To Hiss or to Kiss (3 page)

The owners aren’t home, but we leave a notice on the door to let them know the animal has been confiscated and taken to the humane society for treatment. It also explains how the owners can appeal the seizure.

“Most owners in these cases never bother to inquire about their animal.” Mike shakes his head.

Maria makes a disgusted grunt and mutters under her breath, and I can imagine it’s something like “damn motherfuckers.” I couldn’t agree more.

The golden is placed in one of the larger cages in the back of the van. “Is it OK if I sit by the cage while we drive to the next location?” I ask.

“Sure, but if anything happens, you can’t hold us liable and I never said OK.” Mike grins at me. I’m somewhat amazed that he can maintain his calm affability in the face of what he sees every day, but perhaps that’s what makes him a good humane agent.

I settle next to the golden, who has been incredibly sweet to all of us despite his obvious mistreatment by humans. He’s underweight, and his eyes are sunken. It’s clear he’s dehydrated even after gulping down a bowl of water prior to being placed in the cage. Once we start moving, I open my mind and begin sending gentle thoughts of contact to the dog.

No surprise he responds right away and looks directly at me.
“Hi, I’m Maximilian! I’m so happy to see you! Where are we going?”
he asks with typical golden excitement. Their sheer giddiness always makes me smile.

“We need to go to one more place, and then we’re going to go to a facility where there are people who can help get rid of all those flies and maggots. There are lots of other dogs and animals there.”

“Oh, good. These things itch like crazy!”

Sometimes when talking to a dog like this one, I just can’t help but grin. So many of them are goofy and full of joy and love despite everything that’s happened to them.
“Well, you should start feeling better pretty quickly. And there’ll be lots of food and water and people to give you attention.”

“I love attention!”
His butt starts wiggling in excitement.

“You are so darn cute.”
And I mean it, despite his oozing sores.

“I know.”
No reason for dogs to be modest. They usually just say it like it is, which is really wonderful and refreshing—especially after a long day at work dealing with office politics. Some days I really wish I could get away with taking my “The more I get to know people, the more I like dogs” print to work, but that would probably offend someone. Sigh.

“Are you OK?”
Maximilian’s eyes show his worry.

“I’m fine.”
I clear my thoughts of anything relating to people, instead focusing on the dog before me.

We both settle in, keeping up a very convoluted conversation spawned by the various smells and sounds of the trip. Maximilian certainly can change topics faster than just about any dog I’ve ever met. Must be a side effect of boundless energy and optimism—two things I have never been able to relate to. But I listen and encourage him as we drive.

It takes about another thirty minutes to get to the dogfighting property, and we are far enough outside the city that the houses are few and far between. Most of the land is fields, with an occasional stand of trees. It’s starting to turn to twilight as we pull up to the property.

“Tonight we’re just going to take some photos of the property to share with the PD.” Mike turns to look back at me. “We don’t want to confront them yet. It’s often a volatile situation, and we also don’t want to tip them off so that they disappear.”

Maria rolls down her window and pulls out a camera. “Especially if we can get any evidence of other illegal activity on film that will allow us to set up surveillance. Nothing like being part of a good sting op.” Maria clicks the camera fast and furious. “I’ll make this quick so it doesn’t look like we’re loitering too much.”

I nod to Mike and then turn inward to do what I came here to do, although neither Mike nor Maria know about my gift. I try to get a feel for how many dogs might be inside and what’s going on. Maximilian understands what I’m trying to do and sits quietly beside me. I feel at least four or five dogs, all very guarded as I send out some thoughts that it is safe to talk with me and I am here to help them.

Maria is indeed quick with the camera, and in minutes we are pulling away. No dog has responded yet. I only sense their anger and fear. Then one female voice comes through.
“Help us.”
It’s a plea.

I get a fleeting image of a patchy-haired black dog in a cage. Then the van has carried me too far away to connect.

The pain and desperation of the dog’s entreaty plagues me as we drive back.

After a few minutes, Maximilian whines and pulls me back to the present.
“Can I help you?”
He presses his muzzle against the cage as if he wants to get to me and comfort me.

“It’s OK, Maximilian.”
I look at him, sending my thoughts.
“I’m OK, and we will help those dogs.”

“Good. I don’t like it when people are sad.”

“I know. You’re a good boy.”

At that his butt starts to wiggle again in excitement.
“I am. I try so hard.”

“Well, you’re doing very well.”

“Will we get to the place where they’ll get the flies off me soon?”

“Yes. Not too much longer now.”

I think he might shake out of his skin with excitement, and he never really calms down until he’s been delivered to the veterinary staff and they start the process of bathing and shaving to clean him off and dress and treat his wounds. I’m not sure you could describe his calmer state as actually calm, but at least he’s not bouncing off the walls.

I leave him in their capable hands and thank Mike and Maria before heading home, the plea for help still echoing in my head.

Chapter Three

I ask myself for the millionth time what the hell I am doing as I drive with my lights off past the old farmhouse. But the dog’s plaintive plea is still echoing in my brain as it has been all evening, so I keep creeping along.

Now I try to find a place not too far past the house where I can pull off. It’s harder than it seems since my Civic is far from an off-road vehicle. As is often the case around farmland, there are fairly wide ditches along the road, and I can’t see well enough to gauge their depth through the thickly growing weeds and grasses, and the shadows made by stubby trees and bushes bathed in moonlight. Thank God it’s a clear night with a nearly full moon or I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. And thank God I’ve effectively squelched that rational part of my brain that is screaming I’m a lunatic for being out here. With people, I’m a cool customer, but animals get to my heart every time.

About a quarter mile away I see a pull-off that must be used by tractors to enter a field of corn, which looks ready to harvest any day now. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, I turn slowly and park, shutting the car off, my hand lingering on the keys. I feel light-headed and queasy.
Help us, help us, help us
echoes in my head and steels my nerves.

I get out, barely shutting the door because I’m afraid to make too much noise, and begin the walk down the gravel road. Crickets play a cacophony of sound amid the rustling grassy weeds in the ditch. I pick my steps carefully.

I try to keep my mind blank by counting my steps and attempting not to trip. At 2,683 I reach the edge of the property and survey the grounds. The front-porch light is on, but otherwise the large, rundown farmhouse is dark, as is the peeling red-painted barn. I feel the same evil vibe wash over me that I felt when the humane society van was here. The barn is off to my right, the house directly in front. Between me and the barn are several large oak trees. I make my way to the first so I can get closest to the house without going into the open yard by coming around the far side of the barn.

I dart quickly from trunk to trunk of the towering oaks, then slide behind the barn. Leaning against the wall, I catch my breath and try to calm my nerves. Even though it’s not very hot out, sweat trickles down my back and gathers on my brow. My heart is pounding and I struggle to extend the length of my breath.

The barn wall is my support as I make my way around the back of the building. I crouch in a shadow, the house now in view, and focus on the basement I know is there behind the painted casement windows.

After a few deep breaths, I open my mind and reach out.
“Hello. Can you hear me? I’m here.”
At first all is quiet, although I can feel five dogs. Four of them are hostile and suspicious to the touch of my mind, but the fifth dog responds.

“You’re back. Thank you.”

A small sigh escapes me and I feel myself relaxing a bit now that we’ve connected.
“You’re safe with me.”
I’ve found this type of reassurance works well when I work with a scared animal at the shelter.

“I know.”
The voice sounds sure of me and less tentative than the cry for help yesterday. Even stronger than her initial welcome tonight. I smile, feeling her walls come down.

“Good. Can you tell me about the area where you are?”
She sends me flashes of a dark room that smells of mustiness, filth, and dog waste. The image is dim, and I realize there is never much light in the room. As soon as I think that, the images the dog sends alter. The lights slip on and two shadowy men who reek of stale cigarette smoke are pounding around, yanking two dogs out of locked cages. The dogs are scarred yet well muscled. They protest the treatment, except for the dog I’m talking to. She cowers and whimpers, but still the men grab her roughly, the chains around her neck clanking.

I shake my head in disgust, disturbed.

“I’m sorry.”
She stops the flood of images abruptly.

I take a deep breath to calm the anger I feel rising in my gut. I don’t want to scare this dog or antagonize the ones who still don’t trust me.
“It’s OK. But I just need to know where you are and how I can get in. I’m going to come closer to the house now.”

I start to stand, and suddenly arms come around me from behind, one wrapped around my torso, grazing my breasts, and the other warm hand over my mouth. His hands are slightly calloused, and the soft hair on his arms tickles against my skin. He smells musky, with a hint of jasmine and the cool scent of dewy night, but not smoky like the men the dog showed me. Amid the rising panic, I feel a bit of hope that this isn’t one of the asshole dogfighters.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His whisper tickles my ear, his breath warm against my neck.

The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I shiver.

“You aren’t safe here. There are cameras around the house.”

My mind whirls, trying to figure out what to do. My body is still frozen with panic.

His hold tightens. “I am going to back us out of here, and then we can talk.” He starts to pull me farther into the shadows behind the barn, and something clicks in my brain. I go limp to make it harder for him to carry me. The man doesn’t even lose a beat taking on more weight. He chuckles softly.

That just makes me mad and I start thrashing my newly unencumbered legs, trying my best to get his shin or twist my foot up higher to his groin, but he quickly grabs my legs with one arm, negating my struggle. He’s now got me almost sideways across his body to keep one hand over my mouth and the other clamped around my thighs like a vise, but I keep writhing—or at least trying to writhe. I kick back from my knees, but my heels just connect with air. Too bad I’m not insanely flexible. To my still-panicking mind, it just seems silly to stop at this point, though.

“I’m trying to help you. If you insist on this thrashing, I will be forced to immobilize you further so the noise doesn’t alert anyone.”

I wonder how he would do that and imagine this man’s bulk holding me down on the ground. It’s not a wholly unwelcome thought, which is all kinds of fucked up. My hormones seriously need a good talking-to. I redouble my writhing, part of me wanting to know if and how he’ll carry out his threat. The rational part of me rolls her eyes.

I wiggle my upper leg free enough that I get a pretty good whap against the outside of his hip, and I hear a soft
whumpf
of pain from him.

“That’s it.” He drops me to the ground on my back and then repositions himself over me, re-covering my mouth with one hand while trapping my legs with his before I can even think about screaming.

When I recover from the shock, I’m in for a new one. My eyes widen as I make contact with emerald green eyes that are startlingly familiar.

* * *

I start to put this man’s whispered voice together with the slightly accented one I heard in my head at the shelter. His accent wasn’t very apparent in whisper form. Knowing, at least sort of, who this man is doesn’t make me feel better about being held down against my will. Well, maybe it does a little. And it explains my out-of-control libido.

Since my legs are pinned by his, my arms held over my head by one of his, and his other hand over my mouth, my options are limited. It flits through my mind that this guy is oddly coordinated as I choose the only option I can see and take the moment of slightly less pressure on my face to shift my mouth and bite down on the palm of his hand.

He, of course, draws it back quickly, and I’m pretty sure he growls at me, just like Sashi does when she’s pissed at me. Well, I can do some growling of my own.

“I don’t take kindly to being held against my will, no matter what you profess about your intentions,” I hiss. There’s a little of his blood in my mouth and I want to vomit, but anger is pretty good for the stomach. I turn my head to the side and spit, which is pretty ineffective and merely makes my face a mess. I’m sure that’s sexy.

“We don’t have time for this.” He still sounds growly as he stands and whips me over one shoulder with strikingly easy grace and sets off at a pretty quick pace, considering we’re traipsing through the dark.