One

Misha had just finished enlarging the entrance to a muskrat den when the wind swirled a piquant blend of cottage cheese and mangoes around her. She stopped digging and cocked her head. A barely audible rustling and a quiet click of tooth against tooth was coming from the same direction. Cottage cheese and mangoes and small little gnawing sounds meant only one thing — rabbit.

Normally, the mere possibility that a langomorph might be within five miles was enough to send any Airedale into a frenzy, but Misha was no ordinary Airedale (if in fact that adjective may ever be properly used when talking about the King of Terriers). She was a large girl, Alpha of both her own pack on Toad Dale Farm and of the universal pack comprised of every dog in the county. As Alpha, she had certain responsibilities, duties that she must carry out to set an example for the rest of the pack.  Right now that meant eliminating the muskrats burrowing into the dam that contained Folta Pond. Still, Misha would not have been human – not that she was, but you get my point – if she had been completely immune to the heavy, intoxicating scent of a rabbit.

From the rabbits’ points of view, the Airedales were bogeymen. Generation after generation of rabbits had grown up on scary tales of black and tan monsters, the stories passed down from litter to litter. The terriers’ fierceness and swiftness and bravery grew with every telling and every rabbit that lived to adulthood knew how dangerous they were. The rabbits were terrified of anything black and tan, no matter what size.

 Of course, not all rabbit communities suffered from collective black and tan phobias. Toad Dale Farm was a haven for Airedales, part of the nation wide network of rescue organizations sponsored by the American Kennel Club.  Every day, the two-legged beings on the farm spent hours on the telephone, tracking down reports of missing, abused or impounded Airedales, evaluating new arrivals at the farm, interviewing prospective adopters.  Each Airedale that came through the gate had his or her own story and most of them moved the humans to either anger or tears.  That the ideal, the King of all Terriers, could have muddy, overgrown coats, long-neglected nails, mats and burrs and scrapes and wounds untreated, reflected the worst in the human race.

Two months ago, Misha herself had been a new arrival on the farm.  She had been found tied to a tree in the backyard of an abandoned house in Ohio, a choke chain digging into her neck, the chain that bound her to a tree wrapped several times around its trunk.  There was no food or water in evidence and a circle of closely-gnawed grass around the tree and a lack of twigs or leaves was enough evidence of what she'd been surviving on.

Misha had been thin, so painfully thin that she had had no resistance to the weather that was starting to turn cold.  Pneumonia had set in, and though Misha may not have known the medical terms for condition, she could feel deep in her bones that something was terribly, terribly wrong.  By the time rescue reached her, she had almost given up.

Almost.  As close to it as she came, it was not in the nature of an Airedale to give up on anything while she still a breath left in her body, and Misha was no exception.

Tim and Lisa Evans had been appalled when they'd seen Misha for the first time.  Misha was a large Airedale, particularly for female.  She should have weighed around eighty pounds. When she arrived at Evans’ house, she weighed barely fifty-five pounds.  Her coat was thin and dull, the hair straight as though she had not enough energy to make it curl.  She had slunk unwillingly into the house, fearful of everything and everyone there.  It had taken a determined effort to bring her around at all.  But at the end of two months, she was well on her way to recovery, and she regained the normal buoyant, cheerful personality of a healthy Airedale.

            Of all the things that Misha enjoyed about the farm, crashing through the woods was just about the best thing in the world.  The there was so much to see and to smell: leaves to be snorted and pawed at, old traces of burrows to be uncovered.  There was always something that had changed since her last visit, even if it had been only hours earlier, and Misha was keen student of her environment.

            She was not the only one who frequented this section of the woods, of course.  Almost every Airedale on the farm also considered crashing through the woods to be the ultimate fun.  And the fact that there was just a few hundred feet beyond a pond — well, that was just icing on the cake.

            Misha returned to her task, digging for another five minutes before a large rock blocked further work. Frustrated, she backfilled the hole.  Enough for today. Tomorrow, or later this evening, she’d try to find the main entrance to the maze of tunnels the muskrats had dug into the bank and the dam.

            Satisfied that she’d set a decent example for the others, Misha turned her attention back to the rabbit.  The scent was stale now and the air silent.  She’d have to flush him all over again if she wanted to give chase.  And frankly, after the hard work of digging, she was not precisely in the mood for it.  What she’d really like was to clean up a bit and cool off.  She turned to stare at the pond behind her with deep affection.

            The pond, ah, the pond.  Folta Pond, the people called it.  It had been named after an Airedale Rescuer in Texas, a woman who’d gone on to the Rainbow Bridge. If her pond was any indication, she’d been a wonderful, splashy woman, full of fun and life. Misha looked forward to meeting her someday. 

Misha paused for a moment, trying to decide whether she really did want to flush rabbits or go for nice little swim.  Maybe not a swim, exactly.  Perhaps more like a wade.  A splashy wade, the water equivalent of crashing through woods.  There had been rain recently and the banks along the pond would be slick with clay and mud, always fun to play in.  The creek that fed the pond was swollen and brown, crowding its banks as though ready to escape.  Yes, there were plenty of reasons that a good wade would be just the thing right now.

And the fish — one mustn't forget the fish.  Though so far Misha had not yet managed to catch one, she was determined to do so.  And on her own, not during a time when the person was out feeding them.  Then, as the woman stood on the bank of the pond and tossed tasty morsels of fish kibble into the water — and what was with that, wasting perfectly good kibble on the fish?  — the fish swarmed to the surface.  They flashed green and gold and silver just under the muddy surface of the water, occasionally rising out of it to flaunt their tails at her.  The bass, so quick and limber.  The brim, even faster but not nearly as nimble.  All terribly enticing.

All but the catfish. Misha shuddered a bit as she contemplated holding one in her mouth. They were fish, certainly, but ugly ones, sluggish and skulking along the bottom of the pond. They moved slowly, the whiskers around their faces an obscene parody of an Airedale’s charming and tasteful beard.  (Snufflers, her person called them in private, and Misha was quite rightly proud of hers.) 

On the days her person did not brush her, Misha groomed her own snufflers, easing her claws through the knots, smoothing them down with the rough pads on her feet so that they would lie smoothly and flutter slightly in the wind.  They made, she thought, a thoroughly elegant contrast to her rough, curly coat.  The smoothness of her beard against the curly overcoat, — yes, she was quite certain she cut a fine figure.

Not all of the other Airedales were quite as diligent about their personal appearance and grooming.  That large male, Dudley, for instance — she shuddered delicately as a mental image of his massive frame rose unbidden in her mind.  Misha privately doubted that his coat had ever seen a sharp pair of clippers or a decent stripping comb.  It was soft and wild, although acceptably curly.  His back and his face were massively furred with what she could only describe as dreadlocks.  The fur on his neck stuck out stiffly like a mane and most days his eyes were not even visible underneath his shaggy brows.

His snufflers, however, were different matter entirely — secretly, Misha coveted them, envied the long, ferocious way they hung under his jaw, the sheer length of them, the thickness.  Why, she was quite certain he could hold at least a quart of water in them, carry it across the room without losing too much and still have enough to shake all over the woman.  Misha herself knew that while her own snufflers were quite fine looking and acceptable, square in the middle of the breed standard for beards, they could carry only enough water to dribble across the kitchen floor on the way to the living room. 

            But of course, there was more to life than just crashing through woods, hunting rabbits and speculating on the demonic nature of catfish. There was, in fact, a great deal more, and even in her short time at the farm, Misha wondered that the humans knew so little about what really went on in their the world.

You could hardly blame them, she supposed. Her own people, fine specimens of their race that they were, were slow, virtually deaf and blind, and given to ridiculous flights of  fancy. She, along with the other Airedales, often wondered what they would do if they were left on their own. They would probably starve without the Airedales to remind them when meals were to be prepared, for starters. They seemed to have no sense at all sometimes. It was the quite possible to look straight at one, clearly communicating the fact that the Airedale was hungry, and be ignored. Any sentient being with any sort of good sense would immediately feed the Airedale. Cottage cheese, preferably, or perhaps yogurt. A nice bit of chicken — raw, of course — or beef would not go unappreciated either.

But no, you would think that the fact that the Airedales got hungry every day was new to them. Didn't they know that a routine, once established, should be followed? Even human beings had standards of some sort, didn't they? Couldn't they tell when it was exactly fifteen minutes before sunset, the precise time at which an Airedale should be fed her evening meal?

Moreover, they seem to have no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. They went blindly through their days, paying no attention to dangerous trucks on the road only half a mile away, UPS trucks, flocks of crows and odd, disembodied announcements of, “You’ve got mail!” No wonder that the rules required each Airedale to give voice to a loud bark at least one an hour to warn any undetected intruders or strangers that this property  was under the protection of the King of  Terriers.

If it weren't for those opposable thumbs, humans would be a complete mess. Misha sighed as she contemplated how dire the human’s straits would be without the assistance of the Airedales.

Suddenly, far in the distance, the faintest tickle of sound rose above the background noise. Misha held her breath, head cocked slightly, straining to hear. Was it? Could it be? She was almost out of oxygen when she finally arrived at the decision.

Yes! It was a siren!

Misha was not the only one who heard it. All over the farm, other Airedales immediately stopped what they were doing, cocked their heads and listened intently. Who would be the first?

I will. Misha stretched and tipped her head back, forming a long, sweet column from her trachea directly to her lungs. Her exquisite lips twitched as she drew a deep lung full of air, and formed themselves into a lovely, perfect oval. Tilting her head back the slightest bit more, Misha gave in to the irresistible urges swarming up from her very soul. Her massive lungs contracted in a smooth, professional manner, forcing the air out to her vocal cords in precisely correct increments. In perfect form, Misha howled.

All around her, the other Airedales quickly followed her lead. Their voices distinct and as familiar as the sound of her own  breathing. There was Mr. Bear, far off near the fences around the property, searching yet again for the hole he’d once seen a rabbit come out of. Mr. Bear’s voice was high and slightly off-key, and had a tendency to waver from  what was acceptable. He howled in brief bursts, pausing to make the most unattractive drawling noise in between his whole notes. Misha had seen Mr. Bear howl and knew that the other Airedale’s eyes even now were shut, a clear violation of every rule of howling.

Then Pixie and Isaac joined in, their howls clear, clean and competently executed.  Pixie, just starting her obedience training was on temporary duty two farms over, coordinating sector patrols for the southern part of the county. Isaac had gone with her to help out – and, Misha hoped, to keep her in balance. Isaac was as mellow as Pixie was driven and Misha had great hopes for the combination.

Dudley's voice indicated that he was nearer the house, probably just waking up from another nap. His voice was a low, compelling baritone, sliding easily up and down a six  note scale, pausing the appropriate amount of time on each note. It was unfair, she thought, to judge her own exquisite howling against his. He had larger lungs, and could hold a single howl much longer than she could, far past the point when she was dizzy and ready to pass out.

Misha held her middle C for five seconds, then contracted her vocal cords slightly, taking her up the scale in smooth almost imperceptible steps. She lingered on each full note just long enough to let everywhere admire her skill, finished  seven notes higher, then started her gradual slide down the scale. She timed her breathing so she could draw in another lung full of air just at the bottom of the scale, not interrupting the smooth flow of notes.

The wail of the siren was growing louder. A fire truck this time, she thought, a real treat. Ambulances or police cars were the usual fare and quite acceptable, although the recent tendency towards the using a variable warble on police cars instead of the traditional wail she found repulsive. Ambulances were all right, although the sirens were really a little bit too high-pitched to be entirely acceptable. But a fire truck — now there was a siren you could howl to. Starting low, sliding way up the scale, encompassing the full range of Airedale howl starting points, the siren steady and regular, none of these short bursts that she sometimes heard from  ambulances.

A fire truck’s siren showed planning and thoughtfulness, Misha always thought, and consideration for the other species — well, that would be dogs primarily, wouldn't it? – who were required to respond to the siren. Yes, the coyotes in the area sometimes joined in, but really, they so often howled without reason that there was not much point counting their participation. It was the Airedales that people relied on to warn them when trouble was about, the Airedales who heard the siren far earlier than the humans did and alerted them to the danger.

Like garbage trucks. And other cars that drove down roads bordering the property, and  all the other dangers in the world that were the Airedale's responsibility.

Misha glanced at the sun and saw  that she still had two hours before her evening meal would be served — or, at least when it should be served, although on two occasions recently the humans had not fed her until after dark.

doG bless them. They tried, she supposed. That would have to be enough.

The pond and the fish would have to wait. As a fire engine receded in the distance, Misha stopped howling, finishing cleanly at the end of the down scale. She paused for a moment to savor the afterglow of good group howl, then shook her head once and trotted off to the north edge of the property, to the fence. There was work to be done.

 There were two other dogs waiting for her at the fence. Misha, as always, stifled the impulse to rush forward and bark at them, to warn them away from her property. Under normal circumstances, of course, that was required. But not when there was work to be done.

She advanced on them slowly, tail held high, her eyes filled with the classic terrier fire. Although she was a relatively new arrival to the town, the simple fact the she was Airedale entitled to her to a position of responsibility within the local governmental structure. The other two, a Redbone Hound named Bentley and a Border Collie named Woody, turned their gazes away from her respectfully for a moment, waiting to be acknowledged. Misha gave a slight nod, indicating they should approach. They moved forward quickly.

Behind them, curled up on a soft patch of grass, was a Greyhound named Gambler. Gambler was a big black greyhound with white markings.  A broken left rear leg had forced him to retire from racing, and after fathering several litters of pups, he’d been placed in a wonderful home by a greyhound rescue group. His broken leg had healed well, and although Misha considered him a somewhat flighty creature, he was still by far the fastest dog in the county.  He was commonly employed as a messenger between the various command centers, his only real weakness being that he sometimes forgot unimportant parts of the message, unimportant meaning anything that didn’t interest him personally.

From a terrier's point of view, the decision-making was more important than a thorough understanding of any miscellaneous facts. After all, that's what they were bred to do, wasn’t it? To lead the other dogs. And, no matter how the decisions turned out, the Airedales would make it come out all right.

Misha squatted gracefully next to the fence to make a small mark. It was no longer strictly necessary, she supposed, but Misha was something of a traditionalist. Property should be marked at required intervals every day, and there was no way she was going to let her standards slip in front of these two members of working breed classes. The formalities taken care for a moment, Misha said, "Report."

Of course, Misha did not speak to them  the way a human would — that would be ridiculous. Canine language is a combination of scents, vocalizations  and body posture, and while individual breeds might develop their own dialects, there was a common lingua franca that existed between all breeds. It was a rather simple language, devoid of many of the subtleties that the terrier dialect could encompass, but it was sufficient for most purpose and all dogs knew it.  Even the Greyhound, who opened one eye to look at her then drifted back off to sleep.

“Trouble at our place,” Woody said briskly. The stunning black, white and tan Border Collie lived at the Johnson’s farm, a few miles down the road.  It was an old farmhouse, immaculately maintained, as was the almost antique Olds Starfire Woody’s person drove. Woody lived there with his partner Saga, a tiny little female Border Collie who seemed to be able to defy gravity and levitate. The female human they allowed to live there currently had no mate, and that was a source of concern to them all.

“We were fed late last night,” Woody continued. “And our person didn't come home until well after third watch. And the doors were left unlocked.”

“But you two were there, yes?” Misha asked.

“We were. But that doesn't excuse —.”

“You were there.” Misha dismissed the rest of his report on his owner’s shortcomings, faintly annoyed at how often Woody complained. Border Collies tended to be a bit obsessive about rules and Woody and Saga were no exception. Privately, she thought that Saga sometimes put him up to it.

Of course his human had left the door unlocked — her dog was there, wasn’t he? And if there had been a bit of a wait for dinner, well, we all have our crosses to bear, don’t we? It never crossed her mind that to Woody a late dinner was just as important to him as Misha's was to her.

"She still seeing that man?" Misha asked, going at once to the heart of the issue.

“She is. I tried to warn her, but she isn’t paying attention." Every inch of Woody’s body radiated disapproval. Beside her, Bentley nodded his agreement.  His farm was just down the road from Woody’s.  Misha believed strongly in community policing tactics and every sector in the county was assigned to a dog that lived in the area, on the theory that they would be the first to notice something amiss.

Misha sighed. The problem of Woody’s person had occupied a good deal of their resources for the last month. They had given the man every chance to leave, had let him know that no uncertain terms he was not welcome at the Johnson house. His shoes have been peed on, his crotch nosed pointedly, even his coat anointed, and he still did not take the hint.

In the end, Misha's assessment of the situation had proved correct — the growls and glares that Woody had been required to issue had been ignored. While there were some point to satisfying the traditional requirements of the formal challenge — as I said, Misha was something of a stickler for tradition — it had been obvious from the very start that these would be of no use in the situation. Misha had voted for the immediate use of physical force, hoping to shock the Johnson woman to her senses, but had been voted down. Now, she noted with grim satisfaction, the others would see she’d been right from the very start.

The Human Relations Council was among the most demanding roles within the community. The five person board, composed of four Airedales and a token representative from another breed, was responsible for overseeing the complex interrelations between all the humans within the community. They were the ones who decided which matches were appropriated and which weren’t, who kept an eye on the less respectable transients, who conducted their evaluations of all newcomers to the community and assigned them their appropriate overseers. And most cases, such as had been with Tim and Lisa, the Airedales were content to allow the humans to make their own choices about mates, intervening only as necessary to move things along by charmingly dangling leashes, running off and being found at a new neighbor’s house, or other traditional tactics.

But this man had been trouble from the very start. From the moment Pixie had spotted him inbound, the consensus had been that he should be encouraged to move on quickly. His scent indicated that he disliked most animals, dogs in particular.

Well, no wonder. He had every reason to be concerned, the way he acted. They had tried a variety of character tests, testing his basic character through a number of subtle challenges. He had not stopped to pat Bentley, who had happened to be in the area and who had approached him strictly by the book, tail down and wagging, eyes averted, head conveniently positioned for a casual caress. (Quite privately, Misha could understand that, and she had no idea why anyone would want to pat a dog other than an Airedale. But there was no accounting for tastes.)

Then Pippuffer, a Westie terrier, had been dispatched to conduct a follow-up evaluation. Perhaps, Misha thought, the man simply had an unhealthy preference for small dogs. Pippuffer was a patrol dog, one assigned a relatively small sector appropriate to his leg length. He was, despite his size, particularly diligent in keeping Misha updated on activity in his sector and was the most thorough and cautious of any of Misha’s small dog evaluators. The reevaluation had been a complete disaster, with the man even aiming at kick at Pippuffer.  And still the man showed no signs of leaving town.

Desperate circumstances require desperate measures. Though loath to do it, Misha turned to her counterpart in the feline community for a second opinion. Gwenney, a stunning tortoise Maine Coon Cat, took her time responding to Misha’s messages.  The cat had, after all, her own responsibilities.  The feline community could barely be called organized, not in the sense that the dogs would recognize, but they did have their own rules and priorities.  Gwenney, for instance, was extremely busy evaluating visitors in her own house, as well as a number of workers. 

But even Gwenney would deign to work with the dogs on occasion when the safety of the whole community was a risk. She stalked the man for days before finally jumping up on his lap one evening when he was sitting on the Johnson’s front porch.

The man had shoved her off his lap, rudely and abruptly, not even trying to ease her off politely.  Gwenney, quite rightly, had raked his wrist with her claws and carved an indecent word in the flesh of his forearm. Misha, of course, had not yet sanctioned the use of force against him, but one rarely had any control at all over what cats will do.  Gwenney’s final report was simply a terse order requiring the man be removed from the community.

Having satisfied itself of the man’s complete antipathy toward any civilized animal life, the Human Relations Council had immediately begun formulating a plan to remove him. Oh, not by attacking him — that was not necessary. Yet. They would simply control their own humans, cueing them in on the danger, warning them not to hire him or allow him to rent rooms, and eventually demanding that he leave. Standard procedure, one that worked well. Even the cats would cooperate when a human was declared persona non grata.

Woody’s report indicated that measures short of violence had not yet produced the desired results.  Misha made a mental note to give it a week before deciding whether to move to more dramatic measures.

She listened as the reports continued.  Most of what the two had to report required no intervention on her part or a decision, and she let her attention wander.  Just when she was deciding that perhaps a nice chase after a rabbit followed by a swim would be just the thing, something the Redbone Hound said snapped her attention back to the present.

"...and no biskies or peanut butter were missing, at least as far as we could tell."

"Intruders at the Morrison’s house?” The Morrisons lived at the edge of Woody and Bentley’s sector. Their dog was Kobe, a Jack Russell Terrier, and it was quite unusual to hear of an intruder attempting entry anywhere any sort of terrier lived.. “Did the people call the police?"

Woody and Bentley  nodded.  "No sirens," Bentley said, a note of regret in his voice.

While Misha could fully sympathize with his disappointment, there were occasions where one had to put one's own needs aside and concentrate on the job at hand.  Bentley had never really understood that.  "And what did she tell them?"

The two dogs exchanged a slightly chagrined look.  "We don't know," Woody finally confessed.

"You don't know?  For heaven sakes, why not?"

There was a long silence, and Misha felt her impatience growing.  It wasn't as though there had been much to do — just keep an eye on things report back to her.  This could be serious, but she had to know exactly what was going on.  How was she supposed to lead them, to make important decisions about the welfare of all the humans and animals alike if she didn't have accurate information?

A dark suspicion invaded her heart.  She stared at them accusingly.  "He left the radio on, didn't he?" she said softly, a hint of menace in her voice. 

The two dogs looked away, guilt writ large all over their faces, confirming her educated guess.  They had been seduced by the police car, by the shine of its chrome and a muted voice coming out of the inside, by this astounding variety of smells emanating from it. 

Misha sighed. "How many times have I told you — there are no people in there!  It's just a radio.  And you know there's no way they will leave the door unlocked so you can get in and turn the siren on by yourself.”

There was something special about police cars, every dog knew that.  But the attraction was something they were trained to resist from the earliest days, and most them of them achieved a fair degree control over their impulses. 

German Shepherds excepted, of course.  It was a given that they adore police cars with a passion that exceeded an Airedale's love for a nice muddy pond.

Of course, there was no real reason the German Shepherds could  not learn to control themselves.  After all, in many parts of the world, Airedales were just as prized for use in police and law enforcement work.  And hadn’t it been Airedales that had served as the most courageous messengers during several world wars, carrying vital information back and forth and locating wounded soldiers?  The Airedale's had every reason to love police cars just as much as German Shepherds did — they just had little bit more self-control.

Misha sighed again, her breath fluttering her snufflers.  "You will have to go back and find out," she said slowly, trying to contain her irritation. "Find out and get back to me immediately. Leave me a message if I’m not here."  Still not looking at her, the two indicated their acquiescence.  They had screwed up badly, and knew it.

Seeing their look of abject misery, Misha relented.  "She probably just forgot to lock the door and the wind blew it open," she said.  "If no biskies were taken and the peanut butter was still there, it couldn't have been too serious, could it?"

The two brightened, profoundly grateful for the reprieve.  "That's what we thought," the Redbone Hound began, only to be nudged into silence by Woody.  It might be at reprieve, but it was not complete forgiveness.

"But," Misha continued sternly, "not all burglars are after biskies and peanut butter.  There are other things are people consider important.  Maybe we don't understand the reason for it — I doubt we ever will – but it is our duty to see to their happiness.  And if someone is wandering about taking things that are almost as important as biskies, then it's up to us to stop it.  We can’t expect them to do that sort of thing for themselves.  I mean, they can't even track rabbits themselves — you know how helpless they are."

"We'll find out," Woody said.  “She likes us — she'll let us in the house."

"That's good," Misha said grudgingly.  Every dog in the town had been assigned a certain number of houses as his or her responsibility.  Those who were diligent in their duties, as the Woody  was generally, had most of the sights and smells inside the house memorized.  They would go in, take a quick sniff around and see if anything was missing, pick up what they could from the humans vocalizations. 

The houses that refused to allow the dogs in posed a problem.  Sure, Gwenney coordinated information flow from the houses that had cats, but getting cooperation from the felines was chancy at best, disastrous if the cats decided to amuse themselves by playing games at the dogs’ expense.  Cat jokes, as they were termed, were funny only to the cats, not the dogs.

"Dismissed," Misha said briskly.  "I want to know immediately when you find something.  Leave me an urgent pee mail or activate the emergency alert system. I want some answers, dogs.  And I want them now." Without another word, Misha turned and bound off, confident that her orders would be obeyed.

As she started back down to the field to see if there were any suicidal rabbits about, she caught a sniff of Peach lurking behind the barn.  She suppressed a flash of irritation.  If the other female Airedale showed a little bit more diligence about her duties, then perhaps there would be more time for Misha to chase rabbits and swim.  Picking up the slack for Peach had become increasingly annoying, and, if the safety of the town and the people had not been at stake, Misha wasn't sure she would have continued to do it.

Enough for now.  A little rabbit, a little swim and then perhaps half an hour or so to work on her cave and she should be feeling in high spirits.  All she needed was to lay down the burden of her responsibilities for a few minutes and just be a dog.

Peach hunkered down low to the ground, pressing up against the side of the old barn.  Of course Misha knew she was there — how could she not? — but the two of them seem to have arrived at some unspoken truce that allowed Peach to pretend  she was invisible.  That way, Misha was not ignoring her — Peach could believe that Misha simply didn't see her.  Even though both of them knew the truth, it was a compromise that worked well for them.

Peach sighed, burying herself ever so slightly more into the soft dirt.  The barn was a place of comfort, an interesting place full of old smells and junk.  Of all the Airedales, Peach was the only one who really cared for horses very much, and she found them endlessly fascinating.  She remembered the days when there had been four horses here, four!  And they ran over the hills, kicking up their heels, scattering the rabbits before them, going to the pond to drink whenever they wanted.

And the grass — although Peach was not certain, she thought that was what fascinated her the most about horses.  She could not see the attraction of grass at first — she tried a few experimental nibbles herself, and other than the first fresh shoots in the spring and their sweet taste, she saw nothing appealing at all about eating the stuff. 

But the horses did, that much was clear.  She crept up on them several times from downwind, careful to avoid letting them catch her scent, and saw that they ate the stuff even when she wasn't around.  It wasn't some trick that they were playing on her, a joke like the other Airedales sometimes did.  No, they honestly and truly liked the stuff, and that realization expanded the boundaries of her understanding of the world beyond measure in two ways.

First, the idea that someone could like something that an Airedale would find distasteful — that alone was a realization that a more confident Airedale would not have come to and was born not out of Peach's superb intellect but out of her one major character defect.  While Peach was an Airedale in most of the traditional ways — bouncy, terrier attitude, given to head-butts, all that — she had one major weakness.  Peach liked to eat.

More than liked, really.  She adored it.  The feel of her food between her teeth, the scent of it on her snufflers, the warm fullness in her tummy and the surge of energy that flooded her body. 

In Peach's mind, anything worth doing was worth overdoing.  Having a full stomach gave her a sense of comfort and safety that only a full body pat from a human could even come close to.  And that was what led her to her understanding of grass.

When she had understood the horses were actually eating the stuff, she had been awestruck.  She had even, as an experiment, left part of a small dead animal in their grazing area, and had seen them pass it over in preference for more grass.  That's when it struck her — they liked eating grass. 

More importantly, they could eat whenever they wanted.  All they had to do was walk out of the barn, and grab a mouthful.  Anytime they wanted.  No limits.  No one taking their bowl away, no one trying to feed them low-calorie grass while the others got premium grass, no limited portions, no keeping one horse away from another's spot of grass.  The horses shared, companionably nibbling on patches together, because there was plenty of grass for everyone.  As much as they wanted to eat.  Anytime.

Misha would not have understood that, of course.  She ate what was put before her, methodically, enjoying it but soon running off to chase something or dig  something or engage in other typical Airedale pursuits.  For some reason, the other Airedales never felt the craving for just one more bowl of food, even though they were fed the really good stuff, the one that smelled so much more tempting than Peach's own diet kibble.  And they got large portions of cottage cheese and vegetables mixed in with their food, not the merest hint of cheese that Peach did.

Why didn't they understand?  Peach wasn't fat — she was just large-boned. 

But Peach’s weight was only one symptom of a more serious problem brewing. In the last two months, Peach had felt increasingly displaced in the household. At first, it was simply a matter of Misha crowding in for the first pat from a human.  Peach had given way, in a moment of graciousness, figuring that the new girl, as skinny and neglected as she looked, might need a few pats more than Peach did. 

That had been the beginning of the end.  Misha had almost immediately replaced Peach on the Human Relations Council, boldly usurping her position as though she were born to it.  Then there had been that squabble over sleeping mats, a quarrel over favorite couch positions, and in each case Misha won. 

It wasn't as though those things were really important to Peach, not in the larger scheme of things.  But it was the point of it all, was it?  Peach had been here first, had come to the farm as a mere puppy of eight weeks old, all black fur and bright eyes and needle sharp teeth.  She had grown up there, and, if there had been any justice in the world, would have been automatically considered as Senior Airedale Present, or SAP,  merely by virtue of her longevity at the farm.

But it hadn't worked out that way, had it?  She had done her job, imbuing in humans a deep love of all things Airedale, and what had gotten her?  Just a back seat, that's what, as the rescue impostors and new adoptions mounted an endless attack on her position as First Airedale and Alpha.

The situation had grown nothing but worse in recent months.  Dudley’s arrival six months ago had been difficult enough simply by virtue of his size.  But he was a male, and certain issue simply didn't matter.  And he was large — no one thought the less of her for failing to challenge him.

But Misha was another matter altogether.  She was another female.  Surely she could have had a little consideration for Peach's position.  After all, Peach had let her have first pat, hadn't she? 

At ten years old, Peach was feeling aches and pains in her bones that the younger dogs did not.  She could feel herself  slowing down, and although she knew she had never been one of the better rabbit hunters, she had given them a run for their kibble in her younger days.  Now, the rabbits almost laughed at her.

Well, she still had her secret places at least.  Places the other Airedales didn't know about.  Not in the woods, of course — all the Airedales spent entirely too much time there for any secrets.  But here, around the other side of the barn, near the manure piles.  A place the other Airedales did not often go, but one Peach had scouted out years ago. Right behind the thicket of Nandinas there was a slight gap in the foundation of the barn.  She had worked over the years, gradually hollowing out a larger and larger space until she had a rather extensive warren carved back into the barn.  She had a main sleeping den and a small storage space off of it where she kept a few treasures, all carefully covered with dirt so as to disguise their scent. 

No one knew about her den, not even that nosy Misha.  It was Peach's alone, dating back to the early days when she had been head of the Human Relations Council and had thought there might come a time when she needed a place to sleep comfortably near the north fence, the traditional place for messengers to relay information to the SAP.  It had been, she thought, a very responsible thing to do, to provide for emergencies. 

Especially after the Emerson incident.  Especially then.  Even now, she had nightmares about it that only the comfort of her den could dispel.

Peach heard splashing down by the pond. She checked the wind.  Good, it was blowing away from the house and the woods, so the other Airedales would not know what she was doing.  She hauled herself up, stretched, and walked over to the fence. She resisted the temptation to mark the ground, not wanting to alert anyone to her interest in the latest news.

Most human matters, Peach had to admit, held little interest for her.  She knew what her obligations were, yes, and regardless of what the others thought, she tried to take her duties seriously.  But, if pressed, she'd have to admit her involvement in human affairs was more a matter of duty that any real interest in the goings-on.  That was true of the Morrisons as well, with one important exception, which she fervently hoped  absolutely no one in pack knew about. 

The Morrisons owned a nice brick house, four bedrooms and seven oak trees, about two miles down the road.  They had a nice stretch of five acres, most of it fenced.  No barn, no pond, but then Peach understood that not all the world lived in the same luxury she did.  The Morrisons had three children, and they were well-behaved around dogs. 

More importantly, the Morrisons were owned by a stunning, muscular, true alpha dog, one whose finely-chiseled snout often haunted Peach's dreams.  His name was Kobe, and Peach could scarcely bear to think the name without a deep sigh.  He was true to every breed standard, had a superb hunting instinct and seemed to dominate every yard he walked into.

Peach and Kobe were about the same age and had virtually grown-up together.  They had been pups together and the Morrisons and the Evans had frequently allowed them to play together in one of the two yards.  Hours of chasing each other and wrestling, bowling each other over on the grass, splashing in the creek and digging holes — those early days had taken on a halcyon glow, the pleasures far outweighing the trauma of housebreaking and a seeming unsuitability of everything she really wanted to chew on.  They had been a time there when she thought her name was “No, Bad Pup”, at least inside the house.  But outside, ah, outside — that was a different matter entirely.  She still dreamed of those days with Kobe.

As they had grown up and had begun to shoulder their own responsibilities within the community, the play dates had become fewer and fewer and had finally stopped.  Eventually, as now, she saw Kobe only occasionally, when they went for walks in town or to dog events.  The wind sometimes brought her elusive traces of his scent, and she had to be content with that.  She picked up what gossip she could from the Airedales — Kobe was currently on the Human Relations Council, and even her pack mates spoke of him  with grudging admiration.  All in all, a completely suitable match.

But there was one problem, one that even true love could not surmount.  It wasn't the distance, the fact that they were owned by different people, or even the fact that she was currently out of favor with the ruling clan.  No, it ran deeper than that.

Kobe was not an Airedale.  Even worse, for all of his commanding presence and true alpha scent, he was what the others always referred to as a small dog. Kobe was a Jack Russell terrier, and every inch of his twenty  pound body was completely forbidden territory. 

Forbidden or not, if something had happened at the Morrisons’ house, Peach wanted to know about it.  More than wanted, needed to know.  That Kobe was all right she had no doubt.  Like most Jack Russell Terriers, Kobe had never understood that he was much smaller than many other dogs.  Size meant nothing to a Jack Russell — spirit was everything, and Kobe possessed that an abundance.

Still, what if his people were frightened by these strange events at their house.  What if they decided to move?  They couldn't do that, could they?  Just decided to change kennels and take Kobe with them? 

A deep longing surged through Peach.  She had to know what was going on at the Morrisons — she had to.  And if that meant that she had to spend every moment of the rest of her life next to the north fence waiting for information, that's what she would do

Two

Lisa Evans had her headset on, one ear covered with the foam earpiece, a small mike positioned in front of her mouth.  The whole thing was connected to a transmitter unit clipped to her belt.  She absolutely adored the hands-free wireless phone set up – it was so much easier than trying to wedge the phone between her shoulder and her jaw as she talked.  These days, it seemed like she spent half of her waking hours on the phone talking.  At least this set up allowed her some freedom to move around the house and do other things while listening to the calls coming in. 

Right now, for instance, she was making soup, keeping a careful watch on bread dough rising in the laundry room and making cursory attempts to mop up paw prints in the kitchen.  A small voice rattled away in her ear as another real estate agent lamented the state of the market, the various psychoses of her latest clients and the lack of decent listings to be had.  Lisa was not really listening but knew it was her duty as a friend to serve as a sounding board.

            They all had these moments, didn't they?  It was the downside, along with the paperwork, of the day-in day-out routine of selling real estate, and one she would gladly tolerate in exchange for the sheer freedom and exhilaration of the rest of it.  She and her husband were two of the top agents in the state, a potent team noted for their ability to arrange financing for almost everyone and their uncanny ability to help their clients find exactly what they needed.  They had been at it for ten years, through up markets and down markets, and had survived it all.  These days, the prospect of working for someone else sounded so distasteful that she wondered how the rest of the world survived it.

            Lisa began dicing a potato as the other agent’s complains gradually transitioned into resignation. Any moment now, that self-employed drive would kick back in and her friend would find the strength to go on.  That, or she wouldn’t and she’d be down the next day filling out job applications at one of the large superstores in the area.  Lisa had come close to that point a couple of times herself, but there had always been the dogs to consider.

            She finished peeling the potato and began cutting it into small, bite-size chunks.  Yes, the dogs – what did people who didn’t have dogs do? How did they make their career decisions? They must have so many more options, so many choices — but they missed out on all the joy of it too, didn't they?  The satisfaction of seeing a woebegone, scruffy stranger gradually blossom into a dynamic, enthusiastic terrier, the utter devotion in their eyes, that fierce protectiveness in their eyes, know that she was absolutely safe in her own home or whenever she had her Airedale with her.

            Not that there weren't things that were frustrating about the Airedales, of course.  Their strong streak of independence, the very character she often admired in them, also posed  training challenges for their owners.  Airedales were normally quite willing to obey her commands, provided she had a good reason for giving them.  Sometimes they even obeyed without asking, although normally she could see them thinking the matter through.  Sit?  This is important to you?  Why sit rather than down?  And why exactly here?  If the terrier's questions were important enough to him or her, then complying with the command would have to wait until reasons were provided. 

While her husband swore that they simply picked up on the tone of her voice, she was quite certain that the Airedales understood far more of what she said than he believed.  Normally, a short explanation of why the command was necessary was all that was needed.  For instance, "Drop the remote control or Tim will be irritated — you know how he feels about those," was normally sufficient explanation.  The Airedales could be quite possessive about their own toys and had no difficulty understanding Tim's desire to have his left alone.

            There were, however, certain explanations but did not satisfy them.  For instance, "Get off the couch because your feet are muddy," never cut the mustard.  After all, an Airedale was never deeply concerned about whether or not the couch was muddy, and he'd see no reason for the people to worry about it either.  In fact, should he decide to obey that command, he would be simply reinforcing the human’s unhealthy tendency to obsess over things like mud.  Therefore, in the interest of the human’s own personal growth, perhaps it was better that they learn to live with a bit of soil on couches.

            It wasn't as though the Airedales were particularly difficult about things, either.  They liked Lisa and her husband, and liked to see them happy.  Therefore, it was sometimes sufficient simply to know that some idiotic act would add to their enjoyment of life. 

The Airedales understood boundaries better than most people did, and it was an article of faith to them that they had an equal vote in any major decisions to be made.  Obedience training was a matter of cooperation, a question of teaching the person not to ask stupid things that were beneath an Airedale’s dignity.  In fact, Lisa and her husband had found that adopting the Airedales’ own philosophy of self-worth and boundaries had done much to improve their abilities to deal with difficult clients.

The last of the potatoes chopped, Lisa tossed them into the mix already simmering on the stovetop.  It was beef vegetable soup, already filling the kitchen with its fragrance.  Two gallons of it, more than enough to serve for several meals, with the balance frozen for some later date.  That is, if she could keep away from the Airedales.

            She heard a slam from the laundry room, followed by the quick patter of paws on linoleum.  Dudley came bounding around the corner, enthusiasm marking every inch of his body.  He paused in the doorway to the kitchen and took in a deep breath, letting his satisfaction show.  Dudley was particularly fond of her vegetable beef soup and would do practically anything — including staying off the couch, for some Airedales are more receptive to bribes than they were orders — in order to have some drizzled over his evening meal.  He even ate the lima beans, which Misha tended to collect on the side for later disposal by the humans, carefully picking them out from wherever they were hidden in her meal.

            "It's not time yet, big boy," Lisa said, running her hands through the long fur on his face and scratching behind one ear.  Dudley was a very large Airedale and giving him a good ear scratch did not even require leaning over.  "Another two hours or so, don't you think?"  She glanced at the clock.  Dudley, who clearly had been hoping for an advance taste of the soup, muttered a disappointed agreement. 

The human door slammed and she heard her husband come in.  His briefcase dropped in the usual spot, and she heard him pause at the closet to hang up his coat.  Tim was much more consistent about things like that — about everything, for that matter.  He strolled into the kitchen to moments later, and she turned to give him a hug..  He stepped back from her and raised one hand.  "Don't."

            "Why on earth not?"

            Than she took a closer look at his face and saw why.  His skin was pale, and shadows ran under his eyes.  His normally cheerful smile was missing, and something about his expression looked pained.  "Are you coming down with something?"

            He nodded reluctantly.  "I think so.  Upset stomach, and I think  a fever — even the soup doesn't smell very good."

            "Why don't you go lay down for a while," she suggested.  "Take a nap, maybe — maybe you'll feel like eating later on."

            "I think I will," and that really worried her, because he was normally the last person to admit that he was getting sick.

            They worked with so many people every day — clients, prospective buyers, perspective sellers, and the normal traffic through the reception area —  that in the beginning of the fall it seemed that someone was always passing around one bug or another.  Each year, the first cold snap of the season brought welcome relief, as it seemed to kill off most of the bugs there were floating around.  Either that, or their immune systems were on full alert by the cold, accustomed to the current crop of germs and bacteria and virus and mounting a solid defense.

"Any idea where you picked it up?" she called out after him, knowing it was probably useless to ask.

            "Maybe at the McPherson's open house," his answer floated back.  "She had just gotten over something, remember?" 

            Lisa's heart sank slightly.  She’d been hoping for an incubation period during which she could finish up a few deals, but if he’d caught it at the McPherson’s open house, no such luck. They’d both been there.

And, as luck would have it, there have been no decent offers on the McPherson's house either.  Normally, Lisa was not a fan of open house events.  In her experience, open houses drew the curious and the not ready to commit rather than serious buyers.  It was only because McPherson's were getting ready to leave town in another two weeks that Lisa and Tim had even agreed to hold one at all.

            She thought of the soup, suddenly grateful she’d had the foresight to prepare so much.  At least if they were both down with this bug at the same time and didn't feel like cooking, they’d already have something to eat in the fridge.

Dudley followed Tim out of the kitchen, pausing only for quick slurp from the water bowl.  It was tempting to stay on in hopes that the woman would let him taste the soup early, but he knew the odds were against him.  Besides, it was quite clear that his human was not feeling well.  There were a few things Dudley could do to cheer him up, and he intended to try all of them.

            He walked up to Tim, and when he was certain he had the man's attention, Dudley step up in front of him, carefully judging the distance, then smoothly stuck his snout between Tim’s legs and lifted, simultaneously goosing Tim while drying off his snufflers on the inside of Tim’s legs.

As expected, Tim yelped and jumped, and Dudley was gratified to see him moving so quickly.  He couldn't be that sick and still have that sort of reflex, could he?  Dudley waited until Tim had regained his balance — quite thoughtfully, Dudley thought — and then slammed his large, hard head into Tim's upper thigh in an affectionate head butt.  Dudley lifted one paw, shifting his weight, and did it again, waiting for the predictable reaction.  Tim reached down and put his hands on either side of Dudley’s face, halting the Airedale’s head slams.  He gazed down into the bright, alert terrier eyes and the grinning Airedale face.  Dudley turned just enough to delicately nibble Tim's fingers.

            "Thanks, boy," Tim said, only the slightest trace of rueful amusement in his voice.  "And you're right, those pants were a little too clean, weren’t they?" 

Dudley leaned harder, forcing Tim back on the bed.  Lisa was absolutely right.  It was time for Tim to get on his sleeping coat and take a nap.

"All right, all right," Tim said, finally getting it.  He paused long enough to take off his pants, gracefully evading another Airedale head butt and big nose poke. He gazed down the Airedale, who had one paw on the bedspread, and an expectant look on his face.  "Just for a little while.  Until the soup is done," Tim said.  Moving gracefully despite his massive size, Dudley vaulted lightly onto the bed. The Airedale stretched out full-length next to Tim so that every part of his body that could possibly touch Tim through the covers was doing so.  Dudley gave off a contented sigh, wiggled a bit to work a kink out of his neck and settled in for a nap.

To be continued….