Watchdog and the Coyotes Read online

  For Kristine and Bethany Whitener

  Chapter 1

  The warm dry breeze that swept in from the desert felt good on my cold nose. It tingled the little hairs inside my ears and made them twitch and wiggle. My left paw dangled over the edge of my floor. I draped my right paw over it and rested my chin.

  I watched.

  The sun was nothing but a huge orange sliver above the wooden fence around the backyard. It was pretty, but I forced myself to quit thinking about it. I had to watch. That was my job—and I couldn’t afford to mess up again. This was my third chance—probably my last.

  In a moment the sun would disappear and the only thing left would be a bright glow. Higher in the sky were mixtures of yellow and gold. Streaks of clouds were darker. Low in the sky, they were blue. Above, the blue changed to a deep purple. I wished the fence wasn’t there. I wished—just once—I could see all of the sunset.

  Far off in the desert a coyote howled. It was a lonely sound. It made me feel lonely, too.

  I watched.

  But behind my eyes, visions came. Memories flooded my mind. I missed my mama. She had been so big and wise. I missed my little boy. He had been fun and full of laughter. I missed my big boy. He was rough-and-tumble, and I could play with him and not have to worry about him crying. How I longed to be with them.

  Not that I didn’t love my new master. He was nice. His laugh rolled and tumbled through the air like thunder rumbling before a storm. But he was just too old to play. His wife didn’t play with me, either. They fed me well. They petted me and scratched behind my ears. But there was no romp or play in either of them. That was what made me lonely, especially on nights like this, when they weren’t home.

  I watched.

  After a time, the deep purple color filled the sky. The smell of night came and all was quiet, and the quiet made me feel even more alone.

  Things could have been worse, I guess. That’s why it was so important for me to watch. That’s why I had to do a good job. I had to be careful.

  • • •

  Scotty had warned me. Scotty was a Scottie. He had lived in the yard next to mine back when I lived in California. There had been a chain-link fence between our houses, and not only could we visit but we could actually see each other. Scotty told me that he was a digger.

  “It’s a bad habit,” he’d explained. “I just can’t quit digging. It’s kind of like some masters have a habit of smoking cigarettes, and no matter how hard they try, they just can’t break the habit. I’m like that, too. Only I don’t smoke, I dig.”

  Scotty was on his third master when I met him. Two days after our last visit Scotty dug up the guy’s rosebushes, and sure enough—straight to the pound.

  That’s it, man. About three masters is all a guy gets, then off to the pound.

  • • •

  Despite the warm breeze from the desert, the memory of Scotty sent a chill up my back. The Shaffers were my third masters.

  A sound jerked me from my sad memories. I watched.

  For a time there was nothing. Then a black stocking cap appeared above the back fence. It hesitated there a moment, then rose. I watched.

  A man’s face was under the hat. Nervous eyes scanned my yard. A wisp of the fall breeze brought a scent to my nose. Something about it was almost familiar, but it was a smell I didn’t know, an odor that I couldn’t taste or understand. The man looked all around. Then there was another clunk as his shoe found the wood rail and he climbed over the fence.

  I watched.

  Wonder why he didn’t use the gate, I thought as he jumped from the top of the fence. When he landed, he looked all around again. He had on a black cap and a black shirt and black pants. The only part I could really see of him was his face. His eyes and forehead scrunched up when he looked toward my doghouse. The way he acted, the way he smelled—it brought a feeling from deep inside me. His actions made the hair bristle in a sharp ridge down my back. He inched forward. Watching him made my lip curl. My teeth felt dry. He stood very still for a moment, then edged toward the house.

  I watched.

  I guess he hadn’t seen me where I rested inside my house. When he got close he suddenly froze, dead in his tracks. He started to shake all over.

  “Nice doggy.” His voice quivered when he whispered to me. “Nice puppy.”

  The smell was much stronger now. I still couldn’t hear or see or understand it. I forced my lips closed so my teeth wouldn’t show. I made the hair relax on my back. My tail made a thumping sound against the wooden floor of my house. He seemed to relax. Then, never taking his eyes off me, he moved toward the Shaffers’ house.

  I watched.

  But when he disappeared around the side of my house, I climbed out. I peeked around the corner of the doghouse and saw him kneeling down at the back door. He took a tool out of his pocket and started wiggling the doorknob. I could hear a jingling sound, but I really couldn’t see what he was doing. I moved closer to watch.

  The man worked and worked. Finally he glanced around. When he saw me standing right next to him, a little squeal came from his throat. He jumped so hard he landed on his bottom beside the back door.

  “Nice doggy.” His voice shook as hard as he did. “Don’t bite me.” He put his hands up in front of his face. “Nice doggy.”

  The strange odor was very strong. It came from the man in the stocking cap. The smell sort of hurt my nose, but at the same time it made me feel big and strong inside. It was weird!

  “I won’t bite you,” I assured him. “I’m nice. I learned my lesson with my last master. I’ll never bite anything or anybody ever again.”

  But, like most people, I guess he just didn’t understand Dog. He kept his hands up and kept shaking for a long, long time. At last, when I kept wagging my tail and smiling at him, he crawled back to his knees and jiggled the doorknob some more.

  I watched.

  He opened the door and went into the Shaffers’ house. I could hear him rattling around inside. Every now and then I could see the glow from the little light he held in his hand. After a while he came out the door.

  I watched.

  He carried a big sack to the back fence and lifted it over. Then, still shaking and smiling at me, he came back to the house.

  I watched as he carried another bag to the back fence, then another. When he climbed over the last time, he waved at me.

  “You dumb mutt. You’re the kind of watchdog that I love.”

  I smiled back at him and waved good-bye with my tail. I didn’t really like being called a dumb mutt, but the way he laughed and smiled made me feel good. In fact, I could hear him laughing and chuckling as he dragged the heavy bags all the way across the sandy field behind my yard. Besides, he did say that I was the kind of watchdog that he loved. That made me feel great.

  More than anything else in the whole world, being a good watchdog was the one thing I wanted. I guess I’d done a good job, too. I knew my new master, Mr. Shaffer, would be very proud of me, because . . .

  I watched—just like a good watchdog is supposed to.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m going straight to the pound,” I whined. “This is it. There’s nothing else left. I’m a goner.”

  I paced up and down by the fence along my side yard. I didn’t know what the pound was like, but I remember Scotty whining and crying when his master was about to take him there. I remember that I never saw him again. Whatever the pound was, it was bad.

  “This is it,” I whimpered. “He’s gone in to get my collar, and when he comes back out . . .”

  My tail tucked under my belly. My floppy ears drooped so low they almost dragged on the ground.

  “What are you whining about?”

&nb
sp; I jerked. The growl from the other side of the fence startled me. My droopy ears perked up.

  “Who’s there?”

  “What are you whining about?” the voice repeated. It was Red, the Irish setter who lived in the yard next to mine.

  I’d never seen Red because of the wooden fence. In fact, this was the first time he’d ever talked to me in the whole two months since he had moved next door with his family. I’d tried to talk with him before, but he only snarled at me through the cracks between the fence boards.

  It was good to hear another voice. Besides, I was in so much trouble that I really needed someone to talk to, even if it was someone who only growled.

  I squinted, trying to see through one of the cracks.

  “I messed up,” I told the fence. “I messed up bad, and I don’t even know how it happened.”

  Red hair and one white eyeball appeared at the crack.

  “I saw the cars with the red and blue lights on top last night,” Red said. “The men in the blue uniforms kept going in and out of the house, and your master kept yelling. What did you do, get inside and tear the living room up or something?”

  “No!” I shook my head so hard my ears flopped against my cheeks. “I’m a watchdog. I don’t go inside.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I did what I was supposed to do.” I shrugged both ears. “I watched.”

  Red growled, “Exactly what did you watch?”

  I folded my tail under my bottom and sat down. “Well,” I began, staring at the eyeball. “Last night I was watching, just like I’m supposed to. A little while after dark, this man dressed all in black climbed over the back fence. He kept wiggling something at the door, and finally he went inside.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I watched,” I answered, wiggling my whiskers. “I watched him bring a big sack out of the house and lift it over the fence.”

  “Then what?”

  “I watched him bring out two more sacks.”

  Red snorted. “And you watched, right?”

  I smiled. “Right.”

  “That’s all you did?”

  I twitched my whiskers. “That’s what I’m supposed to do. I watched because I’m a watchdog,”

  “You didn’t growl or bark at him?”

  “Oh, no. Dogs get in trouble for barking and growling.”

  “You didn’t bite him?”

  “Heaven forbid! I never bite. Never!”

  There was a strange whoompf from the other side of the fence. I pressed my eye closer to the crack. Red had fallen on his side. He rolled back and forth. He wagged his tail and laughed and laughed and laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” I whined. “I’m in trouble. My master’s probably going to take me to . . . to . . . the pound.”

  Red just kept rolling and laughing. Finally he got to his feet and told me to follow him to the back corner of the yard. Once we got there he started digging.

  “Dogs shouldn’t dig,” I warned him. “You’ll get in trouble.”

  Red dug faster.

  “No, I won’t,” he said. “The bushes are thick here. My master won’t see the hole or the dirt. Even if he does, he won’t get mad. Besides, you need help. You’re the most confused, messed-up pup I’ve ever met.”

  My ears drooped, and my tail folded under my tummy. “Please don’t dig. I had a friend named Scotty. He was a digger. His master took him to the pound. And when you go to the pound . . . well, no one ever comes back from the . . . the pound!”

  Chapter 3

  The sand was soft. Within a few moments Red’s nose appeared under the fence. More dirt flew and splattered the shrubs, and he had made a hole deep enough for him to squeeze through.

  When he stood up on my side of the fence, he kind of grunted and stretched. “Man, I’m getting too old for all that hard work.”

  Red didn’t look quite the way I had pictured him from my view through the crack in the fence. He wasn’t nearly as tall as me, but he was still sleek and trim. He had long red hair, except for the tufts around his forehead and whiskers. There his coat was beginning to turn white with age.

  He moaned again and wiggled so the sand would fall off his belly. After that, he sniffed me all over. Then he explored my yard and came back to sniff me again.

  He folded his tail to the side and sat down on one hip. “Well,” he announced after his inspection. “You’re no coward. You’re big, but you’re just as gentle as you said you were.” He cocked a red ear. “You’re not stupid, either—but you sure are mixed up.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “You can tell all that from sniffing?”

  “Listen, pup. When you get to be my age you learn to tell a lot about dogs—and people—from a good sniff.”

  A shudder made the hair on my back bristle as I looked at the hole Red had left under my fence. “We should hide,” I whimpered. “I’m in trouble already. When my master sees the hole you made”—I swallowed and shook all over—“I’ll probably get sent to the pound. I don’t want you to get sent there, too.”

  “Every time you mention the pound, your smell of fear hurts my nose,” Red snorted. “My master’s not gonna send me to the pound.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Red yawned. “Long time ago I was running in the pasture with him and his boy. We found this pond, and I jumped in. I love the water. Only thing Irish setters love more than running is swimming. Anyway, his boy—dumb kid—decides to jump in with me. Idiot didn’t know how to swim.

  “Well, he started flopping around and screaming, so I paddled over to see what his problem was. Little rascal latched on to my tail. Only thing for me to do was paddle for the bank. Either that or let the kid drown both of us. My master got there just as I was dragging his boy up on the bank. I guess he figured the kid fell in and I jumped in to save him—neither one of ’em was ever too bright. Anyway, since that day I’ve never had to worry about anything. I can dig in the dirt, I can wet on the carpet, I can even chew up the garden hose—he never gets mad at me. Thinks I’m the greatest dog that ever lived. So quit worrying about the hole. It’s not a problem. You’re the one with the problem.”

  I nodded and sat down on my haunches to face him.

  “You’re right,” I sighed. “I really do have a problem. This is my third master. The other two got mad at me and gave me away. My friend Scotty told me that he was on his third master—but when his master got mad at him, he didn’t give him away. He took him to the pound. Now my master’s mad at me and . . . and . . .” I sniffed. “And I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

  Red flipped his tail to the side and rocked to his other hip.

  “The guy you told me about, the one all dressed in black—that was a burglar. He must have taken things from your master’s house. That’s why all the cars with the red and blue lights showed up after your master got home. Why didn’t you stop the guy?”

  “How?”

  Red cocked his ears and tilted his head. “Bite him, you dunce! Take a chunk out of his leg. Growl at him. Chase him off.”

  I fell to the ground and covered my head with my paws. “Oh, that’s a terrible idea,” I whimpered. “I can’t bite. That’s why my last master gave me away. I promised then that I’d never bite another living thing as long as I lived.”

  Remembering made me hurt inside. My tail tucked under. My head hung low, and my ears drooped so tight against the sides of my face that I couldn’t even hear the desert wind.

  Gently Red reached down with his nose and lifted one of my ears. “Calm down, pup,” he soothed. “It can’t be all that bad. Tell me about it. Start at the very beginning.”

  Chapter 4

  When Red told me to start at the beginning, he probably didn’t mean the very beginning. But that was when my problems had really started, so I told him about how I was the biggest puppy my mama had ever had. She told me that of her two litters, I was by far the greatest Great Dane ever. I guess that’s why
my brothers and sisters complained so much and why they called me a bully. When they shoved for the best sleeping spot, I shoved back. When they tried to muscle in for Mama’s best milk, I wouldn’t budge. Since I was so big, I always got what I wanted.

  “When we played and wrestled and bit each other,” I told Red, “even if I was trying to be gentle, they yapped and squealed because I bit too hard,” With my paw, I brushed my whiskers. The memories made me so sad that even my whiskers drooped. “I didn’t try to be mean. I was just big—it wasn’t really my fault. But . . . well, it always hurt when they called me a bully, so I tried my very best not to hurt them when we played. I guess I should have figured out then that I was just too big to bite, even if it was only play-biting.

  “Mama was the only one who really liked me. She used to look real proud when she said how big I was. Whenever I chased the sparrows away from her food bowl, she told me that someday I’d be a great watchdog.”

  I looked up at Red.

  “That’s what I’ve always wanted to be. As long as I can remember, I wanted to make my mama proud. I wanted to be a great watchdog. That’s what I did last night. I watched.”

  Red lay down and rested his chin on his paws so he could look me straight in the eye. “To be a good watchdog, you got to do more than just watch. Now, I understand that your brothers and sisters calling you a bully hurt your feelings, but that doesn’t explain the panic you went into when I asked why you didn’t bite the burglar. There’s got to be more to it than what you’re telling me. The least you could have done is bark at him.”

  I covered my eyes with my paws. Red pushed them aside. “Tell me. Maybe talking about it will help.”

  The very thought was enough to make me whimper. I forced back the sound and tickled my whiskers with my long tongue.

  “My first master was a little boy,” I began. “Well, he wasn’t a little boy, he was a big little boy. We lived in California, and he used to tie a red bandanna around my neck and take me to the beach. I’d run and romp, and when girls would pet me and say how big and nice I was, he’d come up and flirt with them. We had a good thing going.