“Look dog, you’re going to do things my way.”
The puppy looked up inquisitively. A mangled shoe was pinned under his paws, and Charlie noticed that it was one of her Ferragamos. He went back to chewing the heel off as she watched in horror.
She didn’t even want the stupid thing. Her ex-boyfriend had just left it on her doorstep – prompting a wave of pain from deep within. She had loved him desperately, and had thought that she’d build her life with him. After they broke up, a deep dark hole of depression swallowed her, and despite her forced efforts to cheer the hell up she just couldn’t get out of it.
Everyday was the same – go to work, come home, heat up a microwave meal. Sit down, watch TV. Go to bed. Wake up, repeat. Things were simple that way. Things were ordered. Charlie liked order.
Until she came home from work one day to see a gigantic puppy tied up to her door-handle, its leash already halfway chewed to hell, and a note on her door.
Charlie,
I can’t take care of him anymore.
Sincerely,
Robert J. Dungess, Jr.
That was all that had been on the note.
Stupid dog. From that moment on, he had single-handedly managed to ruin both her apartment and her routine.
Big brown eyes watched her warily as he chewed. Sand-colored and wiry, his fur was more a collection of cowlicks than a true coat, and it more often than not flopped right into his face. His tail rose like a question-mark behind him, his body far too skinny for its frame, and his hunger was insatiable. He hadn’t quite perfected the art of stopping yet, and the scuffs on her walls stood as a silent testament to that.
Sighing, she reached for his latest victim – oh how lovely those shoes once were – and snatched her hand back as he growled.
Great. Not only was he a chewer, and a barker, and a pisser, but he apparently had an attitude problem as well.
He had to go.
Noticing that he was done mauling her footwear, Charlie grabbed the mutt’s leash, clipped it on him, and dragged the dog outside. He whined pitifully as she locked her door, as if he knew where he was going.
Charlie hardened her heart to his pleas.
She decided to walk to the pound – it was only a few blocks away from her house, and besides that she didn’t want him to destroy her car. She walked steadily, occasionally stopping to yank on the reluctant pup. He would catch up with her, smile at her in his doggy way, and then trot ahead sniffing and scratching and marking. After two blocks of this he stopped dead.
Startled, Charlie glanced at the pup, and recoiled slightly. His fur was raised, and his lips were curled back in a vicious snarl. He gave a tug on the leash so suddenly that she had let go before she even realized what was happening. She watched as he ran full-tilt down an alleyway, his heels flying out from under him.
And then she heard a gunshot and a yelp.
Heart pounding, Charlie yanked her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 9-1-1. She gingerly made her way to the alleyway’s corner, and peeked around it. Gasping, she took in the sight that lay before her.
The puppy had a man’s throat in his mouth. Blood oozed sluggishly from a wound in his shoulder – had the dog been hit by the bullet? – but he didn’t seem to care.
A young girl – she looked no more than fifteen or sixteen – huddled next to a trash can with her arms around her. Vicious snarls and growls came from someplace deep within the dog, and the man muttered his pleas for help.
Sirens heralded the police’s arrival.
Attempted rape, sicko, thank God for the dog. Charlie heard snatches of the conversation around her as she stared at the poor teenager – who, by this point in time, was dutifully wrapped in a blanket and was telling her story to yet another police officer. The young girl’s eyes were haunted, and tears flowed freely from them as she hiccupped her hysteria. And for a moment, just a moment, her eyes locked with Charlie’s and connected.
“Ma’am?” Breaking the connection, Charlie turned around to look at the officer who now held the dog’s leash. “Ma’am, is this your dog?” She looked at the puppy – she could just deny he was hers, and she’d be free. Someone would take the dog-hero in, she was sure, and she would be rid of the nuisance. Charlie’s eyes flickered over to the bullet-wound on the pup’s shoulder, and she knew she couldn’t just leave him to some stranger.
“He’s mine.” She looked at the dog, and he smiled up at her.
He had saved that little girl.
Maybe he could save her as well.
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