circled around to what passed for a gate and let myself into the pen. I whistled. I called. Nothing.
“Say something,” I said.
“What?” Desmond asked me, and the pile quivered again. Desmond stepped back. “Damn,” and I heard a distinct whimper from the heap.
“Got a live one, and it’s hearing just you.”
“What do you mean?”
That raised another quiver. I didn’t see that I had much choice but just to dive on in and start sifting. They were big hounds and bloody. I dragged the top two off to the side by their back feet. Pulled another one away and was reaching for a fourth when the leg that I grabbed on to twitched and quivered. The pup let out a yelp.
“What are you doing?” Luther wanted to know. Him and Dale were up on the end deck looking down on us at the dog pen.
“He shot them,” I said. “Probably with the shotgun he took from K-Lo’s.”
Luther, to his credit, got indignant straightaway. He might have been a roadhouse oxy dealer and lifelong Delta cracker, but he’d about as soon shoot his mama as a hound.
“That son of a bitch,” he shouted to us. “I guess we’re chewing him all to hell now.”
Dale didn’t get it. He’d probably been one of those kids who just killed stuff for sport. Frogs and lizards. Ants by the thousands. A kitten if he could lay his hands on one.
“What’s the deal?” Dale asked.
“He shot the damn dogs,” Luther told Dale. He said it in the spirit of explanation and instruction, like he harbored hope that Dale had misunderstood the circumstances and would get properly enraged once he’d come to grips with things.
Dale just said, “Yeah.” The “So?” was implied.
Luther looked our way and pointed at Dale.
“We know already,” Desmond told him.
I reached back into the dog pile and brought out the survivor. She was a runt and bloody all over, but little of it turned out to be hers. She’d gotten skinned by a few shotgun pellets across the ridge of her back, but she must have been shielded by the rest of the pack as they took fire and fell onto her. I couldn’t help but picture that Boudrot standing at the makeshift fence, leaning in over one of the pallets firing point-blank at those dogs.
I handed the live one out to Desmond who took her but held her at arm’s length. Desmond didn’t have much use for dogs. It wasn’t Dale’s strain of indifference but rather a healthy fear of the creatures by having more a few turned loose on him.
“Why don’t you rinse her off. See where she’s hurt?”
Desmond looked at me like I’d asked him to make me a pair of shoes.
“Just dip her in the water,” I told him and pointed at the bayou. So there I was trying to marry Desmond’s natural fear of canines with his thoroughgoing distaste for swamps.
I attempted to get Luther to come down, but he didn’t want to mess up his clothes. Dale, for his part, couldn’t figure why we didn’t finish the job, just kill the live dog and leave them all to the gators and coyotes.
“They’ll pick them clean,” he told us. Then he started making noises about lunch.
I was going to explain to Dale that it was only half past ten, but I decided instead to go with, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Just keep her there,” I said to Desmond. “I want to make sure she’s the only one.”
I shifted the rest of the dogs around. There were eight of them altogether, including the lone hound that had lived. I left the pen and took that creature from Desmond, carried her down to the edge of the swamp, and rinsed her off in the brown water. She was complaining all the while.
Luther and Dale came down from the house to stand by the swamp and watch me.
“What are you going to do with it?” Luther asked me.
I hadn’t quite decided, but I knew one thing. “Can’t leave her here,” I said.
Luther surprised me by making noises like he could stand to have a dog, a companion to sit in his truck and wait for him while he was doing business at
“Say something,” I said.
“What?” Desmond asked me, and the pile quivered again. Desmond stepped back. “Damn,” and I heard a distinct whimper from the heap.
“Got a live one, and it’s hearing just you.”
“What do you mean?”
That raised another quiver. I didn’t see that I had much choice but just to dive on in and start sifting. They were big hounds and bloody. I dragged the top two off to the side by their back feet. Pulled another one away and was reaching for a fourth when the leg that I grabbed on to twitched and quivered. The pup let out a yelp.
“What are you doing?” Luther wanted to know. Him and Dale were up on the end deck looking down on us at the dog pen.
“He shot them,” I said. “Probably with the shotgun he took from K-Lo’s.”
Luther, to his credit, got indignant straightaway. He might have been a roadhouse oxy dealer and lifelong Delta cracker, but he’d about as soon shoot his mama as a hound.
“That son of a bitch,” he shouted to us. “I guess we’re chewing him all to hell now.”
Dale didn’t get it. He’d probably been one of those kids who just killed stuff for sport. Frogs and lizards. Ants by the thousands. A kitten if he could lay his hands on one.
“What’s the deal?” Dale asked.
“He shot the damn dogs,” Luther told Dale. He said it in the spirit of explanation and instruction, like he harbored hope that Dale had misunderstood the circumstances and would get properly enraged once he’d come to grips with things.
Dale just said, “Yeah.” The “So?” was implied.
Luther looked our way and pointed at Dale.
“We know already,” Desmond told him.
I reached back into the dog pile and brought out the survivor. She was a runt and bloody all over, but little of it turned out to be hers. She’d gotten skinned by a few shotgun pellets across the ridge of her back, but she must have been shielded by the rest of the pack as they took fire and fell onto her. I couldn’t help but picture that Boudrot standing at the makeshift fence, leaning in over one of the pallets firing point-blank at those dogs.
I handed the live one out to Desmond who took her but held her at arm’s length. Desmond didn’t have much use for dogs. It wasn’t Dale’s strain of indifference but rather a healthy fear of the creatures by having more a few turned loose on him.
“Why don’t you rinse her off. See where she’s hurt?”
Desmond looked at me like I’d asked him to make me a pair of shoes.
“Just dip her in the water,” I told him and pointed at the bayou. So there I was trying to marry Desmond’s natural fear of canines with his thoroughgoing distaste for swamps.
I attempted to get Luther to come down, but he didn’t want to mess up his clothes. Dale, for his part, couldn’t figure why we didn’t finish the job, just kill the live dog and leave them all to the gators and coyotes.
“They’ll pick them clean,” he told us. Then he started making noises about lunch.
I was going to explain to Dale that it was only half past ten, but I decided instead to go with, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Just keep her there,” I said to Desmond. “I want to make sure she’s the only one.”
I shifted the rest of the dogs around. There were eight of them altogether, including the lone hound that had lived. I left the pen and took that creature from Desmond, carried her down to the edge of the swamp, and rinsed her off in the brown water. She was complaining all the while.
Luther and Dale came down from the house to stand by the swamp and watch me.
“What are you going to do with it?” Luther asked me.
I hadn’t quite decided, but I knew one thing. “Can’t leave her here,” I said.
Luther surprised me by making noises like he could stand to have a dog, a companion to sit in his truck and wait for him while he was doing business at
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