The Call of What’s Left of the Wild: It’s a Dog’s Life

“He had killed man, the noblest game of all.” Jack London, White Fang


The newborn German Shepherd is cute, black and has big paws. He suckles happily along with his siblings. The milky warm nipple is so comforting between his gums.

With grunts and whimpers, he begins to communicate with his big, cuddly milk supplier. She teaches him the beginnings of the language known only to dogs. When his eyes open, he looks adoringly into her face.

She is pleased with his rapid progress. He is the smartest from all her litters. She tells him how best to behave to survive.

“You’re lucky not to be born into a damaged breed. See, in the next cage, those with hair in their faces. They cannot see well. Look at those with muzzles so short that they can’t breathe.”

He hears them wheezing pitifully and sniffs their distressed scent. Every nuance of smell tells him something. He can tell that none of the dogs around him are happy.

She knows she must be quick as they will have too little time together. His siblings are torn away one by one with great anguish. Their mother barks pitifully to no avail.

“It’s too early. They need my milk!”

She slumps into silence, putting a protective paw over him, the last of her loved ones. Because of his size he is the last to go. He needs more space and exercise than most people can offer.

She understands little of human talk but knows they are merciless. They cannot understand the language of dogs. People misinterpret the fawning to win favors as genuine love for them.

“I hope you get someone kind who will feed you and keep you warm. Maybe foreign residents will take you. They treat dogs better than many locals.” 

He is terrified of the tales of beatings, chains, starvation and being left out in the cold and rain. He clings to her, whimpering in his dreams.

The next morning, a family of gringos appears; two big ones with two young. He does not understand that they say how cute he is. They smile and make soft noises. They stroke him behind the ears. He likes that.

Then to his utter horror they wrench him away from his protesting mother. Ever after he will see their deceptive smiles as wicked portents of dire events.

One of the small humans holds him tight as they climb into a huge red machine. The people smell disgusting. The machine reeks of a strange dog, nasty chemicals and oils. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. There are strange rumbling noses as they lurch off. 

They arrive at an enormous black gate. It whirs open. A large fat dog rushes to greet them, wagging its tale. It has the smell of the dog that had recently been in the car. The big female pats it on the head. She says something he does not understand and calls the dog ‘Dennis.’

Later Dennis tells him a few things he dislikes.

“When they come, run towards them. Don’t jump up or they will hit you. Look winsomely into their eyes and they’ll stroke you behind your ears. Do these things and never bark too loudly or bite and they will feed you.”

He is unsure but tries the tricks and they seem to work. Dennis tells him more.

“They like us to be placid and lick their hands. Dogs who are noisy and bite them disappear.”

He detects lingering scents of sad, long-gone dogs. The people say his name is Toby. They shout,

“Fetch!” 

If he retrieves what they throw, they seem pleased.

              ***

Dennis passes on dark stories of a terrible place.

“They take you to see a man in a white coat. He has evil smelling rubber on his hands. 

“His rooms are completely white and smell horrid. Some dogs that go into that room never come out. There are smells of disease, distress and deaths. It starts with him sticking needles in. That hurts. He forces us to drink foul liquids, wrenching your mouth open if you refuse. He cuts us and makes us bleed.”

​

Toby learns more human speak. When starving dogs come to the gate, he hears the big people say.‘It’s bad not to castrate them. There are too many street dogs scavenging, scattering trash and starving in the gutter. We must take Toby soon.’

Sure enough, one day the woman puts him in a travelling cage and loads him into the big machine. They pull up at a large building with other monster machines outside. There is a sign he does not understand, ‘Veterinary Surgeon.’

The mistress puts his cage on the floor. Other people with cages or animals on their laps sit in a line. Cats and birds are there too. He senses fear and sickness.

Wild-eyed with terror he looks through the bars. A door opens. He glimpses a white robed man with a knife. Wafts of death come from the room. Toby yelps, shrinking back into his tiny prison.

It is his turn. He is seized in strong rubber hands and the needle stabs him. He barks. They force feed him nasty liquids, just as Dennis foretold.

Back at the house he regards fat old Dennis with new respect. He has useful experience but somehow lacks male scents.

Dennis tells Toby of the day he was castrated. It sounds truly awful. Again, there was an injection. Then a knife sliced of his bollocks. He was sore and felt sick for days afterwards. Toby likes to lick those parts, saying it gives him a mild thrill.

“But why do they do that?”

“I think it is to make us fat and obedient.”

***

A few sunrises later he resists. He yelps in vain as they force him into the cage.

“Bad dog. It’s for your own good, besides it won’t hurt.”

In the waiting room he sees a group of older women with wrinkled faces and mean pursed lips. They look determined and intimidating, as they bring in many cowed and scared dogs. He notices that these women have very fat, tasty looking rumps and bare, blue veined legs. Their smells tell him they are made of meat.

They chat enthusiastically to his mistress, their devil eyes gleaming.

“We’ve collected over fifty street dogs so far this month, but there are always hundreds more. The locals don’t understand. Castration’s the only way to stop them breeding.” 

Their eyes glitter at the word ‘Castration.’

These are ravening fiends. 

He crouches at the back of his cage.

I must escape, but how?

 

It is his turn. His mistress coaxes him out of the cage with a treat.

He feigns placidity. The man in the whitecoat strokes his muzzle. His other hand moves forward with the needle. Toby leaps forward. He bites down hard on the man’s hand. Bones crunch. Yum, He’s meat too. The man screams. The door flies open. An assistant rushes in.

Toby lets go and dashes through the opening. The horrible women with the meaty rumps try to catch him. He runs through the gaps between lumbering, elephantine legs.

The outer door is shut. There’s pandemonium as other dogs bark. Some bite at the shrieking women as they try to shut them up.

How can I get out? Which tempting, wobbly and massive target shall I go for?

This woman cannot see him below her huge belly and enormous bosom. He goes for her calf, biting deep. She screams. He tastes blood. The bellowing mob chases him. They cannot waddle very fast. One falls. His mistress and the nurse trip over her in a heap. Someone outside opens the door to investigate the shrieks, barks and shouts. Toby dashes out. He runs and runs.

He hides in a hedge by the roadside. There are police sirens. Cars roar up and down the road in pursuit. He crouches low in silence, peering between his paws from among some weeds.

Moving warily Toby conceals himself behind the hedge of a field by the roadside. Machines rumble slowly past. Nasty women lean out of their windows, shouting his name. He sinks into the weeds, watching, hating.

After dark, he trots further up a steep road. Whenever a machine’s lights approach, he hides. The road dwindles into a forest path. Desperately thirsty he drinks at a stream.

There are many strange odors, animal and insect noises. Flies bite him, raising itchy lumps. He tries to scratch them with his hind legs. Finally, he dozes on a soft patch of cool moss under a tree.

The smells of dawn wafts over him before the sun rises. He stretches and walks into a clearing. Big black birds with flapping wings tear at an animal carcass. Charging at them, he drives them away squawking loudly.

He gorges himself, sniffing the air. He feels free.

Years pass.

Hunters tell scary tales of attacks by a huge hellhound with bloody fangs and murderous eyes. It leads a yelping and barking pack. Some must be his offspring as they resemble their demonic leader. Others look like an enormous alpha female with a scarred face.

Descriptions fit an English Mastiff, called Lucy. She had leapt off a river boat to chase a puma, four years earlier. The puma was found dead with its neck broken from behind. Its muzzle was bloody. A search for Lucy revealed blood and paw prints by the river’s edge. She must have drowned.

 

Boastfully brave hunters go after them, determined to kill.

 

The devil dogs evaporate into the darkest depths of the undergrowth in the steepest parts of the jungle.

Then, hunters begin to disappear. Search parties fail to find most of their bodies. Some report vultures circling impossibly inaccessible places. A man is found half eaten, his throat torn out. A few stagger back without their guns, nursing savaged limbs. Torn and bloody clothes are testaments to narrow escapes. Shocked and gibbering they gasp out their stories.

Mothers tell tales of Demonic dogs ready to seize and carry off naughty children to fiery lairs in the bowels of the earth. The kids have nightmares. Some are doubtful but behave, just in case.

 

By Bill Dark