I stopped, sniffed around. Don’t stop, Chet. Run. But I did stop. I needed water, just a taste. Voices sounded again, and the gleam of the lights was traveling fast on the rails. I took a few steps back, toward the voices and the light, and there it was, the water smell again. It seemed to come from the tunnel wall. I moved toward the wall, and the smell got stronger. I followed it; and what was this? I was following it right into the wall? Yes: The smell was coming out of an opening I could almost see, maybe another tunnel, but very narrow. As the gleam was about to hit me, light me up for all to see, I squeezed into the opening, scraping against a sharp rock or maybe a broken piece of wood. I moved inside a little way, silent now, no rails under me for the chain to clank against. Then I heard Harold, very near.

  “Why don’t we wait at the front? You said yourself there’s only one way out.”

  I lay down, went still.

  “Who does the thinking, Harold?”

  “You, boss. But it’s dangerous in here—these supports are all rotten.”

  At that moment I heard a cracking sound, faint and far away.

  “Perhaps you have a point,” said Mr. Gulagov.

  Their footsteps moved away, slowly faded. I lay there, the smell of water stronger and stronger. After a while, I crawled toward it on my belly. I could hear it now, a faint trickle. I stuck out my tongue and licked the wall. And yes, water, ah, dripping down the rocky face. I lapped at the wall, lapped and lapped, filled myself up with cold water, saltier than I like, but lovely anyway. I drank until my tongue shrank back to normal, drank until I couldn’t drink any more, and began to feel more like myself. I lay there in my hole, resting. It was quiet, the only sound the beating deep in my chest, slowing down. My eyelids got heavy.

  eleven

  Water trickled, a soothing sound. That meant the kitchen sink was leaking again. These things happened: Bernie had a tool kit, did all the home repairs, some of them over and over. Once he got his hand stuck in the garbage disposal and then the whole fuse box started smoking and the fire department—

  I opened my eyes. At home in the kitchen? No. Everything came back. I was in the mine, darkness all around. But what was this? Darkness, yes, but not complete. In the distance, I saw a narrow shaft of golden light. I rose, realizing that not quite everything had come back to me: I’d forgotten the choke chain. I rolled over, squirmed this way and that, tried to get rid of the thing. But the choke chain stayed where it was, twisted around my neck, the free end trailing on the ground.

  I sat up, still and quiet—I could sit very nicely, thanks, Mr. Gulagov—and listened. There was nothing to hear except trickling water. I licked some off the wall and moved toward the light.

  It turned out to be far away. The closer I got, the more I could see. I was in a narrow tunnel, and it was getting narrower, the walls and ceiling all closing in. I had to crouch low as I reached the source of the light, a narrow crack in the wall. I sniffed at it, smelled outside things: mesquite, flowers, and another scent that reminded me of cats. I pawed at the crack. A bit of the wall crumbled away, and the crack got bigger. I pawed some more. The crack grew into a hole. Through it I saw big rocks, a ball of tumbleweed rolling by, and in the distance a tall butte.

  The next thing I knew, I was digging, digging harder than I’d ever dug. Dirt and rocks flew all over the place. Soon the hole was big enough to stick my head through. I stuck my head through, blinked away some dust, saw I was high up a steep slope, way above the desert floor. I tried to wriggle the rest of me through the opening, got nowhere. That made me a little panicky. My front paws were stuck but not my back ones; they started digging crazily. Then came a strange rumbling sound, and the whole mountain seemed to tremble. With all my strength, I wriggled and dug, trying to get free. The mountain made a boom and shot me right out of the hole—in fact, the hole wasn’t even there anymore. I tumbled down the mountainside, rocks and clods of dirt bouncing all around me.

  I came to rest at the top of a narrow ledge, the end of the choke chain slapping across my body, dust blowing everywhere. Did I feel any pain? No: wasn’t thirsty, wasn’t even tired, only a little bit hungry. I remembered that cold steak Bernie and I had shared, slathered with A.1. All right: I was very hungry.

  I got up and had a good shake, raising clouds of dirt, like a little storm. When it cleared, I could see down below to the desert. It went on and on, with some mountains in the distance: no sign of Mr. Gulagov or his ranch, no buildings of any kind in sight, no people. I was free! My next thought was of home and Bernie.

  But home—which way? I sniffed around. I’d gotten home from far away before, always by following my own smell; a very nice one, did I mention that? This time the only scent trail of me led back up the mountain, into the mine. The wrong direction, for sure. I walked along the ledge, looking for a path down. That strange cat smell was in the air again, not quite cat but somehow more so. I found a narrow gully, followed it off one side of the ledge and around a big rock, the size of a car. Fresh air, not too hot, lots of sunshine: This wasn’t too bad. My tail was up, alert, wagging a bit. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, and if I did have any worries, I couldn’t think what they were.

  Then, with no warning except a slight rush of air behind me, I got hit by something big and strong with so much force I flew off the ground, landing hard way down the slope. I rolled over, looked up, and saw a huge catlike animal bounding toward me, an animal I knew from the Discovery Channel: mountain lion. Huge teeth, huge claws, huge yellow eyes—cat blown up to nightmare size. What had Bernie said that time in front of the TV? “If you ever meet up with one of these suckers, whatever you do, don’t run. Run and you’re done.” He’d even—this was after a bourbon or two, not always a good idea for Bernie—done a lion imitation and come at me, making his fingers like claws, saying, “Stay, Chet, stay.”

  I trusted Bernie, believed every single thing he’d ever told me. I turned and ran.

  My very fastest running, paws hardly touching down, ears flat back: and yet she pounced on me almost right away, claws digging into my back. We rolled together, down and down the mountain, our faces close together. Those eyes: a killer’s eyes.

  We crashed into the bottom of a saguaro, came to a stop. I was up right away, and so was she. She crouched, ready to spring. I faced her and growled, didn’t know why, just did it. She paused, as if in doubt—Bernie was right!—and then, instead of springing, lashed out at me with a paw, so quick I didn’t even have time to flinch. I felt pain on my side, but what was this? She’d caught a claw in one of links of the choke chain. That brought another pause, a pause I took advantage of, turning my head a little and bitin
g her on the shoulder. She roared, a horrible roar that sounded like a thunderstorm. My hair stood on end. She tried to free her paw, yanking it back, and I felt her tremendous strength right through my skin. The chain snapped at once, and she roared again, crouching to spring. But in the next instant her roar turned into a gagging cough, the kind familiar to me from chicken-bone incidents. What was this? Behind those huge teeth, at the back of her throat, I glimpsed a chain link; it must have flown into her mouth. She backed away, bending over, trying to cough it up. I took off and didn’t look back till I reached the desert floor. No sign of her.

  I followed the sun: That seemed right. It led me toward those distant mountains. I went into my trot. So nice to be free of the chain! Once I got going, I could trot forever.

  But by the time the sun sank behind the mountains, cooling the air right away, I was walking, and not very fast. Hungry, tired, thirsty, all at the same time. My tongue was dried out again, too big for my mouth. Panting spells came and went, plus I smelled blood from time to time, had to be mine. Once I saw a sign on a post in the middle of nowhere. I gazed at it for a while, then at the mountains. They didn’t look any closer, but their shadows were, and moving toward me all the time.

  Night fell. Stars came out, filling the sky. I knew my direction was right, kept going. In the distance, I spotted a light, an unsteady kind of light, yellow and flickering. Soon after that, I smelled smoke, and not just smoke but meat, meat on the grill. I picked up the pace, even trotted a bit. Slowly, the flickering yellow light became a fire, with human-shaped forms moving around it. I approached, staying in the shadows beyond the reach of the light.

  Humans, yes, of the biker kind; we didn’t like bikers, me and Bernie. They sat around a big open campfire, men and women, drinking, smoking, cooking burgers; their bikes stood by an old falling-down shack. How many bikers? That was the kind of thing I couldn’t tell you.

  “Hey, what’s that?”