Living with Animals

Hardy had a clear line of sight to the door of Lester Scroggin’s shack. It was now just a matter of time. He waited, sprawled on his belly in the dirt, anxious to get it over with. The .22 rested comfortably in his arms, cocked and ready to fire. “Come on, Lester,” he growled. He knew the old man’s routine. It would start with coffee and torture. And now, like clockwork, Lester kicked open the front door, a steaming mug in one hand and a bag of dog food in the other. He stood in the shadow of the porch, drinking from the mug, and then he began to shake the bag of dry food. Hearing the noise, the chained animal struggled to her feet, her head bowed with the weight of her restraint. She was a Border collie, what was left of her, mostly just bones showing through a shaggy mat of tri-colored hair. It was all she could do to raise herself, but she did, ever willing to please. Ten feet of heavy chain tethered her to a steel pole in the ground. She could move in a circle, dragging her burden around the rut she’d worn in her space, but the bucket of dirty water was fifteen feet away next to the bowl of food. She knew they were there, but they did her no good. Not programmed to comprehend the deliberate, sadistic nature of the human, her canine brain reacted instinctively, and once again she was hopeful that this time there would be food. The old man shook the bag and grinned, watching in perverse pleasure as his captive swayed with the effort of standing upright. Lester stepped off the porch and approached the creature. He stopped just short of her reach and held the bag out so the animal could smell the food. And then he spit into the dry dirt, kicked it into the dog’s face, and folded the top of the bag shut. Hardy squeezed the trigger, his bullet catching Lester between the eyes, spinning him like a top and dropping him flat. Chunks of dog food spilled into the circle of death, and the starving animal fell on them, devouring morsel after morsel. Hardy stepped in quickly. He lifted the chain from the dog’s neck and pulled her away, for eating too much too quickly would do more harm. He carried the dog to his truck and laid her on the front seat, then he returned to Lester and dragged him into the shack. He found the can of gasoline the old man kept out back and splashed it around inside the house and over the body. When he dropped his burning book of matches, Lester Scroggins exploded in a pillar of flame. Hardy climbed into his truck and drove slowly down the rutted dirt road back to his house, the Border collie’s head resting in his lap. It would be awhile before anyone bothered to report the fire, if at all. The doctor’s only concern was for his patient, as the deed was long overdue. He’d warned the man. He’d told him he wouldn’t tolerate any more cruelty, but Lester kept on and on, paying no attention. And now Hardy felt good. He stroked the dog’s head and talked to her as they pulled into his long gravel driveway and parked close to the house. He’d prepared a nice pad of blankets for her in the kitchen, and when she was settled there, silently watching him, he prepared a thick gruel of kibble and warm water. She eagerly gulped her first portion and he fed every few hours, allowing her weakened body to readjust. The fire chief speculated it was Lester’s own carelessness that did him in. The body had been reduced to a charcoal lump, and even if the medical examiner had thought to look for a bullet hole, he wouldn’t have found one. As luck would have it, a beam fell when the roof collapsed, crushing the old man’s toasted skull. Hardy had watched his neighbor go crazier and crazier, shooting wildlife in the valley, taking a chunk out of Hardy’s house with a .30-06 last year, dumping poisoned chicken guts along the road, and sadistically torturing and almost killing Bella. Bella was back to a normal diet after a week of careful feeding, and her coat was beginning to thicken and regain its luster. Though she had the run of the house and outside in the back where the yard was fenced, she slept inside on his bed at night. She loved him, and she knew he had saved her. It was a good match, for he had wanted another dog, having lost Earl, his black Lab, two months earlier to old age. As the small town’s veterinarian, Hardy had seen it all when it came to people and animals—at least he thought he had until Lester. Hardy had had an epiphany when he’d turned sixty-three earlier that year; he realized the only changes he could effect in the world were things he tackled head on, and this realization at once relieved him from the depressing burden of fighting to preserve the world’s threatened creatures and their environments and empowered him to take action in his own world. He could not save the whales or the tigers or the elephants, and in truth he feared no one could, for greedy influences worldwide always seemed to undermine the noble deeds of those who fought the good fight. The constant back and forth between catastrophe and triumph had worn him to a frazzle, and because the gesture now seemed hopeless, he’d stopped sending money to his favorite causes. But he could save one Border collie down the road. That much was within his reach. And so he crossed the first name off the top of his carefully compiled list.