by S. Bennett
ATTICUS
S. Bennett
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2018 by S. Bennett
EPUB Edition
Published by Big Dog Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
ISBN: 978-1-947212-04-6
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DEDICATION
This novel has been a long time in the making. I’ve been wanting to write a book for years about my dog, Atticus. I’ve wanted to memorialize him because he is simply the world’s most awesome dog ever (even if he is the world’s worst behaved). When I first laid eyes on him as a puppy, I knew he was going to bring mayhem into my life and that’s exactly why I chose him.
Everything in this book that the fictional Atticus did, has been done by the real Atticus.
No joking.
I have so many people to thank for helping me with this project. First to my friend and veterinarian, Laura Gaylord, and to Atti’s vet, Anne Jones. They both helped me with some of the technical details on veterinary medicine.
Gentry Hogan, lawyer and good friend as well as an advocate for disabled veterans. He helped me understand more about PTSD within the military and its evolution.
To the Berner Gang—my girls MJ Lees May, Wendy Britton, and Valerie Yoffe and their dogs Mimi, Maggie, Sirius, and Kiera. We have the best puppy playdates.
To the Berner Community. So many friends we’ve made along the way. So many people who absolutely love this breed just as I do. Special shout out to Deb Schaeffer, Dorene McCune, Wendy Djang, Kimberly Perry and Atticus’ original mom, Venus Slater.
A very special nod to Scout, my rescued Golden Retriever, who is as goofy and bad as Atticus. You came from a tough background bud, but you’re loved by all of us so much.
Shout out to Kevin Peddicord—friend and amazing artist for the watercolor painting he did of Atticus when he was a puppy. To the best cover designer in the world, Hang Le, for taking that art and making my most favorite book cover ever.
To my Chief Officer of Everything, Lisa Kuhne… thank you for believing in me and this book. Oh, and for keeping my business running so I can write!!!
Mark Yoffe—as always, your oncology expertise has pushed me through many books, this one most importantly. More than anything, thank you for being a wonderful friend and one of the most caring doctors I’ve ever known. Thanks to your insight, I hope I did justice on how hard it is to watch a loved one die.
To my family—Shawn, Parker, Mom, Dave, Dad, Sue, Glenn—thank you for all the help and support you gave me while I wrote this book. I think it’s one of my best, and that’s partly due to y’all.
To Bernard—my real life homeless friend. You are admired and worried over.
To my dad, Jerry Leone and my father-in-law, Glenn Noble, who have both beaten colon cancer. Your strength and courage are inspiring.
Here’s a PSA to all my readers: please get a colonoscopy when you reach the age that you should. I can tell you from personal experience (I’ve had two) that it is not bad at all. I swear it. Even the prep these days is easy, and the procedure itself completely forgettable (thank you, good drugs). Colon cancer is preventable, but you have to make the first move.
And finally… yes, finally. Thank you, Atticus, for enriching my life beyond measure. I would not trade one zany thing you’ve done over the years—
Wait! Scratch that. I would totally trade the surgeries after you ate my socks, but all the other things are bearable. I love you so much!!!!
Follow the real Atticus on Instagram at @atticuscrazydog or on Facebook at The Adventures of Atticus.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part III
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with Sawyer online
The Ladies Who Write Are Here
PROLOGUE
Atticus
Things were fuzzy when I first came into the world. I remember a lot of scrambling and sometimes fighting to get at my mama’s teat, but there was always enough room once we settled into our respective places and I never went hungry. It seems in those early days all I did was eat, sleep, poop, and pee. It was an easy life, but not very exciting.
I’m a curious sort of pup by nature, unlike my brothers and sisters. They’re happy just wrestling around with each other or chewing on toys. I like to watch things.
Intensely observe the actions of others. Skillfully smell the air for the scents that help me to understand my world. I like to taste things, and the new grownup puppy food we started eating a few weeks ago is delicious.
I’m what you call a Bernese Mountain Dog. I’m not quite sure what I look like, but if I had to judge by my brothers and sisters, I’d say I’m black, brown, white, and really fluffy. Our owners are what you call breeders. My mama and daddy make baby puppies, and then people buy us.
Lately, people have been coming by to look at us. Prior to such an event, me and my siblings are brought out one by one to an outdoor bathtub where we are scrubbed with warm water and sweet-smelling soap. We’re then toweled off before being placed into a makeshift outdoor pen made of interlocking panels. There we dry in the sun and chew on blades of grass or each other’s tails. When the people come to look, we preen and act silly and look our adorable best.
If we’re one of the lucky pups, people will ask to hold us. Our owners will pull us out of our little pen, then we get to play with people and get belly rubs. They exclaim over how cute we are and even if we’re not chosen, there’s a general air of excitement buzzing through the rest of us while we watch from our pen.
This is one such day. We’re all bathed and smelling like flowe
rs. It’s chilly out, so our man owner pulled one of the cars outside of his big, two-car garage, and set up the pen beside the remaining car. He then opened the big door for the people to come look.
Because I’m always aware of my surroundings, it doesn’t take me long to notice that one of the panels on the cage isn’t fully locked, and there’s a tiny gap at the bottom. While the other pups do somersaults and put their front paws on top of the cage to get the people’s attention, I nudge my nose through the tiny opening.
Next my head.
Wiggle a bit to get my shoulders through.
Then it seems I’m sort of squirted through to the other side.
I look over my shoulder. All my sibs are still trying to get the people’s attention and acting very foolish in my opinion.
I’m suddenly intrigued by a smoky sort of smell that’s coming from somewhere outside the garage. I scramble underneath the car, then belly crawl quite stealthily to the other side. Without a moment’s hesitation, I dash out and into what I call the big world. The minute the soft pads of my paws hit the crispy brown grass, a rush of jubilation over takes me.
I submit for a moment to the unmitigated exhilaration of freedom, running around in a tight circle for a few laps before flopping to my belly. The grass pricks at my skin because my fur isn’t very thick there yet, and I hang out for a bit while watching the people ooh and ahh over my siblings. Not one of them turn to look at me, but I don’t feel like I’m missing out on any important action.
The smoky smell hits my nose again, and my mouth waters. My tongue comes out and licks all around my snout as I lift my head to get a better sniff. It definitely makes me want to sneeze a bit, but there is a strong scent of some type of cooked meat underneath. I think I’ll die if I don’t get a taste of it.
It’s from somewhere—my gaze moves to the back of the property—just over there.
A thick copse of pine trees stands strong and tall. I’ve never been back there and it looks dark and a bit scary, but I feel an adventure calling me.
Plus… that smell.
It’s so delicious, and I can’t resist checking it out.
PART I
“A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.”
—Lao Tzu
CHAPTER 1
Hazel
My eyelids are sealed shut with the type of nasty gunk that a hard night of partying leaves behind. The act of rubbing them with my fingers sends sharp bolts of pain reverberating throughout my skull. I believe my tongue is glued to the top of my mouth for a moment, but it comes free with a little bit of suction.
It’s a typical Wednesday morning for me. I didn’t have to work last night which meant I partied. It’s what I do because if I don’t put myself out there, how will I ever find what I need?
I manage to blink against the morning sun coming in through the living room blinds that are so worn and twisted they’re completely nonfunctional.
Not my apartment though and since I’m essentially a freeloader, I have no right to say a word about it. I just accept that sleeping on a friend’s couch means rising early no matter how hungover I am.
After freeing my feet from the ratty old afghan Charmin’s great-grandmother or some such person crocheted, I roll slightly toward the coffee table to root around for my pack of cigarettes. The bright sun has me keeping my eyes clamped tightly shut, so I’m going by instinct alone.
Which sucks because my hand lands inside of the overflowing ashtray. I immediately jerk it backward before making another attempt, grab air for a moment, and then stick my hand right back into the pile of stale cigarette butts and powdery cinders.
Squinting at my ash-covered fingertips, I realize it’s nothing more than a metaphor for my life. Floundering around, landing in crap situations, not learning my lesson, and repeating.
Prying my eyes open further, I roll my head and zero in on the pack of cigarettes. I grab it, squeeze lightly, and determine it’s empty.
“Shit,” I mutter, tossing it down on the scarred wooden coffee table that’s littered with beer cans, a bong, and an empty bag of Doritos. I vaguely remember partying last night with a few guys from the bar.
Even more vaguely, I remember Charmin and her boyfriend Chuck coming in. They joined us for a few bong hits before they took their own personal party to the bedroom. The headboard knocking against the wall and Chuck’s oddly high-pitched yips of pleasure had me laughing so hard I was afraid I’d pee my pants.
Probably wouldn’t have been as funny if I wasn’t stoned, but any time I can laugh at Chuck behind his back is good times for me. The dude can’t stand me, and the feeling is mutual.
I push into a sitting position on the couch, intent on getting all the way up and making my way to the bathroom. My head swims and my stomach rolls, so I just slump backward against the lumpy cushion. I drag my fingers through my hair, promptly getting them caught in a mass of brittle knots before letting out an audible sigh because now I have clean fingers but cigarette soot coating my scalp.
I’m a fucking mess.
My shoulders go tense when I hear the bedroom door creak open. I know it’s the bedroom door because there are only two off the apartment’s short hallway. There’s the bathroom, which does not squeak but also does not close all the way because one of the hinges has been knocked loose.
And then there’s the bedroom. Its hinges are secure but rusted, making it sound like a screeching eagle every time the door moves. I once sprayed some PAM cooking spray on it because it was driving me nuts every time Charmin or Chuck would enter or exit their room, but that just didn’t have quite the lube power of WD-40. I wasn’t about to buy a can as my funds are limited and precious to me. I’d live with the squeak as well as the bright light in the morning.
“Hope you’re going to clean that shit up,” Chuck says as he enters the living room.
My shoulders tighten even more. I’ve been staying at Charmin’s apartment for almost three months now. It’d been a good deal for me as she was only charging me a hundred bucks a month plus half the utilities to squat on her uncomfortable couch. I couldn’t afford anything more than that and on my part-time bartender’s wages, it was a stretch as it was.
But she started dating Chuck last month, and he moved in after four days of wild, passionate, yipping sex. I have no room to judge her for pathetically latching onto the man so quickly, because I’ve been accused of doing the same. As of now, I’m on the prowl for the next Mr. Right Who Is Totally Wrong because I just do better when I have someone to help take care of me.
It’s the way it’s always been.
In fact, the three months I’ve been living at Charmin’s since my husband kicked me out of our house is the longest I’ve ever been single in my fourteen years of adulthood. I feel so very lost and yet, I’m just wise enough to know how lame that makes me.
I don’t bother giving Chuck my full attention as it’s too much effort to roll my head his way. Besides, the dude grosses me out, strutting around in his saggy boxers with his hairy stomach rolling over the waistband.
Closing my eyes, I merely point out, “You could help clean it up. You didn’t mind drinking the beer and taking hits off the bong last night.”
“Wasn’t your beer and dope, though, was it?” he replied.
Fair point. It wasn’t mine, but it was the dudes I invited over to party last night. They were only casual acquaintances from the bar but given the fact they were providing the booze and drugs, they were my bestest buds last night.
I don’t reply to Chuck. He’s the type of person who has to have the last word anyway. The man has an ego that’s overstretched and filled with a false sense of importance, meaning he’s always right.
Because it would be more painful and nauseating to attempt a civil discourse with the man, I push from the couch and suck down the bile that wells up in my throat. I never bothered to take my shoes off last night before I passed out, so I’m almost ready to roll out of here.
Once in the bathroom, I take a much-needed pee. I try to ignore my reflection in the mirror as I scrub my hands and teeth, but there’s no getting around the fact I look about as pathetic as I feel. My hair is a lank, dry mess and my roots are about three inches long, which corresponds quite nicely to the fact I haven’t been able to afford a discount box of hair color from the drugstore since my husband kicked me to the curb.
Asshole.
I try to creep my way to the front door while Chuck roots around in the refrigerator.
“Hazel,” Chuck yells as I open the front door. “You going to clean that mess up?”
“Later,” I mutter as I step over the threshold.
“Later as in you’ll clean it up later?” he presses, and I make the mistake of sliding my gaze over to him as I start to pull the door closed. I quickly snap my eyes shut, trying to block out the image of him exuberantly scratching himself between the legs.
Pivoting quickly, I call out just before I shoot out of the apartment, “I’ll clean it up later.”
Right now, I need cigarettes.
Maybe a cup of coffee.
Jamming my hand into the back pocket of my skinny jeans, which are falling off me because I’m not eating much these days, I pull out a crumpled pile of money. By the time I reach the sidewalk that runs along old Highway 17, I’ve got them smoothed out and determine I’m the proud owner of eight dollars. It’s a good thing I’m working tonight because after I buy a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee, I’m broke until I can collect tips.
Old Highway 17 is different than the new Highway 17. It’s just a small portion of the original that runs north and south through Jacksonville, North Carolina but was relegated to a service road once a new bypass was built last year. It’s roughly a quarter mile long and from said service road you can access three bars, the ghetto-styled apartment complex where I now live, a pawn shop, and a convenience store. In the seventies and into the early eighties, this part of Jacksonville and a few more miles of Highway 17 were densely populated with bars, strip clubs, pawn shops, and tattoo parlors catering specifically to young marines who had just arrived at Camp Geiger to begin infantry school from boot camp. The drinking age wasn’t raised to twenty-one until 1986, and those glory days made those types of business owners very rich.
