“Fine! But there’s nothing wrong with him. I know it. Just look at him.”
He went out the side door, slammed it behind him, then jogged to the car. I opened the front door, edged my way onto the porch, gingerly untied the leash from the railing and held the dog at arm’s length as I led him to the car.
Just look at him.
But that was the problem. I couldn’t. Not since this morning when I woke up and found him prowling through the house, hackles up, sniffing imaginary tracks and growling. Then he had stopped in front of the window, the same window I had left open last night, and raised himself up on hind legs, paws on the windowsill. At that moment the eerie morning mists had crept into the room, surrounded the dog, and like a shadow he had grown—until he was almost as big as that thing I had dreamed about last night.
It all had to be a dream, right? The winged creature, the dog turning into something that looked like a werewolf, the blood on Samwise’s muzzle, the way he kept prowling through the house. Looking for something or someone like he wanted to rip the flesh off its bones.
I had cried out his name, fear in my voice, and instantly he had changed back, turned around and run to me, faithful dog ready to protect.
But was he the same? Was it all my imagination?
I swung open the rear door to my Lexus SUV, made sure the cargo net was stretched and secure so Samwise wouldn’t be able to get in the passenger section. This was the part I had been dreading. For the past year the dog had been unable to jump up into the car because of hip dysplasia. I always lifted him in, all eighty-five pounds of him.
He stood alongside the rear bumper, tail wagging, looking just like the dog I had raised from a puppy.
But what was going to happen when I took him in my arms, when his face was right next to mine? Even though the dog was wearing a muzzle, I was terrified.
“Come on, boy,” I said, holding my arms outstretched.
Instead of walking into my arms, he just laid his head on my hand and stared up me. It was the move that could get him anything he wanted, whether it was a bite of hamburger or a walk on a rainy day, it always worked.
It was as if he was trying to tell me that he would never hurt me, not me or Tucker. He was still the same old Samwise that I had rescued from the pound, that I sang to sleep when he was a puppy.
“I’m sorry, boy,” I said.
Then I lifted him into the car and closed the door behind him.
The Lexus eased through winding two-lane mountain roads, headlights carving twin beams of light in the heavy fog. A surreal village appeared house by lonely house, then disappeared as soon as the SUV lumbered past. Just yesterday, I had driven into town to get groceries, and now today everything looked completely different. Ominous. Quiet. All the Halloween decorations that I thought looked cute yesterday looked almost spooky today. Carved pumpkins lined the porches, scarecrows and skeletons hung in the trees. Someone had dressed up their front yard to look like a miniature cemetery with Styrofoam headstones. A trio of ghosts made out of gossamer fabric swung in the damp breeze.
“Maybe we should get some candy while we’re in town,” I said. Tucker just stared out the window, his hair sleep tousled. I hadn’t realized until now that he was still wearing his pajamas.
I wasn’t going to win any Mom-of-the-Year awards today, that was for sure.
“There it is.” A small whitewashed building appeared, with a sign out front that read Tooth and Claw. Strange name for a vet. I parked on the street. “Stay in the car.”
“No.” Tucker was already hopping down from the seat to the ground.
I sighed, wishing that my son behaved as well as the dog. Then I got out, went around to the back of the car and opened the tailgate. There was Samwise, ears down like he’d been a bad dog, tail wagging, begging me to please, please forgive him for whatever he had done. I felt like a monster as I lifted him to the ground, then took the leash in my hand—but I had to do this, had to make sure that he hadn’t been infected with some unknown wild mountain strain of rabies. Or worse.
Tucker opened the door to the vet’s office. Two other people already waited inside. One had an old white dog with patchy fur, while the other had something inside a box—scratching and sniffing, a cat maybe, or a rabbit. Samwise lifted his head toward the box and took a whiff. Curious to see what was inside, he strained at the leash, dragging me across the slippery floor.
“No!” I said, doing my best to maneuver the dog toward the counter. I suddenly regretted thinking that the dog minded me better than Tucker. Neither one listened to me very well.
The woman at the counter raised her eyebrows. “Does he bite?” she asked, looking at the muzzle.
“Not unless you’re a mailman.” Then I lowered my voice. “I need to see the vet. Something got into my house last night, a raccoon or a bat or maybe a bear—”