So Peter was on his own under that porch.
He moved his leg up slowly, carefully, until his knee was on the dog’s shoulder, then its neck. He bore down. He didn’t want to hurt the animal, but he sure as hell didn’t want those bone-cracking teeth to get free, either. The dog’s back legs scrabbled in the dirt, trying to get itself out of the situation, but Peter was too heavy.
“Hey, dog,” said Peter in a calm voice. “What’s your name?”
The dog scrabbled with its long nails, but its big bullet-shaped head was caught now between the pressure of the stick and the weight of the man’s knee.
“Somebody probably called you Fang or Spike or something, didn’t they?” asked Peter gently, remembering how his father had talked to the horses. A nice calm, conversational tone. The way Jimmy had talked to any in-country local who didn’t speak English. “But you’re not a mean dog, are you? No, you’re a nice puppy. A good puppy. Your name should be Daisy. Or Cupcake.”
The dog’s eyes showed white in the semidark of the crawl space, and it was panting hard, its great chest heaving. Its legs slowed their scrabbling in the dirt as the man’s deep voice worked its way through the fury and panic. Finally it stopped struggling, and the long tongue lolled out between the murderous teeth. Man and beast lay in the dirt together and caught their breath.
“Uh, sir, you okay in there?” Charlie’s voice floated under the porch.
“Never better,” said Peter, keeping his voice low and even. The dog panted, but the eye was staring at Peter’s face.
“So . . .” said Charlie.
“Kid. Give me a minute, okay?”
Peter still held the ends of the stick in his hands. Focused despite the static. He had a few minutes, no more. He worked his hands out to the ropes and slid the knots in close to the dog’s jaws.
The dog began to growl again.
Peter could feel the vibrations in his own chest, that tank engine revving slow. It was like lying on a vibrating bed in a cheap motel, but with teeth.
The eye stared at him, waiting.
Waiting for the man to make a mistake.
With the ropes in his hands, Peter carefully crossed them over the bone-crushing jaws, then wrapped them under, over and under, again and again. Snug but not tight, trapping that stick in there like some kind of hillbilly art project. Then he carefully tied the ends in a series of half hitches, ending in a square knot. Super-duper-double-extra-secure.
The remaining long and short ropes were still tucked into his belt. He tied the long rope around the dog’s neck as a collar and leash. He shifted his weight, turned to the hind end with the short rope, and tied its back legs together.
Without allowing himself to think about it, he rolled off the dog and grabbed the rope at the hind legs, then reversed out of the crawl space, pulling the scrabbling dog behind him.
“Sweet holy Jesus,” said Charlie, dancing backward in his polished shoes as Peter and the snarling hog-tied animal emerged from the crawl space and into the light. “That’s one damn Jesus big goddamn dog.”
Peter felt the open air and high blue sky like a balm.
—
It took a few minutes to get Charlie to put down the baseball bat, but he was fine by the time Peter tied the leash off to a tree, double-checking the knots, then checking them again. Finally he cut the rope from the rear legs and stood away while the dog leaped, trembling, to its feet, ran to the ten-foot limit of the leash, and turned to growl at the humans.
“He sure is ugly,” said Charlie. “And he smells real bad, too.”
Peter had to agree.
It wasn’t a pit bull, actually. Those dogs bred for fighting were beautiful, in their own way. Like cruise missiles were beautiful, or a combat knife, if you didn’t stop to consider what they were made to do.
This dog, on the other hand, was a mix of so many breeds you’d have to go back to the caveman era to sort it out.
The result was an animal of unsurpassed hideousness.
It had the bullet-shaped head of a pit bull, but the lean muscled body and long legs of an animal built for chasing down its prey over long distances. Tall upright ears, a long wolfish muzzle. Its matted fur was mostly a kind of deep orange, with brown polka dots.
And the animal was enormous.
Like a timber wolf run through the wash with a pit bull, a Great Dane, and a fuzzy orange sweatshirt.
Seen out in the open like that, even at a hundred and fifty–plus pounds with murderous teeth, it was hard to take the animal too seriously.
What would you name a dog like that?
Maybe Daisy. Or Cupcake.
The thought made him smile.
He got out his water bottle and walked the growling dog down to the end of its rope. Taking hold of the stick, he poured a little water into that deadly mouth. The dog glared at him, the intelligence vivid in those pale blue eyes. But after a moment, its throat began to work as it swallowed. Peter poured until the bottle was empty.
“Sir, what the heck are you doing?” asked Charlie.