Bloodlines

instead of inching open the door, I walked boldly in. The golden hadn’t gone into labor, and she’d eaten the dog biscuits I’d left. Once again, she struggled to her feet.
    I slipped the training collar over her head, attached the lead, and whispered, “Good girl.” Then I patted my left thigh and added, “Let’s go!”
    And you know what? With a feeble wag of her tail, she followed me out the door. To delay the Simmses’ discovery of my visit, I stopped briefly, closed the door, and forced the hook into the eye. Then, leading the golden, I took a couple of steps and tried to assess her strength. Could she make it to the woods on her own? Or should I carry her? But if I stooped and lifted her, would she panic? Although she was pitifully weak, she seemed in no danger of losing her balance, and she was obviously willing to accompany me.
    “Let’s go, girl!” I murmured. “You can do it! Let’s go!” I moved ahead of her, and she gamely followed. Then I slowed down to match her pace; if she stumbled on the rough ground, I wanted to be at her side to support her.
    We’d covered about half the short distance back to the shelter of the woods when, for the first time, she began to totter a little. Just as I was leaning over to rest a supporting hand on her shoulder, a door clattered. I looked up. The back of the house was now in view and, beyond it, the top of the ragged wire fence that ran along the road. The only thing in motion was a speeding dog.
    How fast can a healthy, young Rottweiler run? Thirty miles an hour? Forty? It looked like a hundred. Within seconds, Walter Simms’s big, sleek Rottie, Champ, was zooming toward us. If Champ was out, he’d been let out; the household was beginning to awaken. Walter and Cheryl Simms, though, were a distant threat. At the moment we had an immediate peril.
    About two yards from me, Champ slammed to a halt, his legs stiff, his jaws open to display a set of clean white teeth.
    Ever hear a Rottie growl? Very deep, very serious. And ever so slowly, he moved. Terror seemed to wire my pounding heart directly to my gut. Great dog expert, right? I had no idea what to do. I tried to avoid Champ’s glaring eyes, but he had no desire to avoid mine, and his growl grew louder and louder. When he began to circle, I went rigid. Then my hands started to shake. Time was up. In a second, he’d strike.
    In desperation, I used the only resource I had. Moving as slowly as Champ did, I eased a hand into a pocket, grabbed a fistful of tiny dog biscuits, and said softly and cheerfully, “Here, boy! Treat!” Then I tossed the biscuits behind the snarling Rottie. A trained guard dog would have ignored the food, of course, but Champ was startled. He took his eyes off me, veered around, sniffed, found a biscuit, and wolfed it down. I threw a few more biscuits, and, while he was distracted, I slipped off the backpack and fished desperately for one of the rawhide bones. The ploy had worked with the malamute, hadn’t it? What other option did I have? As if in answer to the question, the twenty ounces of Ladysmith suddenly felt like twenty pounds.
    Shoot a dog? I almost yelled the words aloud. Me? Shoot a dog?
    And yet my right hand went to the holster, groped, and closed firmly around the revolver. To protect this helpless golden, this emaciated, pregnant bitch, could I do it? Even if I wanted to, could I aim and pull the trigger? Kill a dog? I glanced at Champ, dropped the golden’s leash, and anchored it with my foot. Then I reached back into the pack and finally located a rawhide bone. Would Champ go for it? My right hand was so drenched in sweat that the rawhide felt slimy. I slowly raised my arm and was just aiming the rawhide at a spot halfway to the Simmses’ house when I heard the sound of approaching engines. My arm froze. Cars? Maybe not. Loud and powerful engines. An oil delivery truck? But at daybreak? Oil companies don’t—
    Before I could complete the thought, the first cruiser appeared on the road. Behind it were a second cruiser, two vans, a station wagon, and probably several other vehicles as well. I didn’t stop to count them. Oblivious to the signs of a raid on his master’s puppy mill, Champ was circling and snarling again. He’d spotted the rawhide bone in my right hand. If I didn’t throw it fast, he’d go for it—and probably take my fingers with it. My aim was rough this time. The rawhide sailed high in the air and toward the house. My eyes followed