After the Black Dog’s legendary swim and subsequent escape, the man moved all their excursions across the bridge to Indian Island. There is a turnout at milepost four, known as 4-Mile-Beach, (named by loggers, I’m sure,) where Boss Dog held training classes every Sunday.
It was during one of these sessions that Black Dog swam for the first time. She had no interest in chasing sticks, but after Boss Dog made her drop the rotten cob of corn she had wrestled from another dog, the man threw it away, far out into the water. Of course, the Black Dog won the ensuing race.
It was food, after all.
That was to be her last day as a retriever. After the Black Dog’s subsequent voyage to NAVMAG, she never overcame her fear of the deeps.
North of 4-Mile-Beach lies the entrance to the Chimacum Portage, where monster eddies have hollowed out flanking lagoons. During high water, the beach becomes a narrow peninsula, making a perfect fence for an aquaphobic dog during sessions of one-on-one training.
But once the man ran out of hotdogs, the Black Dog would ignore any further commands, lie down, and gnaw on barnacle-encrusted rocks. It didn’t take her companion long to understand that she was craving their calcium shells.
Back home, things were beginning to change. The dry dog food was put away and shopping commenced: pork, butternut squash, string beans, lentils, peanut butter, salmon oil, rice, three kinds of seaweed, brewer’s yeast, and whatever organ meat was left over from that week’s bird carcass.
The man’s wife tweaked the formula, until Shannon, the tubby Rottweiler, had transformed into Echo, the Black.
Then came the dogfight.
The man and his black dog were walking back to the truck, parked at the turnout, when two shapes appeared from behind the cliffs to the south.
“Echo, heel.”
For once, she did, and as he clipped the leash to her collar, they both noticed the dog to the south had gone out of control, oscillating in an ever-widening arc, rearing and barking, as he snapped at his lead.
“Let’s go,” Mark murmured to Echo, retracing his steps, trying to regain the circle of trust, but a sudden stumble brought the oncoming man to his knees…
…and his Pitbull broke free.
Mark had time only to note the lopsided profile: the torn ear and missing eye, before Lucifer flipped a switch and demons possessed Echo: her muzzle forming a skeleton’s death grin, ears flattening, and mismatched eyes bulging wide, as she crouched, chest forward, with her forequarters bristling into a mane.
There is no photo of the fight. AI did its best…
… but my Canon can show the intensity of a mere growl bark…
… and the true demon that lies within.
After you pull the pin, it’s best to throw a grenade. Mark dove for cover, snatching up a rock as he rolled, knowing that this time Echo could not hold her own.
Never shove your hand into a dogfight. A growl-bark, where two dogs are sorting out dominance… maybe… but never a only-one-crawls-away, fight.
Unless it’s your dog… and you’ve made that dog a promise.
Both men had.
Echo came out of the fight steaming hot, Mark keeping one arm wrapped around her chest in a half nelson, his other hand twisted in her collar, forcing her head away, as she thrashed, snapping at his face.
Tossing his once-wolf away with the strength born of terror, Mark finally found Tiffany’s voice of command,
“Echo, LEAVE IT!”
Panting, man and dog glared at each other for a moment, before Mark noticed the blood dripping from his sleeve.
“I rescued him from the fighting ring,” the other man moaned, gripping his Pitbull in a bearhug… I’m sorry. “I’ll pay whatever… I just… I didn’t expect anybody to be here …”
Mark shushed his rambling with one hand, dialing the vet with the other.
“They’re just across the bridge,” the man sobbed, as Mark and again lifted Echo. “I’ll stay here until you come back!”
A vet’s waiting room is an awful place: cats in carriers, yowling wide-eyed from shadowed interiors, as teacup breeds shiver in the laps of their cotton-topped companions, who tearfully fuss, “Fifi’s been so unwell…”
But there’s another entrance.
It’s around back.
The stainless gurney was waiting as the Ranger slid to a stop.