Cat to the Dogs Read Free Page B

deeply sunken that he could see each indentation of their canine skulls. Turning his back on them, he studied the slick black road.
    Where the car had gone over the edge, the earthen shoulder was scarred raw, rocks tumbled, bushes broken and uprooted. Trotting along the verge watching for the man they had scented below, for a stranger to suddenly appear climbing out of the canyon, Joe could find no skid marks on the dark macadam. It looked, just as Joe had guessed, as if the driver, when his car hit the second curve, had no brakes at all.
    Examining the wet paving, he found several splatters of brake fluid pooled like oil. He had to drive the pups away, cuffing and slapping them to keep them from licking the spills. He didn’t know if brake fluid was poisonous like radiator coolant, but he didn’t care to find out. It was not until he trotted around the second bend that he smelled burnt rubber.
    Before him, S-shaped trails snaked across the asphalt, and a larger puddle of brake fluid gleamed. Joe imagined the driver stamping repeatedly on the pedal, trying to slow, the fluid spurting out until it was gone.
    Pumping the pedal, jerking the wheel, he’d have hit that second curve like a missile, the car swerving back and forth, gaining speed on the downhill, hitting the shoulder to plow up half a ton of dirt and flip a double gainer straight into Hellhag Canyon.
    He could find no sign of the second car, no trace of a second set of skid marks.
    He wondered if the driver had braked suddenly to avoid not an oncoming car but the pups themselves looming in the fog.
    Except, the horn had honked before the skid, not at the same moment, as one would expect if the driver were startled by the sudden appearance of animals in his headlights.
    Crossing the road, Joe headed up Hellhag Hill through the tall, wet grass. He was halfway to the crest when he realized the pups had left him.
    Rearing above the wild oats and barley, he saw them far below, creeping along the edge of the highway, staring up the hill white-eyed and quivering.
    Joe didn’t know what was wrong with them; something on the hill terrified them. He stood tall on his hind paws, observing them, smiling a sly cat grin.
    Now would be the perfect time to ditch them. Take off across Hellhag Hill and leave them cowering down there.
    A practical voice told him, Lose them, Joe. Lose the silly mutts now, while they’re distracted. You’d be stupid to take them home, they’re sure to have mange, fleas, ringworm. They’ll give it to the household cats and to poor Rube, and he’s too old to fight a case of mange. Dump them. Dump them here. Now. Do it now.
    But a kinder voice whispered, Come on, Joe. Have a heart. Clyde can take them to the pound, where they’ll be fed and safe, not running along the highway. Even a dog deserves a little compassion.
    Ditch them. They’ll learn to fend for themselves, live out of garbage cans. There’s that trailer park up Hellhag Hill; some dumb human will feed them.
    And above this internal argument, he kept wondering about the dead man, and about the unseen stranger in the canyon, wondering where he had come from, and why he didn’t hike on into the village and report the wreck. Joe hadn’t seen the guy come up out of the canyon.
    He wondered how long before someone else would come along the road, notice the torn-up shoulder, take a look down into the canyon, and call 911. Get the cops and a wrecker down there. Meanwhile, below him on the road, the pups crept along shivering with fear. Poor dumb beasts.
    Well, he’d take them home. Clyde would love them. They’d give him something to do: he’d feed them, get them in shape, havethem vetted, walk them and bathe them, worm them, fawn over them. Find homes for them. He’d be so proud when they were sleek and had collars and homes of their own.
    Right. And when did Clyde ever give away an animal? He won’t find homes for them.