Part 21 (1/2)

DOG FACT #7.

The Pack Is the Safest Place to Be Dogs have roamed the earth in packs for thousands of years. A pack works well for taking down big prey, which is what dogs originally did. During early domestication, the pack served to keep working dogs in order and obedient. These days, however, domesticated dogs have no need for big prey, rarely work, and no longer hunt anything more than a bowl of Alpo Chunky twice a day. But they still roam in packs if allowed. It's your job to make sure your dog steers clear of this dangerous habit.

It's also your job to do the responsible thing if you're left with a dog you thought you wanted but can't keep. Don't ever think that releasing a pet into the wild is a good idea. It's not. It's cruel and lazy-especially these days when there are so many shelters that can help you do the right thing. Stray dogs are not happy dogs. They can become a menace and can do serious damage and even kill Each year, in many cities and towns, packs of stray dogs take over neighborhoods and prowl the night. Sometimes the news airs a viewer's video, dark and shaky, with a dozen wagging tails barely visible. People are warned to stay indoors, to know where their children are. I find this funny, because humans all over the world are doing far worse things and aren't getting any airtime at all.

I learned a great lesson about human packs when I lived in Mexico (now Arizona) as a gray wolf from 1865 to 1877. I lived with a wild tribe who called themselves the Apaches, and I was happy. They, however, were not so happy. Having had decades of ha.s.sle from the Mexicans, losing many of their relatives and children and now facing new soldiers from America, the Apaches didn't have much going for them, luck-wise. They eventually, like all the native tribes in North America, lost their luck, their land, and many of their lives to the new invaders. I was killed by a man named Nelson Miles, who shot me in an attempt to make Geronimo surrender-but it didn't work. Geronimo didn't surrender until 1886, nearly ten years later. My gray wolf descendants were shot dead too, but only because they got in the way and seemed scary as they roamed in large packs across the plains.

Expecting modern dogs to stop roaming in packs is pointless. It is as pointless as the Apaches trying to get their land back. Pack mentality is built into every dog, the same as ”finders keepers” is built into every imperialist. (One hundred and thirty years later, I find it amusing that if I ask modern Americans about genocide in Native American history they are outraged, and say I haven't heard of the great great consolations provided. They speak about s.p.a.cious reservations, government handouts, and casinos. Hundreds of consolations provided. They speak about s.p.a.cious reservations, government handouts, and casinos. Hundreds of fabulous casinos. fabulous casinos. As if Native Americans are the world's billboard for lucky.) As if Native Americans are the world's billboard for lucky.) The truth is, humans roam in more fearsome packs than dogs ever have. All over the world, this very minute, human packs (armies, political parties, PTA mothers, corporate bodies, country club socialites, and high school cliques) are operating to recruit new members and eliminate outsiders because of one thing-security. It's safer in the pack. Everyone knows that.

Dat man is crazy, ya know,” Hector said when I told him about Fred Livingstone.

”Yeah. I figured.”

”I mean it. Stay way from him, girl. Da man is trouble.”

Hector drove so fast, and played his roots so loud, that my stomach turned. Though I trusted him, I couldn't look out the front winds.h.i.+eld, so I kept my eyes firmly planted on the road signs we pa.s.sed.

When we got back to the hostel, I rushed through the small lunch Hector's cook had made us so I could get back to searching the beach. I hoped to find a different way into Fred's sea grape grove, and finding it while he was still in Black River would save me a lot of trouble.

Stupidly, before I left, I called the trailer park in Hollow Ford to let them know I was okay. For some reason, when Junior answered the phone I wasn't the least bit surprised.

”I got your room,” he began.

”Good for you, Junior. Is Mom there?”

”No.”

”Where is she?”

”Asleep.”

”Asleep?” I sliced off the top of his head, like a machete through a coconut.

”Yep,” he answered, half talking to someone else standing next to him.

”Will you tell them that I called?” With the pointed tip of my boot, I kicked his brains into his skull until they were mush.

”Sure,” he said, still talking to someone else.

”Okay. See you in a few weeks,” I said.

”Well, you can't live here,” he replied. ”I put all your stuff in the Goodwill bin.”

I knew that meant he'd sold it, so I didn't say anything.

”I had to do something something with it, didn't I?” with it, didn't I?”

”Sure, Junior,” I said, and hung up.

A feeling of sadness poured over me. Had he thrown out my yearbooks? My pictures? I thought of favorite sweaters and my two pairs of handmade mittens. My black Doc Marten boots. My books. My small collection of worthless but sentimental jewelry. My report cards. My beaded prom dress.

I was sad, but surprised that I didn't care more. Those things had meant a lot once, but something had changed. I had changed. I wasn't just some skinny kid from Hollow Ford anymore. I was about to begin a new life as a new person. Before I wasted one more minute thinking about Junior, I took off for the beach, determined to find what I was looking for.

At about two thirty, I pa.s.sed the gla.s.s house and continued for fifty steps. To my right was the sea grape grove, fenced on the road side. I looked around, noting a landmark that I would be able to see from the road-a perfectly fan-shaped shrub-and continued to the end of the grove. There, I crouched down and crawled past the undergrowth.

I wasn't ten steps in when the Doberman appeared. I heard him, first, crunching crisp leaves under his heavy feet, then saw his slow, tired body fifty feet away. It was obvious from a distance that something was wrong with him. I didn't see the blood until he came closer. It had matted most of his facial hair into brown clumps.

”Oh no. What happened, boy?”

He came to me, wincing a bit under his breath. I inspected the wound in a sunbeam and found a small shard of gla.s.s lodged in the top of his head where the blood trickled. I picked it out and tried to press the cut together and apply pressure, but the dog couldn't stand still with the pain. I walked slowly toward the sea, and he followed lazily after a few seconds. I walked into the shallow water and scooped up a handful of salt.w.a.ter, placing it gently on his head and hoping he wouldn't freak out too much. I was very aware whose house I was fifty yards away from, whose dog this was. I washed the cut and gently scrubbed out the blood in his coat. He didn't flinch once.

When I returned to the grove and crawled my way through the growth toward my perfectly fan-shaped landmark, the Doberman loyally followed.

I patted his back. ”Good boy.”

As I squatted and paced fifty steps from the roadside fence, he trotted behind me and counted along. When I stopped and began moving dead leaves from the ground with my hands, he circled me and watched, curious about what I was looking for.

I looked at him, face to face, and smiled. ”Where is it?”

He c.o.c.ked his head, nudged me, and led me through the trees toward the gla.s.s house. As we got closer and closer, I started to doubt that the dog knew what he was doing, and I slowed down. I certainly had no intention of another audience with creepy Fred Livingstone that day, or ever again.

The dog stopped about twenty feet from the edge of the tree line and sat down, panting and looking at me. I crept toward him, and when I got there, he stood up and nosed an area of worn, compacted sand. He winced again.

The dog knew what he was doing.

He knew there was something special under that spot.

He nosed a protruding root and scratched it with his paw. He did the same thing with another root. Then, as if he was frustrated with me for being so stupid, he wedged himself into the worn area and lay down in it.

”Is this your bed?” I asked.

He winced and s.h.i.+fted himself around, trying to get comfortable, and then stood up again. He nosed what looked like another root-but when I felt its sharp edge, I knew it was something else.

I sat down in the sand to get a closer look. As I pulled it back and forth, stealing it from the grip of three hundred-year-old sand, I recognized what it was. I'd completely forgotten about the shovel Emer buried that night long ago, and could hardly believe my own luck.

I'd envisioned days of stealthily searching through the small forest, sweating, swearing, frustrated, and tired. I'd accepted the fact of a second trip already, and had prepared myself for a third, if necessary. I'd thought of every scenario except this one-finding my buried treasure in one short week. Suddenly, Junior Adams was slotted right into place next to all the other a.s.sholes I'd ever met. So what if he'd thrown out all my things? So what if he'd moved in with my parents and probably stole all their stuff and treated them like c.r.a.p? What could I I do about it? I didn't have the time to slice a hundred shallow cuts into his lips and make him suck limes. I was too busy to make him swallow oiled musket b.a.l.l.s. I had more important things to think about now, and a lot to do. do about it? I didn't have the time to slice a hundred shallow cuts into his lips and make him suck limes. I was too busy to make him swallow oiled musket b.a.l.l.s. I had more important things to think about now, and a lot to do.

To celebrate my good luck, I walked to the village and ate my first plate of green, very dodgy-looking curried goat. I washed it back with two Red Stripes, which gave me the tipsy courage I needed to make my final plan.

I would dig.

Tonight.

When I arrived at the hostel, Hector was still sitting on his porch, listening to his roots and playing dominoes with his cook.