The Wicked Flea

kinder to hold him. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. My repulsion made me even more sorry for him than I’d been before.
    “You remember that song Sylvia used to sing?” Douglas asked suddenly. “ ‘There’ll Be Some Changes Made.’ ”
    “I did hear her hum that,” I said.
    “Sylvia wasn’t really a very nice woman. She was hostile. She needled people. Mostly, her family. She used to sing snatches of that song or hum it when she’d been going after one of them. After he shot her, he sang that song. Not all of it. Just a little. Just the way Sylvia used to. It was creepy—hearing him sing off-key about what he’d done. I was sick to my stomach. I couldn’t help it. Before that, he didn’t know I was there. Then this nausea hit me, all of a sudden, and it was like food poisoning. No warning. I pulled off the, uh, ski mask. I had to. And he saw me.”
    “Who?” I finally asked.
     

Chapter 35
     
    The answer had almost—but not quite—left Douglas’s lips when out of the comer of my eye, I spied Zsa Zsa lumbering through the woods. Simultaneously, Rowdy broke his solid down-stay.
    “Damn it!” I yelled, not at Rowdy but at the golden, who picked up speed, accidentally barreled into Douglas, and deliberately hurled herself at Rowdy. My big dog had seen her coming. And he owed her one. The last time Zsa Zsa had attacked Rowdy, I’d spoiled the fun by sounding my air horn and bringing the fight to a halt. This time, Rowdy intended to teach her a bone-crunching lesson about the inadvisability of tackling a malamute. Only seconds after Zsa Zsa’s onslaught, the two big dogs were a writhing, yelping mass of fur, flesh, and teeth. Douglas rose to his feet and had the sense to rid himself of that encumbering trench coat as he prepared to help break up the fight. The second Zsa Zsa appeared, I should’ve nabbed her. But I’d been slow to respond, in part because the nasty reality of Zsa Zsa’s viciousness toward other dogs was so atypical of her breed, so completely aberrant, that I found it hard to comprehend; despite my previous observations of Zsa Zsa, I found it almost impossible to convince myself that a female golden retriever would actually attack Rowdy.
    The sight and sound of the battle persuaded me. It was far worse than their previous skirmish. That time, Rowdy’d been at my side, his leash securely in my grasp. This time, I’d been standing near Douglas, not right next to Rowdy. What’s more, one end of Rowdy’s leash remained fastened to his collar, but I’d left the six-foot length of leather on the ground at his side. God almighty, how I hate a dog fight! Already, my heart was pounding, my face felt flushed, and I was sweating profusely. I knew Rowdy’d win the fight. So what! Even if he’d simply been a beloved pet, I wouldn’t have wanted him injured. But he was entered at four upcoming shows, and I had plans for his future. If that damned Zsa Zsa ripped him open, she could leave permanent scars that would end his career in the ring.
    “Douglas!” I ordered. “The second I grab Rowdy’s leash, grab Zsa Zsa’s tail! Then pull hard and let go.” Hollering to make myself heard over the roar, I warned, “Don’t touch her collar. Or she’ll nail you. Ready?” I reached into my pocket for the air horn. After weeks of being blasted with the horrific noise by countless dog walkers, Zsa Zsa probably wouldn’t react at all. But if Rowdy’s jaws were locked on her flesh, the sudden clamor just might startle him into loosening his grip.
    With my feet spread apart, my knees bent, the horn in my left hand, my right hand free to snatch Rowdy’s leash, I positioned myself just beyond the range of the dogs’ jaws. The tangle of gray and golden coats took a sudden heave as Zsa Zsa lost strength. Seizing his chance, Rowdy pinned her. She shrieked. Rowdy’s leash lay across his back. My hand darted for it, and I’d just seized the familiar leather loop when a third dog spoiled my spur-of-the-moment peace plan by dashing from the woods and plunging into the fray. Wilson’s beautiful corgi bitch, Llio, arrived with blood flying from a badly torn ear. Don’t get me wrong about Pembrokes! As a breed, Pembroke Welsh corgis are kindly, if spunky, creatures, and Llio in particular was a sweetheart. But dogs are dogs, and Llio had not only had to tolerate Zsa Zsa as a housemate, but had evidently just taken a trouncing from her.
    Rapidly revising my plan, I opportunistically