Running with the Pack

The new pup isn’t sure what to make of the pack. Doesn’t matter. She’s wearing a collar and won’t be here long. I inspect my trash bags, arranged just so. Funny that foster kids use garbage bags to carry their stuff, too. I don’t have much—a few clothes, some toiletries, a propane stove that’s a life saver, and cigarettes and booze for paying for favors. Nothing’s missing.

Most of the others won’t leave anything behind, pushing their belongings around in stolen shopping carts instead. We’re not a trust-worthy bunch. But no one’s stole from me since I’ve been sharing my spot with the mutts. I just smile when I sees one of the others limping around with bite marks on his ankles. Serves him right.

However, if the hound recovers, I’m gonna need more food than I can scrounge. So I grab my nicest clothes and head to the women’s shelter for a shower.

The lady who answers the door is nervous. She keeps the chain on and looks at me like she wants to call the police.

I hold up the white dog. “Found your dog, ma’am.”

And there it is. The woman’s face changes as if a button is pressed inside her head. Joy beams from her and I soak in it.

She flings the door wide and presses the pup to her chest, kissing and hugging the little squirming rat. “Thank you so much! We’ve been so worried. My kids will be thrilled.”

She goes on, but I don’t listen. It’s always the same. What’s not the same is what happens next. I’m polite and not demanding as I ask about the reward money. Just a gentle reminder. “Your flyer at the grocery store offered fifty bucks?”

The joy dies and she eyes my best clothes with scorn and suspicion. I smooth my pink sweater and tuck a strand of long brown hair behind an ear.

“Where did you find Sugar?” she asks.

“Behind Vinny’s on Sixth Street.”

“That’s over two miles away. Sugar would never go that far. You took her from our back yard, hoping for reward money. That’s why the gate was still locked.”

“No, ma’am. I—”

She slams the door in my face. No surprise just disappointment. Sometimes I’ll get the money. Not often.

I hurry away before the cops arrive. Since I wore my best clothes, the library staff won’t bother me. Pulling my favorite book, The Complete Dog Encyclopedia from the shelf, I flip through the pages until I reach the hounds. The big brute is thick in the body and tall legged like the Irish wolfhound, but his long face doesn’t match. I scan the various breeds. The Siberian husky has similar eyes and muzzle, but not quite. I guess he’s a mongrel like me.

On my way home, I do a sweep of the flyers hanging in the vet’s waiting rooms, grocery stores, and churches. Looking at the pictures of lost dogs, I think they’re easier to find than missing children.

Halfway home, I remember the knife and rush to get it. The dogs press near me, hoping for supper. I shoo them away, explaining about the ungrateful woman. Yes, I know they don’t understand me. I’m not stupid nor am I crazy. It’s just nice to talk sometimes. And the big wolfhound (better than calling him a brute) peers at me with his intelligent gray eyes as if he does understand. He’s sitting up—another good sign he’ll be on his feet soon.

I find the knife, clean the blood off and hurry to the pawn shop before it closes.

“Stolen?” Max asks, examining the weapon. The silver blade gleams in the fluorescent light. The pawn shop smells of engine oil and mold.

“Found it,” I say.

“Uh-huh.” Max sucks his teeth while he thinks, making slurping sounds that crawl over my skin like lice. “Cheap metal, imitation leather handle . . . I’ll give you ten for it.”

Never accept the first offer. It’s crap.

“It does have a nice design . . . how about fifteen,” Max says.

“That blade’s got silver in it. A hundred bucks at least.”

He gasps and pretends to be horrified. It’s all an act and all I want is to go back to my pups. In the end, Max gives me sixty dollars. Enough for a fifty-pound bag of Science Diet and a couple packs of ground beef. I carry the bag over my shoulder. It’s getting dark and I’m almost home when I figure I’ve been followed.

A quick check confirms a man is trailing me, but I keep going. Not that the others will help me. They’ll disappear as fast as the ground beef in my bag. Not like this hasn’t happened before. I might be invisible to most people. And despite the smell of dog and layers of grim, the strays of society still find me. At eighteen, I’m young for a street person, and high school boys, college boys, and even foster fathers can’t resist. My scent attracts them just like a bitch in heat.

The curse of developing early and curvy. My foster father called me beautiful. He named the dog Beauty, but never bothered her the way he did me. Lucky bitch.

I reach my spot and my pups. Too bad the big wolfhound is too weak to stand. Dropping the bag, I grab the metal baseball bat a kid left at the park and wait for the stranger. As long as the guy isn’t armed, me and my lot’ll do just fine.

Wearing khaki pants, brown loafers, and a long wool coat, the guy resembles a lost professor. As he nears, the wolfhound pokes his head out from under the blanket and growls deep in his chest.

The man takes his hands from his pockets. “Hello?” he calls all friendly like.

But my pups’ hackles are up.

“I was hoping you could help me,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m looking for my dog. Someone reported seeing him in this area.”

Bullshit. I wait as his gaze scans the mutts and lingers on the baseball bat in my hands.

He tries a smile. “He’s quite large.”

“Haven’t seen him,” I say. “Go away.”

“Are you sure?” He keeps coming.

I raise the bat. “Yep.” By now all the dogs are growling.

He is unconcerned. “Settle your dogs.”

“No.”

He is close enough to see the wolfhound. They exchange a glance and it reminds me of two competitors acting nice until the game starts.

“Settle them or I will.” His right hand pulls out a gun. He aims it at me.

A bone chilling cold seizes my heart. “Quiet,” I order. They’re familiar with this command. It’s the first thing I teach a new pup. They sit down on all fours and wait without making a sound.

“Drop the bat,” he says.

I let it clang to the ground.

The man tries to comfort me. “I’m just here for my dog.”

Yet the wolfhound doesn’t seem happy to see him. Go figure. Now the guy is under the bridge and the hound lurches to his feet. The dog’s massive jaws are level with my chest. The blanket remains on his back like a superhero’s cloak.

The man shakes his head as if he’s amazed. “How many near misses, Logan? Four? Five? Only you would find some homeless person to nurse you back to health. Too bad I found you first.”

And people call me the crazy dog lady.

He turns to me and says, “His injuries are too extensive, I’ll have to put him down.” He aims the gun at the wolfhound.

The urge to protect one of mine is instant and hot. “Wait,” I say. “Can you take the blanket off him? It’s my only one and I don’t want it full of holes and blood.”

The man laughs. “I see your charm with the ladies remains the same,” he says to the wolfhound. He’s careful to keep the gun out of the dog’s reach as he pulls the cover off.

My pups are well trained. And while being quiet is important, I’ve taught them protecting my stuff is essential. They hop to their feet and attack his ankles and calves with their pointy little teeth. He yells. I scoop up my bat and slam it down on the man’s arms. The gun fires, but no yelps so I swing again and again until he drops the gun. Until he rolls on the ground, shielding his body from my bat.

I taste the desire to pound him until he’s a pile of broken bones and bloody meat. Coming here and thinking he can just take what he wants. Just like my foster father sneaking into my bedroom. But this stranger isn’t him, so I pull myself together and call my dogs off.

“Go away,” I say to the man.

The man staggers to his feet, but his gaze is on the wolfhound. Odd, considering I’m the one holding the bat.

“Next time I won’t come alone,” he says to the wolfhound before limping away.

That’s bad. I look at the wolfhound. “Does he mean it?”

I swear the dog nods a yes. Okay so maybe I am the crazy dog lady. I pick up the gun and unload it as I think. If I hock it, I’d have money, but no weapon. The bullets are shiny silver. Living on the street, I’ve seen my fair share of guns and bullets, but these are special. Expensive, too.

We could move before he comes back. But that rankles. Nobody’s gonna run me off my spot.

“How many will come with him?” I ask the hound. “Two?”

A shake—no.

“Three? . . . Four? . . . Five?”

Five. Shit. “When? Tomorrow morning? . . . Afternoon? . . . Night?” Yes to the night. I’ve a day to plan, but the wolfhound gives me a decisive nod (yep, this confirms the crazy), and he takes off. Well, he tries. Poor boy stumbles after two strides. The knife damaged his muscles and he’s still weak. He also ripped his stitches.