Chapter One
No dogs allowed.
That had always been my
father’s rule, back when this was his house. When I inherited the old brick house on the Lynnhaven River and transformed it into a mansion worthy of a billionaire, I stuck with the
rule. Dogs, after all, were dirty creatures, and good for very little except
barking, tracking mud over the floor, and piddling on everything in sight. At
least that was what my father had always said, and I saw no reason to think
he’d been wrong.
Even when my fiancé
Gabriel Mason moved in, and started asking (one might say pestering) about us
getting a dog, I refused. Yes, the mansion was enormous, and a little lonely
sometimes, when either of us happened to be home by ourselves. And of course I
could afford the most expensive dog in the world, if I happened to want one. I
failed to understand Gabe’s desire to “rescue” a random mutt—if one could
afford a purebred, as I obviously could, then surely one would wish to obtain
the best possible example of its breed. At least then it would be decorative.
But the way I saw it,
dogs didn’t really provide much in the way of companionship. After all, they
didn’t talk. All they were really good for was protection—hardly necessary when
one had security guards patrolling the grounds 24/7. I didn’t need a dog around
the house, chewing up thousand-dollar shoes and pissing on irreplaceable Persian
carpets.
“I didn’t have a dog
growing up,” I said during one of our innumerable discussions (one could say
arguments) on the topic, “and I turned out perfectly all right.”
Gabe made a rude noise.
“You had a fucked-up childhood, Stephen, and you know it.”
“Maybe so. But it wasn’t
fucked up because of the absence of a dog. After all, you didn’t have a dog
either. Did you?”
“No.” Gabe sighed,
settling down on the sofa beside me. “We didn’t have the money for it. I always
wanted a dog, but even if we could have afforded it, my dad…” His father was a
sore subject, one he rarely wished to discuss, and he shrugged a big shoulder
and changed tack. “Anyway, a couple of my friends had them. And they were a whole lot of fun.
You can teach them not to tear stuff up, you know.”
I doubted that. After all,
dogs were predators, essentially wolves, designed by nature to tear and rend
and destroy. Which was yet another good reason for not keeping them around. Why
would anyone want a small wolf rampaging around their house, wreaking havoc?
I liked order. I liked
calm. I didn’t like havoc.
Gabe continued his
optimistic efforts to get me to reconsider for several weeks, but I steadfastly
refused to have a dog. I just didn't see the need.
Late one summer afternoon,
as the shadows were growing long, I was headed home in an old black Firebird
(one of my large collection of American sportscars—far from the most valuable,
but I admit to being fond of the big, flashy gold Phoenix decal on the hood,
which collectors lovingly refer to as the Screaming Chicken). All at once,
something zipped across the road in front of me.
I instantly slammed on
the brakes, but I felt the car strike something a glancing blow anyway.
I skidded to a halt.
Fortunately it was a quiet back road, and there was nothing behind me. I got
out of the car and looked around, and there, on the side of the road, stood a
dog. Its long coat was brown and white, and if it had been properly brushed and
groomed, I thought it might look a bit like Lassie. Right now it looked more
like an unkempt mop, its fur tangled and grimy. One of its forelegs was lifted
off the ground, and it was staring steadily at me, with what I couldn’t help
imagining as an accusing glare.
“It’s not my fault,” I
informed it. “You ran out in front of me.”
The dog’s ears twitched
at the sound of my voice, but it didn’t respond otherwise.
Despite my words, I
couldn’t help feeling guilty. I might not see the point in owning dogs, but I’d been
the one to hit it, and I needed to help the poor creature if I could. I took a
cautious step forward, then another, and another. The dog stood still, watching
me.
I looked at the leg. It
didn’t seem to be bleeding, and there wasn’t any sign of crookedness that would
suggest a broken leg. But the dog’s careful three-legged posture indicated that
some damage had definitely been done. I edged closer, my heart pounding. I
didn’t know much about dogs, but I suspected any injured animal might lash out
in fear when approached by a stranger.
This one didn’t. I cautiously
stretched out my hand, and the dog sniffed it, quite thoroughly, then licked
it.
Ugh. Its tongue was wet,
and being licked by it was a disgusting feeling. I rubbed my hand on my slacks,
and frowned down at it. It wasn’t wearing a collar, so there was no way of
knowing who it belonged to. Its bedraggled coat looked as if it hadn’t been
brushed in quite some time, if ever, so in all likelihood it was a stray.
“I suppose I need to get
you to a dog hospital. Do they have ambulances for dogs?”
The dog’s tail waved,
tentatively.
“You’re not a lot of help,”
I grumbled. “But I’ve never heard of a canine ambulance, so I suppose I’ll have
to give you a ride. Come on, come with me.”
In the vague hope that
someone had trained the poor beast, I made a finger-wiggling gesture at it. And
sure enough, it hobbled toward me, in its awkward, three-legged gait. I opened
the passenger side door of the Firebird, and beckoned again.
“Come on, dog. Get in the
car.”
The ratty plume of a tail
wagged again, as if it recognized a word or two. It made a tentative movement
toward the car, but then it whimpered, as if it knew that trying to jump would
hurt too much.
“You can’t possibly
expect me to pick you up. You must weigh fifty or sixty pounds.”
The big brown eyes looked
up at me. I do expect you to pick me up,
they said clearly. And get a move on. I’m
in pain here.
I hesitated for a moment. If
I lifted it into the car, I was almost sure to cause it more pain. I didn’t
know much about dogs, but I did know it couldn’t be expected to understand that
I was trying to help. And if I did hurt it, it was likely to snap at me. After
all, even humans lashed out when they were hurting.
Except humans didn’t
possess giant fangs, the way this animal did.
I was a businessman and a CEO, and I didn't know the first thing about handling injured animals. I wasn't far from the mansion here, I reasoned. I could call my security people, and they could be here within ten minutes. Very likely some of them owned animals, and could handle the dog more safely than I could. I pulled out my phone, but the big brown eyes looked
at me steadily.
I sighed, shoved my phone back into my pocket, and did the only thing I could do.
I bent to pick the dog up.
