Muzzled

by June Whyte

  However, instead of lifting my euphoria to an all-time high, the win sent my heart fluttering like a trapped moth inside my chest.

  What if I couldn’t keep Lofty safe until then?

  5

  Ever-increasing traffic snarled bumper to bumper along the main road winding out of Gawler—a once peaceful country town—now no different to any other over-populated suburb.

  The thrum of engines labored in slow gear with the honk of impatient horns as I turned off into a back street where hundred-year-old houses rubbed shoulders with modern square blocks of cold concrete. The local fodder store, still showcasing a hitching rail out front, came into view; its grey stone walls roughened by a century of harsh Australian weather. I drove past, inhaled a deep breath, savoring the rural smell of chaff, bran and sweet smelling hay.

  “Don’t fret,” I told Stanley, the red brindle greyhound balancing precariously in the back of my station wagon—between four newly purchased bags of kibble and several tins of powdered milk. As I drove over the outdated railway bridge leading out of the sprawling township of Gawler, a passenger train roared underneath, its destination, Adelaide. I waited until Stanley could hear me again before continuing. “Just a couple of quick snips and it will be all over,” I assured him. “You won’t feel a thing, and just think—after that you can move in with a lovely family and maybe have a couch to sleep on in the living room. Maybe even some children to play with.”

  The dog didn’t look convinced.

  On the way home from the track I’d picked up Stella’s brother, Stanley, from his foster home with, a lady who lived in a hundred-year-old cottage in the heart of Gawler. The tall elegant dog had passed all his GAP tests with ease, including tolerating cats, little fluffy dogs and allowing his foster mum to remove his food before he’d finished eating. He’d even been presented with a special green collar to show he could be walked on the streets without a muzzle now.

  There was only one procedure left to face before Stanley was ready for his new adoptive home. The one I was attempting to downplay—neutering.

  As though seeking more reassurance, and who could blame the poor guy, Stanley stretched his neck forward and licked my left ear with his hot rough tongue.

  “Hey, that tickles.” I laughed and gently pushed him away, then tightened my grip on the steering wheel to maneuver the car around a large concrete roundabout and onto the new highway. “We’ll pay a visit to the vet tomorrow, okay? Not today. Lofty, Witchy, Clark and Bugs are tired and hungry. We need to get them home out of the trailer and into their warm comfortable beds, pronto.”

  As though understanding every word I said, Stanley’s tongue scorched a hot damp trail across the sensitive skin at the back of my neck. I reached behind with one hand and ruffled his ears. “I know, I know, that’s fine with you. You’re not in any hurry to visit the vet either.”

  By the time I pulled into the Angle Vale shopping center and parked the car and dog-trailer outside the delicatessen where I always bought ice-cream for the dogs after racing, tiredness enveloped me. I was so looking forward to the familiar sight of my own front gate topped by the sign that said, McKinley Greyhound Kennels. It had been one heck of a day. What with Ben borrowing several very energetic cups of sugar, the mystery of why and who stole Stella, worrying whether the dog-napper actually had his beady eyes on Lofty, plus the excitement of winning three races—I was all ready for a night in—with the kennel-house double-padlocked, my front door secure and my feet up.

  Maybe watching something light and fluffy that didn’t overtax my tired brain, like Death at a Funeral.

  When I pushed open the shop door and set the overhead bell tinkling, Nona, the grey haired, stooped matriarch of the Makris family, gave me a bright gummy smile of recognition. She reached for the box of cones under the counter. “Good afternoon, Katrina,” she said, her dark eyes alive and twinkling and belying her grand old age of eighty nine. “How many today, dear?”

  “Let’s see. Four in the trailer and one in the car. That makes five scoops of vanilla today, thanks, Nona.”

  “And you? You like some of my Petar’s home-made ice cream too? He does good job. No?”

  “He does good job. Yes!” My taste buds already salivating at the thought of being seduced by Petar’s home made recipe, I studied the twelve available flavors in the tubs on the other side of the see-through plastic screen. Petar Makris’s ice-cream was the toast of the North. Absolutely mouth-wateringly yummy. The taste of the fruit dripped off the tongue as the cold confection slipped down the throat.

  “Let’s see,” I mused and leaned closer, all the better to select a flavor. But which one? I loved them all. Blueberry? Tutti-frutti? Lemon Sherbet? Chocoholic’s Delight? I shook my head. “Mrs. Makris, you can tell your son from me that he makes it almost impossible for his customers to make a decision. Doesn’t matter which flavor ice cream I select, there’s another eleven I’ve missed out on. Okay, today’s choice is… Eeney, Meeney, Miney, Mo… Banana Dream.”

  “You make good decision, Katrina. My favorite too.”

  “Bet you say that to all your customers,” I said and grinned. “No matter which flavor they choose.”

  Her toothless smile as she dug deep into the banana ice cream with her metal scoop and delivered a large portion to my cone, proved me right.

  I paid, said my farewells, and juggling three ice creams precariously in each hand, turned away from the counter. Couldn’t wait to see the expression of delight on the dogs’ faces when I opened their trailer doors and they got an eyeful of their treat. Although to be honest, in the past, the dogs barely tasted their gourmet treat. Especially Clark. One swallow and the entire ice cream—cone and all—was no more. I wondered if dogs suffered from an ice-cream headache? If so, I wouldn’t like to be in Clark’s shoes. Or head afterwards.

  “What that boy doing at your car?”

  Nona’s voice, shrill in protest, came from behind me.

  “Qeek, Katrina! Dog will get loose!”

  Pushing through tiredness and jumbled thoughts regarding Clark’s ice cream headache, I looked through the shop window, my gaze settling on my car and trailer which I’d parked lengthwise beside the gutter in front of the shop. A tow haired boy of about eight or nine wearing khaki cargo pants, the crotch drooping around his knees, was in the act of opening the rear door of my car. Damn kid. Where was his mother?

  “Hey, you! Kid! Get away from there!”

  Racing from the shop to give the boy a good telling off, my mouth gaped so wide I almost swallowed a fly. The kid had a slip lead in his hand and he was sliding the lead over Stanley’s head. What the heck was going on around here? Had someone started up a Dog-napping Class 101 at the local Community college and somehow let the instruction handbook spill into primary school curriculums around the state?

  Luckily the author of the handbook had failed to write a chapter explaining the insatiable greed of some dogs on the dog-napping hit list. After licking the boy’s face and preparing to jump out of the car and go for a walk with his new friend, Stanley glanced up and spotted me—or should I say the ice creams in my hands. His eyes lit up, his smile widened into the size of a ball park and with a woof of pure joy he yanked the lead from the boy’s hand and zeroed in on me.

  “No, Stanley! Staaaay! Siiiiit!”

  Instinctively I covered my face with both ice-cream filled hands. There was no way known to man or beast that Stanley was going to stop his mad charge. And I knew it. In fact, I barely got the words out of my mouth before thirty five kilos of red brindle determined canine hurled itself at me. My puny body didn’t stand a chance. The dog’s tunnel vision was programmed on one thing only—expensive gourmet ice creams.

  Tongue already slurping, Stanley landed in a heap on top of me and as we both hit the pavement in a tangle of arms, legs, and paws I let out a loud oof! Two iced confections mashed into my face and ran down my chin onto my shirt while Stanley chased and expertly caught those that shot in the air in four di
fferent directions. A vague thought skipped through my mind as I lay flat on my back staring at the sky.

  Why me? Surely this only happens to people in comic books?

  Through blurred vision caused by mashed and fast-melting vanilla and banana ice-cream, I transferred my gaze to the Holden parked behind my trailer. Why did it look familiar? The windscreen was scratched and the noise and vibration from the car’s exhaust had the doors rattling. And then it hit me. Bloody Purple Pants was at it again. I should have known he was behind the attempted dog-napping. Desperately, I grabbed at the dangling lead around Stanley’s neck and held on.

  You’re not getting this dog, buster!

  The guy most likely to be voted No. 1 in the Substandard Crook of the Year Award stuck his head through the car’s open window, his leathery forehead furrowed in an angry frustrated frown. “Shut your mouth and run!” he snarled to the boy dithering beside my car and then with a clash of gears he followed his own advice and roared from the shopping center, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.

  Had PP—aka Purple Pants—been following me since I left the track? Had he noticed the red brindle dog in the back seat of my car, and, believing it was Lofty, enlisted the help of a passing kid to steal the dog?

  That’s it. I’d had enough. Time to show this long-in-the-tooth, ham-handed robber-in-training exactly who he was tangling with. Time Miss Nice Girl went out-for-lunch and my alter-ego, Bombshell Chick hijacked the show.

  Up until now, I’d been sitting back allowing this thug to intimidate me. Trespass on my property. Steal my dogs. Hurt Stella. Well, not any more…

  From now on Mr. Purple Pants was in for one heck of a fight.

  6

  My kick-ass, Miss Bombshell Chick persona commandeered the wheel of the car all the way home. I hung onto the steering wheel as though it might do a runner, swore at slow moving traffic and entertained myself by imagining wringing PP’s scrawny neck. Very slowly. And with a beatific smile on my face.

  However, after a night spent refereeing three recalcitrant greyhounds and a very snotty Chihuahua, my tough, positive facade began to wilt. So much so, when I woke the following morning—an hour after my normal six o’clock start—I was more a deflated balloon than a feisty female Tarzan.

  “Get off me, you big dodo!” I shouted, shoving at the thirty five kilo dog stretched across my chest. Stanley opened one eye, then, deciding he could still manage to sleep without using me as a mattress, closed it again.

  Snuggled beside me, black head sharing my pillow, Lucky gave a sharp woof to get my attention, then smiled up at me. “And you’ve got nothing to grin about, madam.” I gave her a mock scowl and she replied with an even wider grin and a slurp to my nose. “Dogs who run around the house with the remote control in their mouth and turn the television on full blare at 3 am usually find themselves living back in the kennel block.” I shook my head at her. Tutted. “This is so not like you, Lucky.” More licks, this time with her head off the pillow so she could give my cheek her full treatment. “You should have shown our guests the correct way to behave inside the house—not acted like Queen of the Underbelly Gang.”

  Heavy-eyed, I finally dragged myself out of bed and let the Underbelly Gang into the house yard to run around and empty while I showered, dressed and cooked breakfast. Well, that’s if you consider a slice of honey-smeared toast and a cup of instant coffee a cooked breakfast. It was mornings like this I wished my seven foot biker buddy, Scuzz, was still around. Or should I say the breakfast of bacon, eggs, tomato and sausages he cooked for me while he was my bodyguard, back when Tireman Pete was out to get me. It even crossed my mind to send Scuzz a text message to ask him if he was available for bodyguard duties again. I could imagine the expression on Purple Pants’ face if he ever came up against seven feet of hard wired biker—he’d take one look and run screaming to his mamma.

  But what about Ben? If Scuzz arrived back in my life, complete with dancing tattoos, rock hard body, soft lips and lovingly polished Harley Davidson, I’d be inviting trouble. As much as the two men in my life had finally become mates, it was a cautious friendship that blossomed only through distance. Perhaps, this time, I’d manage without the help of my biker buddy.

  After calling the dogs inside and threatening to confiscate their toys if I heard one more rude word between them, I set out bowls of kibble, supervised who ate where and filled the water bucket in the laundry before heading for the kennel house.

  As usual, Jake, my dude helper and I, had a busy morning planned. Youngsters to trial at a nearby breaking-in track, the four racers from yesterday to check and treat with the ultrasonic machine, plus normal training duties. So it was late morning before I finally slipped a lead over Stanley’s head, conned him to jump in the car and drove to the Two Wells Veterinary Clinic.

  Poor Stanley. It was as though he knew where we were heading. His head anxiously swung back and forth, eyes checking out every building we passed. No matter how I sugar-coated his coming ordeal he wasn’t having a bar of it.

  The waiting room at the clinic was empty, not even Val, the receptionist, was around, so I left Stanley in the car and went for a snoop around the back. And that’s where I found Dr. Terry Blackburn, our beloved local vet, in a small paddock adjoining his surgery. He was kneeling on the ground, both sleeves of his stained white coat rolled past his elbows, unmentionable brown stuff covering one bare arm and the other shoulder deep inside a cow’s whatsit.

  Yuck! “What are you doing?”

  “Hi, Kat,” Terry said, his hundred megawatt smile making me reach for my sunglasses while the sight of him stuffing intestines back into an indisposed cow had my stomach threatening to hurl. “You’ve caught me in the middle of attempting to restore all Bessie’s bits and bobs. Poor girl aborted her calf.”

  My face must have gone white. Or perhaps Terry didn’t want me fainting and distracting him from his job. He flicked his head in the direction of a bale of hay set up to keep the wind from his patient. “Why don’t you sit over there and tell me what you’ve been up to?”

  I cringed. The tiny lifeless form of a premature baby calf lay slumped against the hay bale.

  “Terry,” I said, striving to keep the horror out of my voice. “Can you really fit all that stuff back inside? There’s so much of it. Aren’t you afraid you’ll forget to put an important bit back in? “

  From his unenviable position at ground level, getting an eyeful of the cow’s interior, he let out a loud guffaw. “Not really. Even as a kid I was pretty good at jigsaw puzzles.”

  I watched him strain every muscle to reach further inside the cow’s whatsit. And just when I was contemplating leaning forward to grab the man’s legs before he disappeared completely—never to be seen again—Dr. Terry Blackburn rocked backwards and his right arm slipped out of the cow with a resounding slurp.

  For a moment he sat back on his heels and surveyed the mile and a half of intestines still decorating the ground. Finally, looking up, he graced me with another of his beatific smiles.

  “Kat…darling. I really need you to give me a hand here.”

  My mouth shot open in the proverbial fly-catching position. Who me? Help with that? I grabbed a quick breath, took an instinctive step back and stared bug-eyed at the slimy entrails hanging from the back of the cow. “Umm…well, I’m only here to drop Stanley off…”

  “Pretty please?” Terry linked his latex gloved fingers together in a begging position. “My assistant is in surgery repairing a broken hock on a Doberman and Val, our receptionist, is having a tooth filled at the dentist.” He fluttered his eyelashes. They were long and thick and if they were mine I guess I’d use them for seduction too. “I’ll shout you a king-sized T-bone at the new Steak-House that opened in Virginia last month.”

  “I-I’m not really into steak.” Especially with cow’s intestines spread out like alien slime at my feet.

  “Come on, Kat…without your help Bessie could die.”

  “That’s blackmail, Ter
ry, and you know it.”

  “All’s fair in love and saving my patient.”

  I glanced down at my white jeans and pale green tank top. Clothes I’d donned to meet Tanya at the Mall, where we planned to discuss ‘Plan A’ during her lunch break. Paul Simmons, Tanya’s once-again-smitten, policeman boyfriend had reluctantly given her the address of Purple Pants—known on his car registration papers as Jack Lantana. Paul warned us to keep our noses out and leave it to him to follow through, but we knew there was little he could do—Jack Lantana didn’t actually have any of my dogs in his possession—hence the need for Plan A. We figured a little nosing around on Jack’s property, preferably when he wasn’t there, might unearth some answers to my baffling question: Why did he want to steal my dogs?

  “Kat?”

  I quickly shoved the Jack Lantana problem to one side for later so I could stare down at my current dilemma. And shudder. Yep. It was still there in all its Technicolor glory. The cow—the blood and guts—and the dirt.

  There was no way out, so I let out a sigh and hoisted the white flag. “I know I’m going to regret this Terry, but what do you want me to do?”

  “Good girl. Now, don’t worry about your clothes, there’s a white coat on the front seat of my four-wheel drive. Put that on then refill this metal bucket with hot water. And if you grab a clean cake of soap from the second drawer in the cupboard just inside the surgery door, I’ll love you forever and name my first child after you.”

  I grinned at his effusiveness. Couldn’t help it. Terry Blackburn was one of those rare guys you couldn’t take offense with. “Talking of love…and children,” I purred. “How’s that gorgeous fiancé of yours? Either of you decided on a day to tie the knot yet or are you aiming for a mention in the World Guinness book of Records as the couple with the longest engagement?”

  “What’s this, Kat? Trying to marry me off?” His smile broadened. “And here I was thinking you wanted me for yourself.” On his knees, he shifted position and I couldn’t help admiring his fit thighs. Evidently veterinary work was as good for the body as an active membership at the local gym. “Although I heard you finally collared that arrogant so and so, Ben Taylor.”