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Hardcover with dust jacket $24.95 Trade paperback, $15.
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| Dogbooks.org |
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Hardcover with dust jacket $24.95 Trade paperback, $15.
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One Trump had ambivalent feelings about country music. A strong, well-hidden streak of maudlin sentimentality lay beneath what most of the dogs saw as a tough, cynical personality and she enjoyed a good emotional wallow in the lyrics about loss, jail and pickup trucks. (Especially pickup trucks. The red Fords were particularly attractive, the extended cab models even more so.) But for the fact that she had perfect pitch, Trump would have been a country music fanatic. But like so many greyhounds, she did have perfect pitch and too often that was a distinct disadvantage. Take the song currently rattling the speakers in the kennel, for instance. The lead guitar was at least ten cycles off true pitch, the wailing female voice even worse. An oddly-pitched snare drum in the background completed the cacophony. Somehow, the song had managed to make it onto the top ten list, for no reason Trump could discern, and she’d heard it so many times that she was heartily sick of it. Just as the second verse began, the heater cut in. The rusted grate rattled out a counterpoint to the song. Jet streams of hot air washed over Trump, replaced almost immediately by cold as the two air currents fought for control of the kennel. Trump shivered, then stood and turned, trying to find somewhere comfortable to lie down. She curled up into a smaller ball that anyone would have thought possible, tucking her nose under one leg to warm the air before it invaded her lungs, careful to avoid contact with the always-cold bars of her crate. The heater shut off abruptly and the cold air claimed possession of the kennel. Outside, a frost of snow covered the ground, the last icy remnants of the first snow of the season yesterday. Greyhound toenails scrabbled on the hard ground between the kennel and the track and the concrete in the turnout areas was frigid. The sand on the track itself clotted in unpleasant ways, small chunks wedging between their toes and prickling before dissolving into an acceptable running surface. Maybe it would have been better to be back on the farm in one of the brood runs. At least there she had enough room to stretch her legs, a little bit more consistent heating system, and two extra blankets. No cramps from sudden blasts of cold air or legs curled up too long. Had Trump not spent five years as a brood bitch, she would never have known anything different from her crate at the kennel. The dogs around her were much younger, struggling to break their maidens on the track, recuperating from the stress and strain of racing or simply biding their time, marking off the minutes between turnout periods and race days when they had at least a semblance of freedom. They did not know about the farms, about the longer runs and better accommodations accorded a brood bitch expecting a litter. Then again, Trump knew that there was much about the rest of the world that she didn’t understand. On the farm, she’d seen other dogs off in the distance, running free, sniffing whatever they wanted to sniff. She had smelled the enticing foreign scents that the humans brought into the kennel from their homes, had seen the smaller humans — pups, she imagined, judging from their very unacceptable behavior — following the larger humans around. The human pups intrigued her. As raucous and unruly as they were, most of the youngsters had an uncanny streak of sensitivity about them, one that led them to crouch next to her for long minutes, staring into her deep chocolate eyes, tiny fingers caressing the delicate folds of her ears and fluttering over her snout like butterflies. They were young, of course, and not terribly patient, but on some level they understood even better than the adults how much the greyhounds craved attention and affection. The door to the kennel banged open, bringing with it a cold blast of outside air. Heavy boots stomped on concrete, and a muttered curse accompanied a man’s entrance. The door slammed shut behind him, the noise drowning out the music for just a moment. Normally, the greyhounds were hysterical whenever somebody entered the kennel. New sounds and scents that broke up the monotony between turnouts were all glorious events, each one unique and individual. Every time a person entered the kennel, they had a slightly different smell, an ephemeral record of where they’d been, who they’d seen, what they’d done since the last time they’d been in the dogs’ area. A single odd smell could provide fodder for hours of thought as each greyhound compared it to their vast databases of smells, contrasting it with similar ones, unwinding the strands of scent that went into making each individual smell. But not with this man, no. Something about his scent told the muscles along the napes of their necks and backs to contract, preparing them for fight or flight. He was known as Dark Man and none of them dared so much as growl at him. A smaller man follow him in and the greyhounds relaxed slightly. A familiar, warm scent, something like cornbread and hot gravy, wholesome and clean. It was tainted slightly by his contact with the larger man, but that didn’t confuse the greyhounds. They knew, on a level that the humans could never understand, who was their friend and who was not. Trump had privately named the second man Skritcher and she knew him fairly well. He had a light, delicate touch on an ear skritch — hence his nickname — knowing just when to press harder and when to let off. He had trimmed her toenails on several occasions, handling her paws gently, and had never ever once made her foot hurt. On such small things were built a man’s reputation. The two men headed for Trump’s crate, Dark Man leading the way. The greyhounds collectively sucked in a hard breath, their muscles tensing involuntarily as they prepared to run or fight. The only problem was, despite their reflexes, that there was nowhere to run to. All the greyhounds knew that greyhounds came and went. Some of them went to other tracks and they would see them later. Others must be going to tracks faraway because they were never smelled again. A number of superstitions had grown up to explain the abrupt disappearances of kennelmates. Some greyhounds thought that the missing greyhounds had gone to a farm, one without cages or kennels or muzzles, a place where they could run and play and swim and run and eat and run all day long. The Great Farm, they theorized, was a doggy nirvana with slow, clumsy but exceptionally well-fed rabbits. There would be an endless supply of small things that were furry or squeaked or rolled or bounced and the kennel would be completed by a perfect air-conditioning and heating system, one that kept every eight-inch deep bed at absolutely the right temperature. The greyhounds who believed in the Great Farm yearned for the day they would go to there and believed that the trials and tribulations of kennel life were meant to test and build a greyhound’s character. Other greyhounds scoffed at the notion. There was the kennel they lived in, there was running every third day, and there were turnouts. That was it. Yes, there was a larger world outside, or at least there seemed to be. But did they really have any evidence that it existed at all, other than brief glimpses out the bars of travel trailers as they were in transit between tracks? Sure, the humans brought in odd smells that hinted tantalizingly of a world beyond the track, but there were a number of explanations for that, weren’t there? And besides, even if there was such a place as the Great Farm, there was no evidence that any of them were going to it. After all, nobody had ever gone to the Great Farm and come back to tell about it, had they? A third faction straddled the line between the other two, decrying the cynicism of the second group and marveling at the naiveté of the first. It didn’t matter, they argued. Either there was or there was not a Great Farm and nothing the greyhounds could do affected its existence or functioning in the slightest. Therefore, it was a waste of time to even contemplate what or how it might be. Privately, Trump thought all three groups were a bit dogmatic. She fancied she had a bit more firsthand experience with the world outside the racing kennel than the others did. As a brood bitch on a farm, she had seen for herself evidence that other canines led entirely different lives. She’d even lived a better life there herself, or at least so it seemed looking back on it. And yet, it hadn’t been a complete bed of roses, had it? (Not that anyone wanted to sleep on roses anyway, not the roses she’d met. Nice smells, but vicious.) The luxuries of farm life had been tempered by the all-consuming presence of her puppies. Just when you caught a whiff of a scent you’d like to investigate or heard an alien pack of non-greyhounds howling, there was a pup biting your belly wanting dinner, wanting to play — and did they ever learned the word no? — or waddling into danger on his or her own. Pups, yes — they were the downside to farm life. Never in her wildest dreams as a racer had she or could she have imagined just how much time and attention they’d required. Nor could she have imagined herself willing to give it to them. In fact, when she first understood why she been at the farm, she had privately determined to have nothing to do with puppies. Okay, they might shove a litter of them in her cage to care for, but she would ignore them and sooner or later the people would be forced to find somewhere else for the pups to go. But it hadn’t turned out like that at all. The biological imperative to care for them had overwhelmed her, stunning her with its intensity. She could no more have allowed a pup to suffer or go without food or remain uncomforted than she could have gnawed off her own leg. And after each litter, each one that drained her so, she silently swore that there would be no more. And yet each time, she dove back into her role, giving it her best. So, if there was a Great Farm somewhere, it wasn’t on the breeding farm. It would have to be something completely outside of a dog’s existence or understanding, some place none of them had ever seen. Despite her reputation as a tough, cynical bitch, Trump’s streak of sentimentality made her refrain from disabusing the other dog’s of their notions about the Great Farm. And besides, she wasn’t so certain just what the truth was anyway. Another superstition that had grown up had been centered on the two men. Legend had it that which one was the first to touch your cage determined what happened to you. If Dark Man touched it, you would go to a very bad track with smaller kennels, poor food, maybe even no air-conditioning. But if Skritcher touched it, ah — that was another matter entirely. Then you would go on to find what the Great Farm was all about. Trump also held this tradition to be silly, since Skritcher had been the one to take her to the breeding farm. It was only by the oddest of coincidence that she was back in the racing kennel at all and she was still not certain she understood why she was there at all. After all, she wasn’t racing anymore, was she? All she got was her four turnouts every day. When you got right down to it, she wasn’t really sure how she felt about racing now, either. She still saw herself as a young, sleek fawn, the fastest fawn in the world, one who beat the pants off every other dog she’d ever raced against until the very last race. But on another level, she knew she was no longer a young four-year-old in her prime or even a six-year-old pushing the age limit to step onto the track. Her joints ached now more in the morning than they had in the past, and her naps were more like comfortable friends than the deep sleep after a race. Strains and bruises healed more slowly, and running with the other dogs in the turnout area, she was horrified to find that some of them were faster than she was. Not all of them, of course. After all, she was Trump, the fastest fawn in the world. Or at least, that’s who she had been, just like her ancestors. And that brought up another point, one that complicated the whole discussion of life after the kennel. Deep in his bones, every greyhound carried the memories of his ancestors, written in obscure Jungian code. Memories were not recorded as concrete pictures or even always the specific incidents but on some deeper, more primitive level. Each greyhound had access to those memories, had a sense of what it had been like to live in the royal courts of Egypt, to be a companion of kings and queens in England, to race across hot desert flatlands and through ancient green forests. Again, the greyhounds were divided on what those memories really meant. Some believe that they were actual incidents. Others, usually the more cynical group, claim they were simply daydreams, pleasant consolations for the vicissitudes of daily life. Unlike the question of the Great Farm, Trump held some fairly definite views on this issue. She was quite certain that her memories were real, if incomplete. How else to explain her own deep sense of knowing in certain situations, the firm conviction that she knew smells and scents that she’d never encountered in her lifetime? How else was it that greyhounds knew each other’s bloodlines simply by smell and could calculate their degree of kinship immediately? There was something beyond daily life that bound them together, something beyond the progression of seasons, the coming and going of dogs and trainers and the changing circumstances of tracks, kennels and crates. And something beyond Dark Man and Skritcher. They had been standing motionless outside her crate, allowing her mind to wander, but the moment Dark Man’s hand moved, her brain snapped back to the present. He seemed to be moving slowly, reaching for her crate door, and despite her disdain for kennel legends, a cold deeper than the weather invaded her soul when his hand touched the latch. Fear scent flooded the kennel. At heart they were all superstitious, no matter what their intellectual arguments were, and there was not a dog or bitch there that did not quail at the sight of Dark Man touching Trump’s crate. Just then, the outer door to the kennel opened. Cold air poured in, but this time bringing with it a sweet scent, the calm, focused determination of a true alpha human. Dark Man’s and Skritcher’s scents were immediately overwhelmed. Blinded by the light streaming into the kennel, now cowering in the back of her crate, Trump could see only a small, dim figure standing in the doorway. Nancy Catherine Bruebaker spoke. "I’ve come for Trump." She held out her hand, a leash dangling from it. "I’ll take her now."
Two Two weeks later, Trump had completely revised her opinions on the existence of the Great Farm. If there was a greyhound heaven, she was willing to bet it looked pretty much like Meg and Roger Carter’s house. Nancy Catherine had hustled Trump out of the kennel and into her car. Trump had supposed she should have been anxious, but the woman’s scent had reassured her immeasurably. Somewhere in the past, the woman’s ancestors and hers had been close friends, inseparable even. They shared so much history, so many eons of companionship, that Trump found herself immediately at peace. The relief, coming on the heels of the adrenaline surge at the kennel, had had its inevitable effect. Trump settled into the back of Nancy Catherine’s van and went to sleep. Three hours later, Nancy Catherine had pulled to a stop in front of a neat ranch-style house. The front was deceptively well-maintained, but Trump could smell the other dogs. Six of them, all greyhound except one, and the one stranger had lived with the greys so long that she’d acquired some of their scents. Within minutes, Trump felt at home at the Carter’s house. The backyard was comprised of two acres with a six foot solid fence running around it, a small stretch of woods encompassing one corner. She had a nice run about, quickly established her place within the pack— after all, she was Trump — and for the last fourteen days, life could not have been better. That’s why the current situation was so disturbing. Trump stared at Meg, deep disappointment in her eyes. There could be no mistake about what was happening, and the rest of the pack knew it as well. Tragedy, of the darkest sort ever seen, had struck. They were out of biskies. Or, at least so close to out as made no difference, and it was the woman’s fault. The woman had so few responsibilities in life — at least from Trump’s point of view — and to have to confront Meg’s dereliction of duty was deeply disturbing. After all, the greyhounds kept up their end of the bargain. The couches were kept properly warmed, the yard was regularly inspected and small critters chased off. They also provided early warning of possibly dangerous garbage trucks, UPS men and women, and a host of other urban dangers that so few realized existed. Well, the worst thing to do would be to ignore just a blatant breach of good taste. Trump fixed Meg with the look that she used on her most troublesome pups. Meg knew she was in trouble. Seven greyhounds — well, six greyhounds and one dog of undetermined ancestry — were staring at her accusingly. Meg kept her eyes fixed on the bottom of the box in order to avoid meeting their gazes. Four biscuits remained in a bright red box that had originally held fifteen pounds of the greyhounds’ favorite treat. Just four. Meg scooped the biscuits out of the box and surveyed them glumly. "All right," she said firmly, "Everybody gets half of a biskie. Dinner is in two hours and I don’t want you filling up." It wasn’t like that fooled anyone. Each one of the greyhounds knew that if the box had not been virtually empty, they would have had a whole biskie, not a half. Still, half a biscuit was better than no biskie. One by one, they delicately took their portions, peeled off from the pack like combat aircraft leaving a squad and trotted off to their favorite biskie munching spots. "Honey, have you seen my gloves?" a pleasant masculine voice asked. "I’ve already packed them," she shouted back, her gaze still fixed on the greyhounds. "They’re in the duffel bag." "You’re sure?" he asked, not convinced. Meg’s propensity for forgetting to pack things was a family legend. "I’m sure," she said. "I put them in last night." "Because if I don’t have my gloves, then —." "Then we’ll buy you another pair when we get there," she answered. A lecture on the dangers of chilled flesh, frostbite and possible gangrene was the last thing she needed right now. The greyhounds were hard at work on their biskies, each according to his or her individual preference. Harry, a handsome fellow, was curled up under the Christmas tree like a giant white and brindle package. He was an elegant, refined fellow, a biskie nibbler rather than a gulper. Harry had barely dented one end by the time Jazzy finished his off. Jazzy, her little Jazzy — older now, but in her mind still the goofy little red pup with the long, girly face. Despite a serious overbite, Jazzy had finished his biskie in two bites and was busily searching under the coffee table for any crumbs that might have escaped. Trump, of course, had a very practical biskie eating plan and kept to it. She demolished it in a methodical fashion, each bite precisely the same size and abutting perfectly the one next to it. Frasier, a dark brindle senior, was not one to rush in to anything. A deep thinker (for a greyhound) he was usually the last to finish his biskie, preferring to lick it all over first and prolong the enjoyment. Meg suspected that Frasier had just as detailed a plan as Trump did, but one that focused on epicurean delights rather than efficiency. Lynch, at one year old, was far too young to do anything as boring as biskie-eating plans. The stunning white with black patches greypup had grabbed his, bolted out into the backyard and was now playing toss with it, making sure it was thoroughly dead. Besides Lynch, there was one other "greyhound" not eating. Jakob, an eleven-month-old golden and retriever mix, was running around the living room with her biskie firmly clamped between strong jaws, hitting the greyhounds on the snout with it and trying to entice them into chasing her. Although not a drop of greyhound blood flowed in his veins, he’d been raised by them and considered himself just a stubby-snouted, short-legged version of his older friends. Somewhere deep inside, Jakob was convinced that one day he, too, would have long legs and run with the wind, and nothing could disabuse him of the conviction. The last greyhound, Cali, was laying down with her head on her paws, her biscuit precisely three inches in front of her nose, untouched. Meg crossed the room and crouched down next to her. She stroked the red brindle greyhound’s delicate ear with one hand, reflexively feeling for an elevated temperature. "Are you all right, old girl?" she asked softly, keeping her voice soothing. "Don’t you want your biscuit?" Cali had been bounced from several homes before landing up at the Carter house as a foster. Her battle scars and timid demeanor had put off several potential adopters, which had been just fine with Meg. From the moment Meg had seen Cali, she’d know that Cali wasn’t going anywhere. Cali sighed and looked away. Meg felt a devastating pang of guilt. How can you talk about biskies at a time like this? Cali thought, refusing to look at Meg. I know what you’re planning. I’ve seen this before. Those small crates, all the excitement around here — you can’t fool me. You’re leaving. Cali, the eldest of the group at twelve years old, knew all about people and their undependable ways. Despite having an excellent crate, fully carpeted and heated, plenty of food and an outside fenced yard, people rarely seemed completely content. At her last home, one that had been devastated by divorce, Cali had seen the same thing. Everything two people could want, everything in the world — and yet it had not been enough to keep them in their crate. It was in her last home that she’d learned about the dangers of winter weather. Long, balmy summers, the crisp renewal of autumn — and then winter. Low, scudding clouds, cold, frozen ground, and, inevitably, the holidays. Every year, just when the snow started falling, there would be a time like this. The people would be excited, running about, opening spare rooms, bringing things inside that should properly remain outside. Trees, branches, all sorts of things like that. And then, just when everybody was completely excited — they left. The kennel. Cali shivered at the thought. Alone in a place that reminded her too much of her racing days without the joy of running — away from her people, curled up on a bed not even her own — the kennel. It was enough to make a greyhound’s blood run cold. For one week every year, Cali was alone, abandoned, deserted, consigned to a boarding kennel. No matter that the kennel was relatively warm, fairly sanitary, and actually a bit better than some places she had stayed when she was racing. It never mattered too, no matter how many times it happened, that her people always came back eventually. For that one long week each year, she was abandoned. Meg glanced over at Trump, who was only halfway through her biscuit. The senior fawn was the most recent addition to the pack, a temporary foster (or so Meg told herself) as a result of the Greyland track closing. Nancy Catherine Brubaeker, always the most persuasive of advocates and virtually implacable when it came to placing dogs, had promised her that it was only for a few weeks. A few weeks. Right. She studied the graceful fawn bitch, admiring how muscular and lean she was. Trump was in excellent condition, despite her five years as a brood bitch. She was easily among the fastest of her greys, outdistancing even Cali in their yard runs. To her very core, Trump was championship material — and Trump knew it. I bet it will be more than a few weeks. People don’t adopt dogs over the holidays. And Trump isn’t the easiest placement in the world, is she? Meg refused to acknowledge the thought already creeping into her brain. If Trump didn’t find a permanent home soon, she would most probably simply join Meg’s pack as a permanent member. But was it fair to the senior fawn to let her drift along like this with her status in limbo? Not really. On some level, the greyhounds knew when they were fosters and when they were permanent pack members. It made them slightly uncomfortable to know that this wasn’t their forever home. It made Meg uncomfortable, too. She had never met a greyhound yet who she did not want to immediately and permanently adopt. "I found them," she heard Roger say and turned around to find him standing in the door to the hallway, a cheerful grin on his face. In his hands he held a battered pair of ski gloves, the ones he had had since high school. They were his lucky gloves and nothing could convince him otherwise. She had tried giving him new gloves for Christmas, tried pointing out styles she particularly admired on the slopes, tried just about everything she could think of to convince him that it was time to update his wardrobe. Nothing worked. Roger had his favorite gloves, and that was that. At least that applies to wives as well. She looked past him to the pack of greyhounds lounging about the living room, wondering for perhaps the millionth time how she’d been so lucky to find the one person that not only put up with her obsession to collect greyhounds but seemed to enjoy them almost as much as she did. "Did you put everything back in the duffel bag?" she asked in mock sternness, knowing full well he hadn’t. The remainder of their ski gear would be spread around on the bed. It wasn’t that he meant to make a mess — in the fervor to find his beloved gloves, he would simply have stacked everything on the bed, all the while promising himself that any second he would neatly repack it and put it back in. "Almost," he said, still cheerful. "I will." "I’ll do it," Meg said. "But I just noticed we’re out of dog biscuits. Maybe you should run down to the store and gets more before the dog sitters get here." "I can do that." He handed her his ski gloves to repack. "They should be here any minute, shouldn’t they?" "And no doubt they’ll be exactly on time," she observes dryly. As she had so many times in the past week, she wondered again if they were doing the right thing. To be sure, a dog sitter was much better than putting the greyhounds in a kennel. They could stay at home, be comfortable on their own couches and be together. The greyhounds could eat their own food, their specially prepared raw diet. Large baggies of it were now crammed into the freezer. And in the long run, the dog sitters were less expensive than the kennel. But there was something about the dog sitters that bothered her, although she could not put her finger on it. By any objective standards, the McElroys, a husband and wife in their early sixties, seemed absolutely perfect. They came highly recommended by Meg’s veterinarian and had provided a list of impeccable references. Buster McElroy was only a few inches taller than Meg. What hair he had remaining around the edge of the scalp was white, stiff, and stuck out like a halo (Or like Ronald McDonald.) He had dark brown, almost black eyes, a ruddy face, and was somewhat rotund. He had a habit of rubbing the side of his face when he was listening, and Meg found that reminded her of her fifth-grade teacher who she’d disliked. His wife, Chloe McElroy, was taller than her husband by several inches, a lean, sparse woman. Chloe had pale blue eyes, so pale that they looked like ice. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were a dark blue-black, in contrast to her silver hair. She let her husband do most of the talking, and sat quietly in a chair with her hands folded in her lap. Despite the winter chill in the air, Chloe had worn a light cotton dress to their first interview, and Meg had noticed it was neatly patched in one spot. She wondered whether the couple needed money desperately and if this was their own only source of income. So what is it? Just some grade school flashback bothering you because Buster rubs his face that way? You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Most of the time, Meg’s imagination worked to her advantage. She was a writer, a prolific one, and spent days submerged in fantasy worlds she created. It wasn’t, she insisted, that she was absentminded. It was just that during at least half of her waking hours she was the dragon keeper in an ancient castle, a medieval warrior or the captain of a starship. It wasn’t that Meg had trouble distinguishing between reality and the worlds she created. It was simply that she preferred the latter most of the time. "You’re not still worried about them, are you?" Roger asked, his car keys dangling from his fingers as he headed for the door. "Because you shouldn’t be." "No, I guess not," Meg said slowly. "I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just that —." "Just what?" Roger said, giving her his full attention. That was one of the thing she loved about him, the fact that he listened to everything she said. "The greyhounds," Meg said, trying to pin down exactly what was that bothered her. "They didn’t seem especially taken with them." "They rushed up to them for a pat," Roger pointed out. "Mister McElroy had leashes in his hand, and they thought they were going for a walk. No, it was after that, when we were sitting around talking. Trump came over and sniff them a couple of times and Cali came over for a pet, but they pretty much left them alone. They stayed close to us, if you remember." Roger nodded patiently. "But they know we’re going somewhere, don’t they? They always get a bit odd when the suitcases come out." "I know. It’s just with other people, they’re always all over them." "Maybe they had just come from another house and the greyhounds smelled strange dogs on them." It could go on like this for hours, Meg thought. Roger would willingly stand there and provided a gentle reality check for every objection she raised. And, on the surface of it, everything he said was true. The greyhounds did know something was up and they didn’t like it. Meg and Roger tried to get away for a long weekend every other month or so, and the greyhounds were always odd about it. Normally, the presence of their usual dog sitter, one of the kennel workers named Alicia Campbell, soothed their fears. But Alicia had gone home for an early start on her holiday season, taking a one month leave of absence from the kennel. "Go get the biskies," Meg said, firmly shutting her worries out of her mind. They were only going to be gone for five days — the dogs would be fine. "You sure?" Meg nodded. "I’m sure." Roger turned back to the door. The second his hand touch the doorknob, the doorbell rang. Trump looked up the door, deep suspicion and concern in her heart. The people outside the door were making small scuffling and scratching sounds as they smoothed their clothes down and prepared themselves for the opening of the door. They were whispering to each other, their voices too quiet for Meg and Ron to hear but completely audible to a greyhound. Although Trump did not understand all the words, the tone of voice sent a shiver through her. There was a harsh, grating note to both voices even though the tones were attempting to be pleasant. Worst of all, they stank. They were doused with artificial stinks, the same sort that Meg and Roger occasionally used, to Trump’s consternation. The artificial scent did nothing to mask their true smells, of course. The stinks simply gave Trump a headache and confirmed her suspicions about their guilt. They were trying to hide what was obvious to any decent canine nose. The strangers were human, of course, older than Meg and Roger. Both were in relatively good health, although the man’s breathing was slightly labored. The woman, too, had a strange scent to her, indicating a dark, hidden illness. It would be years before it would show up on physical exam, but Trump’s nose knew immediately something was wrong. Trump could have lived with their bloodline and health information — doG knew that there were days that she didn’t feel so well herself — and most of what she was detecting from them was simply a result of the inevitable aging process. It was the final component of their scent signature that worried her the most, the one that gave her information about their temperaments. Both of them were hard, forbidding characters, each an alpha dog in his or her own way. But flawed, deeply flawed. The man’s alpha streak had a broad swath of what Trump could only describe as stickiness. She’d smelled it before in Dark Man but never so strongly. The woman, for her part, reeked of seething anger barely controlled. It was clamped down under iron will but still there, spewing out its poison for anyone to smell. She’d have to be watched carefully. If she ever exploded, the result was likely to be uncontrollable rage. In day-to-day life, the man was likely to be the larger threat, but the woman was the bigger danger. They stunk of other animals too, most particularly cats. Now that Trump could understand. Cats, with their treacherous ways, were the most likely animals for these people to consort with. Not dogs, despite the smell of a Labrador Retriever, two terrier mixes, and a Border Collie. The scents of the other dogs were only surface, indicating that the people they been in contact with them but did not own the other dogs. Had they been actual residents, the scent would have been more a part of them. She could smell the other dogs’ fear and anxiety, too, and knew she was not alone in her judgment. She noted with amusement that the Border Collie had peed on the man’s shoe and he hadn’t even noticed it. Around her, the rest of the pack was getting the same message. She could feel little arrows of concern ricocheting around the room, amplifying each other’s perceptions and anxieties. Trump got to her feet but did not move forward. She settled into a strong, stable stance, ready for any danger that might appear. The others, following her lead, moved closer to her. Her people walked to the door. The man touched the doorknob and Trump groaned. Yikes! Had the people no sense? She’d known they were little slow in certain areas, but she did not expect anything so foolhardy as what they were doing now. The man, who certainly knew better, was opening the door. Trump stifled a low growl and kept her gaze fixed on the door. No point in worrying her people. This was greyhound business.
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