The Pack by Dayna Lorentz Page B

her tail and rump waving behind her. “It’s nice to meet a dog who hasn’t had his life handed to him in a silver bowl.”
    Shep stepped back, away from Blaze, cutting off their play. “The fight kennel never handed me anything except a cage,” Shep barked flatly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
    Blaze stood, tail lower but still wagging. She slinked closer to Shep, rubbing his flank. “This is a tough world, and you’re a tough dog. Why are you ashamed of it?”
    â€œI’m not ashamed,” Shep woofed, wondering what she meant, whether he was ashamed. “And what’s so tough about your world? You look like a pet who’s seen her share of comfy beds and bowls piled with kibble.” He sounded a bit more defensive than he’d meant to.
    â€œNow look who’s barking about things he knows nothing about.” Blaze trotted away from the bus, toward the canal. She paused and looked back over her long tail at Shep. “You coming, hero?”
    Shep glanced at the bus full of snoozing pets. He should stay and guard them. But he could go with Blaze just for a few heartbeats, maybe hunt up some kibble, and no dog would notice. Right?
    He saw Blaze’s marbled coat shimmer in the morning light. “I’m coming!” he barked.
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    As they snuffled through the jumble on the street, supposedly scenting for food, Blaze told Shep about her past. She was born in a kennel inland, near a big lake filled with water lizards. She was taken from her litter by a young man in a wide-brimmed brown hat. He started to whistle and talk to her, and fed her scraps of dried meat. It took a few suns, but she soon understood that with each whistle he wanted her to sit, or stop, or walk toward him, to lie down at his paws or jump at a toy in his hands.
    After a moon-cycle of work, the man took Blaze to a fat building with a curved roof, which oozed the acrid stench of manure and was surrounded by endless fields broken up by long stretches of fencing. It was hot and humid, like her kennel had been, but the only life in this place was the huge, snorting brown beasts. They groaned and grunted in the fat building, and tromped lazily through the open grasses. Blaze knew that she was the alpha of these creatures, though they were a full stretch taller than she was, and longer and wider by more, outweighing her like a Car to a yapper.
    She barked at the young man to let her at the beasts, that she knew she could beat them; instead, the man walked her around the whole property, letting her sniff the new smells. The next sun, he put her in a pen with a few of the massive creatures. Blaze scampered up to them, but the beasts didn’t move. She wanted them to move, needed them to move so she could collect them for her man, show him that she knew she was these creatures’ master. She sniffed at the paw of one of the animals. The beasts’ fur ended in a cloven, bony toe, so Blaze nipped at the tender skin just above that horny bit. The beast gave a snort, then lumbered a step forward. Success!
    The man then whistled at her, and she remembered that the whistle — high, two blasts — meant to run to one side of the man. He whistled like that again, and Blaze nipped the beasts to move to that side. The man leapt to his feet and fed her a treat. He went through each of the whistles he’d taught her, and Blaze realized that they were never meant to direct her, but to tell her what to do with the fat, snorty beasts.
    The man made her practice on the few beasts in the pen for two more suns. Each evening, Blaze lay on the porch of the man’s den and looked out at the masses of beasts in the fields, longing to try her skills on such a test.
    On the third sun, he took her out into the open grassland. Racing with the beasts, driving them first one way, then the other, staring down charging strays — it was like discovering that the fur she’d always worn was a