You hear phrases like "dumb as a dog" all the time, but truth is, animals are far smarter than we give them credit for.
And they can smell an asshole from a mile away...
And they can smell an asshole from a mile away...
Dog Eat Dog by Bruce Harris
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“I’m sorry, Cindy,
we’ll have to put her to sleep. There’s no other way.”
Little Cindy Saunders was devastated. Death was a foreign
term. “Venganza has never done anything like this before. Honest. She’s a good
dog. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Cindy’s parents stood behind her, reached their hands out
and placed them lovingly on her shoulders. “It’s okay, dear.” Cindy’s father
turned to Dan Jenkins, the police officer in charge. “Is there any alternative?
I mean, maybe we can send the dog for training or give her medication or
something? Anything, other than putting her to sleep?”
“But, it was an accident!” cried Cindy. “I know it! Venganza never would
have done anything like this!”
*
“Steven Hubbard. That name sounds familiar.”
“What?” asked Brian Shields.
“Hubbard. It says here he was murdered yesterday, killed by
a German Shepherd named Venganza. Poor bastard was attacked and chewed to bits
out of the clear blue at an outdoor café in front of a shitload of people. Steven
Hubbard. The name sounds familiar. Isn’t he the guy who adopted Protégé?”
Brian Shields showed interest. He looked up from his paper. He
was a volunteer at the Florida Palm Beach Greyhound Adoption Services (FPBGAS),
the agency responsible for placing retired greyhound racing dogs into loving
homes. “Yup. I’m scheduled to meet with Hubbard this morning to follow up and
see how things are going with Protégé. You sure the guy’s dead?”
“Mauled to death. Can you believe that?”
Protégé had run her last race three months prior. She was a
very successful greyhound, making thousands for her owner and trainer. It was
seldom the dog didn’t finish within the top three, but after years of racing, she
was finally consigned to FPBGAS. Shields remembered when Steven Hubbard had
selected the dog and took her home for adoption. Hubbard was insistent upon
this particular greyhound. “What a coincidence. I’m going out to his home to
check on Protégé. Now that Hubbard is dead, I guess we’ll have to take back
Protégé and try to find her another home.”
The Florida sun baked down on Shields. He knocked on the
door of the small bungalow the late Steven Hubbard had listed as his home
address. Nothing. No sounds, no signs of life. He called out, “Protégé! Are you
in there?” Again nothing. Shields walked around back. The screen door was torn
and hung precariously by one hinge. He knocked and shouted, but still there was
no response. Shields stepped over to the kitchen window. He peered in, but
couldn’t see a thing. He removed a pocketknife, cut the screen, and hoisted
himself up and into Hubbard’s kitchen. A half-eaten can of baked beans hosted a
fly convention. Shields called out as he made his way into the living room. He
checked the bedroom and the bathroom. He walked into the small den and stopped
short. There, hanging by her neck, was a gutted Protégé. The poor dog had been
executed. Shields nearly fainted. He made his way to a desk and sat down.
There, he found racing programs with numerous markings and notes. The one that
caught his eye was the program for October 1, Protégé’s final race. She was the
2-1 favorite, but finished fourth, out of the money. Shields read the pencil
notation next to Protégé’s name:
$1,000 across the board on this bitch—easy money.
The lethal injection had been prepared. The needle was
inches from Venganza. Brian Shields burst into the room and screamed, “Wait!”
