I scramble off the ladder as quickly as I can and start running toward the sound. It is then that it occurs to me that A.) I’m wearing old ratty cutoffs that no self-respecting woman should be wearing in public. B.) My feet are bare. C.) I don’t have the lick of sense that God gave me — as my grandfather, Walter would say. I don’t know what’s in those bushes, and I don’t even have my cell phone with me. My grandfather and I don’t always see eye to eye. But in this case, he would really have a point. I don’t even know what I’m doing out here at this ungodly hour in the morning. I should really have more common sense. I always make fun of Ivy for not having very many street smarts. Really, I think her bad habits have rubbed off on me. I know better than to do what I’m just about to do.
I start to turn on my heel and head back home when a flash of brown and black catches my eye. What’s even more alarming is that there is some red and silver mixed in with that. “Oh hell no!” I mutter to myself. As I sprint back to my house, I say a silent prayer of thanks to my grandmother who thought it was important for me to be well-rounded and made me pick a sport. If it hadn’t been for my introduction to running on the track team, I would’ve never made it. If left to my own devices, I would happily be a confirmed couch potato.
I open my back door and I’m confronted by the mess that is my kitchen. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to try to teach myself to cook vegetarian food. I was born and raised on a farm. Maybe I should just accept my roots and move on. I don’t think vegetarian cooking is my thing — as is evidenced by the fact that I used every bowl and pan in my entire kitchen. Right now, the most critical question on my mind is how to quickly locate my phone. I’m not really sure where I left it. It could be anywhere in this colossal mess. Then I remember that I stuck it in my school backpack for safekeeping. I run to my bedroom to grab it. I snag my tennis shoes from in front of the front door as I go by and slide them on, but in the process, I practically knock myself out on the stairway banister. Let’s just say grace isn’t exactly my middle name.
Backpack in hand, I run back toward the scene. I punch Rogue’s number into the phone. When she answers the phone, it’s clear that I’ve roused her from a deep sleep.
“I’m so sorry Rogue. I forgot that you guys are on vacation. How is the Grand Canyon? If it’s the crack of dawn here in Florida, it must be the middle of the night there.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I’m not really sleeping all that well anyway. Tristan and Isaac are working on a big case so he’s clacking away on the computer and it keeps me awake. What’s up?”
Her question immediately brings me back to the crisis at hand. “Rogue, I think this could be really bad. There’s a hurt dog in my neighborhood. It looks pretty serious. This isn’t like back home where we just called the big animal vet or even when I lived in New York City where there was a clinic for every single need open twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know what I can do. I’m by myself. I don’t even know if anything is open on the weekends. Everybody I know in this state is out of town right now. I don’t have any medical knowledge about this stuff. What if I can’t help the poor thing? I know if I called my grandpa, he would just tell me to shoot it. He would say that it’s all the big part of the cycle of life and God intended it to be that way. I don’t really even know what to think — besides, I can’t shoot a gun in the middle of town. I mean, I know how to shoot a gun; I was raised on a farm. That’s not really the issue here…” I ramble. “Can you ask Tristan if he knows anybody? Maybe I should call Ivy. Marcus knows everyone—”
I’m only half paying attention to my own blathering as I try to find the dog. He’s not in the same spot that I left him. My panic levels start to rise. What if I can’t find him and he’s walking around injured? The injuries looked really bad when I saw him before. He was actively losing blood. Blood. That’s the secret. I’ll just look for a blood trail; he must be leaving a pretty substantial one. His injuries looked pretty serious.
I start to feel pretty light headed. Rogue’s voice on the other end of the phone is like a splash of cold water. “Jessica, take a deep breath. You survived the streets of New York when you were eighteen. You can deal with this. Just take it step-by-step.”
“You’re right, I’ve survived tougher stuff than this. I need to pull it together.” I hear a sound off to my left and I whisper, “Gotta go!” before ripping the earbuds out of my ears and stuffing the phone back in the backpack. As I do, my hand brushes across the snack I had thrown in to my backpack for my last late-night study session. Perfect. It’s almost as if fate has intervened. I quickly unwrap the pepperoni stick and jam it into my pocket. I don’t suppose the puppy is going care much if it’s a little stale and from a discount store.
My heart is pounding. It’s been a while since I’ve been around any animals, let alone one that’s been injured. I haven’t gotten a really good look at this one — other than to know that I saw blood. I don’t even know if this dog is feral or aggressive. The outright insane nature of my mission hits me again. I watch all of those rescue shows on Animal Planet. I know better than to try to do this by myself. But, I don’t have anywhere else to turn. It’s a choice between letting this dog suffer some more or having backup. That’s no choice at all. Consequently, I forge forward. I crouch down and duck into a hole in the hedge.
This is one situation where being the size of a small third-grader is going to help me. I curse my lack of foresight, as I have to dig out my cell phone from my backpack again to use the flashlight. After I start the flashlight app, I can see that the poor dog has wedged himself up against a cement foundation and a wood fence. He has nowhere else to go. He is shaking violently. As I adjust the flashlight so that I can see where I’m going, I make a horrifying discovery. That is duct tape! Lots and lots of duct tape. I’m surprised that he can even breathe. No wonder I had a hard time recognizing the sounds coming from this pathetic creature. It’s amazing that he was able to vocalize anything at all.
I edge toward him with a little less trepidation than I had before because obviously he can’t bite me — actually, he might be a she. I haven’t actually checked, come to think of it. He just looks so scruffy that he reminds me of that character from the movie I saw as a kid, Benji. Obviously, my plan to bribe the dog with treats won’t work since the poor puppy can’t open his mouth. I walk up beside him and quietly sit down. Well, walking is a bit of an overstatement. Unless you count duck walking, which is essentially what I had to do to get next to him. It’s really cramped quarters in this little hiding spot. It’s a good thing that one of my favorite hobbies as a kid was to cram myself into the smallest possible spaces in my grandparents’ old farmhouse and see how long it took people to find me. It drove my grandparents crazy, but I often would spend hours curled up with a good book or an old chunk of charcoal and a pad of paper before anybody managed to locate me.
Slowly, I ease my hand over to him and start to stroke the scuff of his neck. Much to my shock, he rolls over and looks up at me with pleading eyes. Scratch that, she looks up at me with pleading eyes as if asking me to scratch her tummy. As I pulled my hand back to scratch a different area, I notice that it’s covered in blood. I can’t believe that she’s still so trusting after suffering such egregious maltreatment. I unclip my student ID from my backpack, remove the lanyard and hook it to her collar. Of course, her collar doesn’t have any ID on it. I suppose it’s too much to hope that she actually has a microchip. This dog seems to have run out of hopes and prayers an awfully long time ago, I decide as I glance at her concave rib cage and thinning coat. I wonder how long she’s been roaming around without any place to call home. It just makes me so sad and angry that I can’t even form the thoughts or words to describe my outrage. Why do people even bother to get dogs if they’re not going to take care of them? It boggles the mind.
When I try to stand up, she tries to brace me. The ludicrousness of that situation is not lost on me. This dog is injured enough that she should have difficulty st
anding up on her own. Yet, she’s willing to try to help me. There is something hauntingly beautiful about that simple gesture.
I carefully maneuver us under the hedge so that I don’t injure her any more. Intellectually, I thought I was prepared for what I was going to see — but, there. Just. Aren’t. Words.
The sight of her juxtaposed against the bright sunny Florida morning is enough to make me retch. If I thought it was horrifying to witness when we were plastered up against the side of the building underneath the hedge, when it’s exposed under the bright sunlight, it’s the makings of a Stephen King novel. They must have used a half a roll of duct tape on this dog. As I look closer, I can see that at one point, her paws were taped together, but she somehow managed to chew them apart. Yet, even more appalling, it appears that at some point in her young life, probably pretty recently, someone has set fire to this dog’s tail. She has raw, open wounds on what should be a thick, bushy German Shepherd tail.
I don’t even bother to hide the tears that are streaming down my face. Who in their right mind would do this to any creature — let alone in this quiet, good-natured German Shepherd who is looking up at me with hope filled eyes? I look into her deep, chocolate brown eyes and stroke her ear as I say, “For the time being I’m going to name you Hope.”
Instantly, I regret that I said anything to her because she starts to wag her tail and thump it painfully on the ground. I coax her into a standing position and start to lead her back to my house. Hopefully, this won’t be an ordeal. She’s not a very substantial German Shepherd; she’s mostly gangly legs and paws at this point. However, if she wanted to make my life difficult, she definitely could. Surprisingly she doesn’t seem to be fearful at all. She falls in right behind me as if she’s been heeling for her whole life. As we walk the few blocks to my house, I contemplate what I’m going to do once I get there. I’m not forbidden under the terms of my lease to have a dog, but it’s definitely not encouraged and my cat, Midnight, might have a big issue with Hope. He has been the king of my castle since I rescued him. I don’t think he’ll take too kindly to sharing — especially cross species. Those wounds look deep and somewhat infected. I don’t have any way to treat them. I’m a History major, minoring in Theater Arts, I don’t have any knowledge about this kind of stuff. I know how to put on Band-Aids when I cut myself with a box cutter when I’m building scenery, but that’s about all I know.
The enormity of the challenge ahead of me hits me as I unlock my front gate. My cute little Jeep convertible is parked in the driveway. It’s a daunting reminder that I am far over my head. After my Chevy Chevelle died in the middle of the interstate, Tristan and Rogue surprised me for my birthday and got me a vehicle. Neither of them thought that it was extraordinary to buy someone a car for their birthday — which at that was bizarre, especially since Rogue used to object every time Tristan spent any money on her, but I guess having an engagement ring on your finger changes everything. Still, it’s hard to be cynical when I’m the beneficiary of their generosity. I look down at Hope. Her wounds are still seeping and even if they weren’t, I’m not sure she has the agility to climb all the way up into my vehicle because I’m not sure how much she hurts right now. Even if I can get her into the Jeep, I’m not sure where I would take her.
I look up animal hospitals on my phone and only one facility is open this early on a Sunday but it’s several miles away. I cross my fingers and hope that I can get her into my vehicle. Hope seems to sense my nerves. She rests her head against my thigh and lets out a big sigh. I reached down to pet her and am once again horrified by the duct tape on her muzzle. I decide that I can’t wait any longer and I tie Hope to my roll cage while I run into the house to get my car keys.
Fortunately for me, the concept of a car ride does not seem foreign to Hope. She hops right in to my Jeep and asserts herself as my copilot as she happily sticks her head out the window. I guess it’s a good thing that my vehicle is dog friendly. I reach over to pet Hope and I’m dismayed when my hand encounters a fresh trickle of blood. I know that my grandpa preaches that all sin is forgivable, but I sometimes wonder if they should be. Right now I’m not feeling like I should leave the vengeance to the Lord, if you know what I mean.
“MITCH, I THINK YOU ought to come see what just pulled into the parking lot,” Stuart yells across the warehouse where we keep all the extra bedding.
Something in his tone warns me that he’s up to something, so I ask, “Are you asking me to evaluate something with two legs or four?”
“Well, buddy I think that might be the question of the day,” Stuart quips. Then he turns serious as he says, “For the moment though, I think the one with four legs needs the most urgent attention, and if the one with two legs is responsible for the condition of the one with four legs, then you can kiss the one with two legs goodbye.”
I’ve worked with dogs long enough, it only takes me a matter of seconds to size up the situation and when I do, my rage kicks in to high gear. Before I can fully engage my brain, I take off into a dead sprint and run toward the sport utility vehicle.
“Ugh! That’s not what I meant!” Stuart calls after me. “What is it about these dogs that makes you lose your ever loving mind?” he says as he jogs behind me.
When I reach the Jeep, I’m so anxious to reach the dog that I practically rip the hinges off the door. I want to kick my own butt. I know better. I could’ve just completely freaked out the dog.
The woman occupant of the car shrieks in surprise at my abrupt intrusion. I hear a strange huffing noise and a growl unlike any I’ve heard. Like a shape shifter from the movies, the shepherd mix which had been casually looking out the window moments before is now fiercely standing over her and challenging me to take one step closer.
“Call your dog off!” I command as I freeze in place not wanting to agitate the dog any further. Every indication of that dog’s body language shows that if I make one false move, I could be spending the night at the hospital being treated for severe dog bites. That certainly is not my idea of fun. I’ve done it before; I just don’t want to do it today. As we have our silent stare down, I take the opportunity to study the dog’s predicament a little more closely. What I see makes me angrier by the second.
“Listen, it looks like your dog might have some issues with aggression, but that’s not the way you take care of it. Haven’t you ever heard of obedience training? I ought to call the police and have you arrested on the spot,” I threaten.
As the volume of my voice increases with each word, the body language of the German Shepherd grows more tense. From behind me, I hear Stuart caution, “Buddy, don’t you think you ought to at least hear her side of the story?”
“Well, the dog can’t exactly tell me her side of the story, so the interview would be rather skewed, do you think?” I say rather sarcastically.
The color starts to come back into the woman’s face as she turns to talk to Stuart, “I guess I’ll talk to you since you seem to be the only person inclined to listen to me. You’re welcome to call the police on me if you want to. I don’t really have anything to hide. I came here because I thought you all might want to help. Maybe I was wrong. If you aren’t going to treat her any better than you’re treating me, I guess I’ll just keep driving until I find somebody that does.”
Stuart starts to apologize, “I’m sorry, ma’am—”
I’m not ready to give up quite that easily; there’s something about this that isn’t quite right. “You’re going to have a hard time going anywhere else since your dog isn’t trained well enough to get off your lap so that you can reach your steering wheel,” I observe.
The woman gathers her stunning red hair in a ponytail and twists it before tying her hair in one big knot at the base of her neck. She rubs her shoulder as if it’s sore. She mutters to herself, “Oh for God’s sake — it’s too early for this kind of garbage.” She blows a puff of air out the side of her mouth and removes her aviator sunglasses.
As far as I’m conce
rned, she should never wear those shades again. I know that this is Florida, and the shades probably have some good UVA protection and all that, but they are really doing humanity a disservice by hiding her face. As soon as I see her, I almost forget why I’m so furious with her — that is — until she speaks.
“I’d be happy to call this dog off, except I don’t really even know her real name or why she’s doing this. My only guess is because you scared the bee-jeebies out of me and she didn’t care for your tone. In case you’d bothered to ask, I could’ve told you that I brought Hope here to be rescued.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know her name —” I accuse.
“Are you always this rude, or am I getting some bizarre two-for-one special today?” she asks with a deep scowl.
“Don’t mind my friend here, somebody took the prize out of the bottom of his Lucky Charms box this morning,” Stuart says with a wink. “Why don’t you explain to us how you came to find out Hope’s name?” he suggests.
“Well, first of all, I have real doubts about whether that’s her real name or not. As far as I know, she’s only had that moniker for less than a two hours. I gave it to her because she looked so gosh-darn-hopeful that something good was going to happen in her life for a change.”
“How did you end up with her?” I press. “She looks mighty comfortable with you and pretty protective.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that. I was just minding my own business feeding hummingbirds in my backyard at about five o’clock this morning when I thought I recognized a car which has been causing some problems in our neighborhood. After it left, I thought I heard some weird noises. I went to investigate. I didn’t have any shoes on so I had to go back to the house. By that time, I lost complete track of her and it took me a bit to find her. I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t crying like a normal dog.”
Hearts of Jade (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 3) Page 23
