~ Where Have All The Dogs Gone?~

by

Dorothy Bodoin

Once outside, hot air slammed into me. It was red hot, burning. I thought of the cookies at the lemonade stand. This must be the way they felt when they were shoved into the oven.

Before I’d gone three yards, I felt damp and crumpled. The wind threw waves of grit into my face. I pushed my hair away from my eyes. The umbrella would be all but useless in this weather. Still I looped the handle over my wrist. A blowing shelter was better than nothing.

This was definitely storm weather. When I got back, I’d better turn on the television just in case there were tornado watches.

And I’d better not stay outside long.

I walked out to the lane and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned right. As usual there was no traffic. The single light burning in the window of the yellow Victorian told me Camille and Gilbert were away, and all was quiet at the Linton house. The whole family was still away.

I might have been alone in a deserted world. For a second I toyed with the idea of turning back. Then I remembered the dog.

So I walked on under a glowering sky, past blowing wildflowers and woods leaning low over the lane’s edge. The woodland creature would be seeking shelter, but Jennet Ferguson was out looking for a collie.

What else would I do when a dog was in trouble?

I passed the Queen Anne Victorian, the white wedding cake house. It looked forlorn at the end of the wide expanse of green lawn. With its graceful gables and turrets and cupola, it was a gleaming jewel among grand houses in Foxglove Corners.

Alas, the Queen Anne was often vacant, languishing between owners. Even its reduction in its half million dollar price tag hadn’t attracted a buyer. Once I’d coveted the house myself. Now the ‘For Sale’ sign trembled in the wind.

I kept walking, plowing through the heat, searching the windswept landscape.

Black and white. A collie mix. Possibly wounded. So, lying down.

The howl came from behind me. It was a thin, high-pitched, heart-rending sound that might have originated in the throat of a demon. I listened. Silence and a second howl.

A wolf?

Not likely, not this far south.

A dog.

Several times I’d heard Candy howl when I left the house without her. Could she be giving voice to her anguish at being abandoned?

I didn’t think so. This howl was closer. Near at hand. From behind the Queen Anne Victorian?

Having dispensed with the first explanations to come to me, I realized the dog I’d been seeking must be near, howling in pain. The massive bulk of the Queen Anne would give him shelter from the wind and from humans.

Be careful.

A wounded dog can be dangerous. Terra never wanted us to take chances.

“Call the experts,” she’d said. “Animal control or the police.”

Crane was trained to handle strays. He’d transported plenty of them safely to animal shelters. I’d call him.

Automatically my hand went to the pockets of my denim skirt. I had a few dog treats leftover from this morning’s walk and my key. But not my cell phone. Never my cell when I needed it.

The dog howled again. He must be behind the turret.

As I turned off the lane and sprinted across the lawn to the house, lightning zigzagged across the sky. I felt the first drops of rain. Warm stinging needles pierced my bare arms.

I had to hurry.

Thirty-eight

The dog sat on the thin grass behind the cupola. He might have been posing for a collie calendar. I stopped a prudent three yards away from him and assessed the situation as Terra had told us to do when approaching an unknown animal.

He didn’t appear to be wounded and wasn’t wearing a collar. He was a handsome collie, mostly black, with a white ruff and blaze. So like the dog in my vintage print come to life but real.

But his coat was dull.

Now, go a little closer. Not too close. Speak softly. Calmly.

I drew a treat out of my pocket. “Are you the dog who was howling just now?” I asked.

The dog tilted his head. Encouraged, I took a few steps forward, close enough to see his eyes. They were glazed. He wasn’t wounded then but possibly sick.

He watched me, right paw raised as if to shake hands. This must be somebody’s pet, maybe one of Maria’s escapees, although he didn’t have the emaciated body of a dog who had to hunt for his meals in the wild.

“Good dog.” I made my voice light and happy and tossed the treat at him.

His eyes followed its progress, but he made no move to pounce on it as Candy or most other dogs would have done. He didn’t even lick his chops.

Strange.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I reached for another treat. “Try this one. It’s liver.”

He stared at me. With glazed eyes.

Glazed?

Before I could toss the treat, before the dreaded thought finished forming, the dog sprang. A black and white flash blotted out the day. Knife-sharp teeth sank into my upper left arm, tearing the flesh as if it were a chunk of meat.

My cry died in a crash of thunder. I fell back against the side of the cupola, felt myself crumpling to the ground. My torn arm scraped the dirt.

This isn’t happening. Not to me. Not that beautiful collie.

The world filled with burning eyes and hot breath. Bared teeth and a wrinkled nose. Saliva mixed with rain. I heard a hiss.

Rain water spilling out of the downspout?

He was going to bite again.

Instinctively I grasped the umbrella and shoved its pointed handle hard into the dog’s chest. With a scream, he retreated.

I’d driven him off, but... Oh my God, my arm!

Nausea swept over me. Thought drained out of my mind with the blood pouring down my arm.

Swallowing back nausea, I forced myself into a sitting position. Streams of blood flowed onto my shirt and down to the ground. My sleeve hung in torn wet strips. The pain was like fire. This was a bad bite. A deadly bite.

My brain came suddenly to life. Get up. Wrap something around your arm. Anything.

I wrenched off my half-slip and wound it around the wound, watched the blood instantly seep through the silk material.

This wouldn’t work. It was too thin. There was no way to tie it. I needed help.

Go back to the house. Call nine-one-one. The police? Crane?

How? I was alone on Jonquil Lane behind a vacant house. My own house might as well be miles away. My cell phone was there. I couldn’t call anyone.

I leaned back against the cupola, knowing I couldn’t walk that far. I was going to bleed to death.

Was the dog waiting to attack again?

Think!

Why had he attacked me? Why didn’t he want the treat?

There was only one reason that made sense. A terrifying one.

Dear God, where was the dog now?

I should never have approached him. I knew better. I’d always known what not to do.

Move.

Leaning on the cupola, struggling through dizziness, I rose and stood, testing my balance. Then slowly, I backtracked, stumbled across the sloping lawn. Out to the lane. Up the lane.

Never mind the rain.

How far away could home be? Not too far. Take one step, then another...

I did, walking blind. The landscape melted into a pool of wax the way Rebecca Ferguson’s candles burned down. Rebecca would help me. I just needed to light the candles. At home.

I looked down. The gravel seemed to shift and fade.

I was walking on the road to World’s End. Soon I would vanish like the others, leaving behind a trail of blood. They’d find my tracks, but they wouldn’t find me. People who traveled this road disappeared.

Awareness came abruptly back and with it a surge of pain. I raised my right arm and wiped the rain out of my eyes. I was in the real world again, on Jonquil Lane. It was still raining, and my house was as far away as ever.

Take one step. Then another.

What if the dog came back?

I’d left the umbrella behind the cupola. If the dog attacked me again, that would be the end for me. I couldn’t defend myself.