Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

Twilly turned his head. "Captain?"

"Could be fun. Like a high-school field trip for young Bob Clapley, or holiday camp!" Skink mused. "We'll send him home a new man – after the banks have called in his construction loans, of course ... "

"Captain!"

"It's your call, son."

"I know it's my call. Where's the damn dog?"

"The dog?" Skink sprung up and looked around anxiously. "Oh Jesus."

So many enthralling smells!

McGuinn reveled in the country morning: Sunrise, on the crest of a green hill, where seemingly everything – leaves, rocks, blades of grass, the dew itself – was laced with strange intoxicating scents. Large animals, McGuinn concluded from their potent musks; jumbos. What could they be? And what sort of place was this?

Although most of the smells that reached the hill were too faint to merit more than a cursory sniff or a territorial spritz of pee, one scent in particular hung fresh and warm, cutting pungently through the light fog. McGuinn was itching to bolt loose and track it.

The scent was not that of a domestic cat or another dog. Definitely not duck or seagull. Negative also for deer, rabbit, raccoon, skunk, muskrat, mouse, toad, turtle or snake. This earthy new animal odor was unlike any the dog had previously encountered. It made his hair bristle and his nose quiver, and it was so heavy in the air that it must have been exuded by a creature of massive proportion. McGuinn yearned to chase down this primordial behemoth and thrash it mercilessly ... or at least pester it for a while, until he found something better to do.

In the distance a vehicle stopped and emptied out a new bunch of humans, and soon McGuinn detected other aromas – gasoline exhaust, sunblock, aftershave, coffee, cigar smoke and gun oil. But it was the smell of the mystery beast that beckoned irresistibly. The dog glanced around and saw that nobody was paying attention to him. The young man, Desie's friend, was preoccupied with pointing a gun down the hill. Similarly distracted was his travel companion, the hairy-faced man who was perfumed indelibly with burnt wood and dead opossum, and on whose wrist was limply fastened the cursed leash.

McGuinn levered his butt imperceptibly off the grass, scooted backward a couple of inches, then sat down again. Neither of the men looked up. So McGuinn did it again, and still again, until the slack in the leash was gone and all that remained was to coil his muscles and execute The Lunge – a heedless, headlong escape maneuver familiar to all owners of Labrador retrievers. During many an evening walk, McGuinn had employed The Lunge to excellent effect, leaving Palmer Stoat or Desie standing empty-handed, snatching at thin air, while he dashed off to deal with an insolent Siamese, or to take a dip in the New River. The dog was well aware he was exceptionally fast, and virtually impossible for humans to overtake on foot.

Once he made his break.

This time it happened so smoothly that it was anticlimactic. McGuinn surged forward and the leash simply came free, slipping so cleanly off the hand of the hairy-faced man that he didn't feel it. The next thing the dog knew, he was barreling away, unnoticed and unpursued. Down the long slope he ran – ears unfurled, tongue streaming, velvet nose to the grass – faster and faster until he was but a black streak, hurtling past the dumbstruck hunters. He heard a flurry of agitated voices, then a familiar angry command – "Boodle, no!" – which he gleefully disregarded. Onward he sped, the leash flopping at his heels, the powerful alien fragrance reeling him in as if he were a barracuda hooked on a wire. Directly ahead loomed a gnarled mossy tree, and beneath it stood a great horned creature so immense and unflinching, McGuinn thought at first that it was made of stone.

But, no, smell it! A piquant blend of mulchy digestive vapors, sour body mold and steaming shit. With a self-congratulatory howl, the dog bore in. He circled first one way and then the other before dropping to a snarling crouch behind the animal's gargantuan armor-plated flanks. McGuinn expected the beast to wheel in self-defense, yet the stately rump remained motionless. McGuinn inched around cautiously to confront the snouted end, where he initiated a sequence of spirited head fakes, left and right, to feign a charge. Yet the creature did not shirk, bridle or jump at its tormentor's well-choreographed hysterics. The creature did not move; merely stared at the dog through crinkled, gnat-covered slits.

McGuinn was flabbergasted. Even the laziest, stupidest dairy cow would have spooked by now! The dog backed off to catch his breath and sort through his options (which, given a Lab's cognitive limitations, were modest and few). He affected a baleful pearly drool, only to stare in bewilderment as the monster placidly resumed nibbling from its bale of forage. Incredible!

Then came the approach of measured footsteps, followed by urgent human whispers. McGuinn knew what that meant: No more fun here. Soon someone would be snatching up his leash and jerking the choke chain. Time was running out. One last try: The dog growled, flattened his ears and insinuated himself into a wolf-like slink. Once more he began circling the torpid brute, which (McGuinn noticed) had ceased chewing, its jaws bewhiskered with sodden sprouts. But now the dog directed his focus at the stern of his prey: a sparse cord of a tail, dangling invitingly.

A leap, a flash of fangs and McGuinn had it!

Instantly the beast erupted, whirling with such hellish might that the dog was flung off, landing hard against the trunk of the sturdy old oak. He scrambled upright and shook himself vigorously from head to tail. With a mixture of surprise and elation, he observed that the monster was running away – and pretty darn fast, too!

McGuinn broke into lusty pursuit, driven by ancient instincts but also by sheer joy. Was there a better way to spend a spring morning, racing free through cool green meadows, snapping at a pair of fleeing hindquarters while slow-footed humans yammered helplessly in protest?

Every dog dreamed of such adventure.

No one was more rattled than Palmer Stoat to see a black Labrador charging into the line of fire, because it looked like his dog – Jesus H. Christ, it was his dog! – gone for all these days, only to surface at the worst possible time in the worst possible place. Stoat felt an upswell of despair, knowing the dog wasn't running downhill to greet him, but rather to flush Robert Clapley's prize rhinoceros, thereby disrupting the hunt and possibly mucking up (yet again!) the Shearwater deal.

It was no less than a curse.

"Boodle, no!" Stoat yelled, cigar waggling. "Bad boy!"

A few yards ahead stood Clapley, his aggrieved expression revealing all: He wanted to shoot the dog, but Durgess wouldn't permit it. In fact, the guide was signaling all of them to remain still.

"Hold up here," Asa Lando dutifully instructed Stoat's group.

Dick Artemus leaned in and whispered, "Palmer, is that your damn fool dog?" Willie Vasquez-Washington chuckled and began shooting pictures. In mute wonderment the guides and hunters watched the Labrador circle and taunt the rhinoceros; even Asa Lando found it difficult not to be entertained. The dog really was a piece of work!

Palmer Stoat shaded a nervous eye toward Clapley, huddled in a heated discussion with Durgess. Of all those present, Stoat alone knew of Clapley's peculiar obsession. Stoat alone knew without asking that the man had brought dolls, and probably a miniature pearl-handled hairbrush, concealed inside his ammo vest. Stoat alone knew the wanton seed of Clapley's motivation (which had nothing to do with sport), and understood the true base nature of his panic. No rhino, no horn; no horn, no live Barbies! In such a fraught equation, one frolicsome Labrador carried zero weight.