“Release!” his trainer yelled and grabbed the back of his collar.
Brutus heard the cheering, recognized the command. But it was all far away. He was deep in the pit.
Hot blood filled his mouth, flowed it into his lungs, soaked into the sand. Caesar writhed under him. Fierce growling turned into mewling. But Brutus was deaf to it. Blood flowed into all the empty places inside him, trying to fill it up, but failing.
Something struck his shoulders. Again and again. The handler’s wooden bat. But Brutus kept his grip locked on the other dog’s throat. He couldn’t let go, trapped forever in the pit.
Wood splintered across his back.
Then a new noise cut through the roaring in his ears. More whistles, sharper and urgent, accompanied by the strident blare of sirens. Flashing lights dazzled through the darkness. Shouts followed, along with commands amplified to a piercing urgency.
Brutus finally lifted his torn muzzle from the throat of the other dog. Caesar lay unmoving on the sand, soaked in a pool of blood. Brutus lifted his eyes to the chaos around him. People fled the stands. Dogs barked and howled. Dark figures in helmets and carrying clear shields closed a circle around the area, forming a larger ring around the sand pit. Through the open doors of the warehouse, cars blazed in the night.
Wary, Brutus stood over the body of the dead dog.
He felt no joy at the killing. Only a dead numbness.
His trainer stood a step away. A string of anger flowed from the man’s lips. He threw the broken stub of his bat into the sand. An arm pointed at Brutus.
“When I say release, you
Brutus stared dully at the arm pointed at him, then to the face. From the man’s expression, Brutus knew what the handler saw. It shone out of the dog’s entire being. Brutus was trapped in a pit deeper than anything covered in sand, a pit from which he could never escape, a hellish place of pain and hot blood.
The man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. The beast stalked after him, no longer dog, only a creature of rage and fury.
Without warning — no growl, no snarl — Brutus lunged at the trainer. He latched on to the man’s arm. The same arm that dangled pups as bait, an arm attached to the real monster of the sandy ring, a man who called horrors out of the shadows and set dogs on fire.
Teeth clamped over the pale wrist. Jaws crushed down. Bones ground and crackled under the pressure.
The man screamed.
From the narrow corner of one eye, Brutus watched a helmeted figure rush at them, an arm held up, pointing a black pistol.
A flash from the muzzle.
Then a sizzle of blinding pain.
And at last, darkness again.
Brutus lay on the cold concrete floor of the kennel. He rested his head on his paws and stared out the fenced gate. A wire-framed ceiling lamp shone off the whitewashed cement walls and lines of kennels. He listened with a deaf ear to the shuffle of other dogs, to the occasional bark or howl.
Behind him, a small door led to an outside fenced-in pen. Brutus seldom went out there. He preferred the shadows. His torn muzzle had been knitted together with staples, but it still hurt to drink. He didn’t eat. He had been here for five days, noting the rise and fall of sunlight through the doorway.
People came by occasionally to stare at him. To scribble on a wooden chart hanging on his door. Men in white jackets injected him twice a day, using a noose attached to a long steel pole to hold him pinned to the wall.
He growled and snapped. More out of irritation than true anger. He just wanted to be left alone.
He had woken here after that night in the pit.
And a part of him still remained back there.
Brutus knew guns. He recognized their menacing shapes and sizes, the tang of their oils, the bitter reek of their smoke. He’d seen scores of dogs shot, some quickly, some for sport. But the pistol that had fired back at the ring had struck with a sizzle that twisted his muscles and arched his back.
He lived.
That, more than anything, kept him angry and sick of spirit.
A shuffle of rubber shoes drew his attention. He didn’t lift his head, only twitched his eyes. It was too early for the pole and needles.
“He’s over here,” a voice said. “Animal Control just got the judge’s order to euthanasize all the dogs this morning. This one’s on the list, too. Heard they had to Taser him off his own trainer. So I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
Brutus watched three people step before his kennel. One wore a gray coverall zippered up the front. He smelled of disinfectant and tobacco.
“Here he is. It was lucky we scanned him and found that old HomeAgain microchip. We were able to pull up your address and telephone. So you say someone stole him from your backyard?”
“Two years ago,” a taller man said, dressed in black shoes and a suit.
Brutus pulled back one ear. The voice was vaguely familiar.
“They took both him and his littermate,” the man continued. “We thought they’d run off during a thunderstorm.”
Brutus lifted his head. A boy pushed between the two taller men and stepped toward the gate. Brutus met his eyes. The boy was older, taller, more gangly of limb, but his scent was as familiar as an old sock. As the boy stared into the dark kennel, the initial glaze of hope in his small face crumbled away into horror.
The boy’s voice was an appalled squeak. “Benny?”
Shocked and disbelieving, Brutus slunk back on his belly. He let out a low warning growl as he shied away. He didn’t want to remember…and especially didn’t want this. It was too cruel.
The boy glanced over his shoulder to the taller man. “It is Benny, isn’t it, Dad?”
“I think so.” An arm pointed. “He’s got that white blaze over his right ear.” The voice grew slick with dread. “But what did they do to him?”
The man in the coveralls shook his head. “Brutalized him. Turned him into a monster.”
“Is there any hope for rehabilitation?”
He shook his head and tapped the chart. “We had all the dogs examined by a behaviorist. She signed off that he’s unsalvageable.”
“But, Dad, it’s
Brutus curled into the back of the run, as deep into the shadows as he could get. The name was like the lash of a whip.
The man pulled a pen from his coverall pocket. “Since you’re still legally his owners and had no part in the dogfighting ring, we can’t put him down until you sign off on it.”
“Dad…”
“Jason, we had Benny for two
“But it’s still Benny. I know it. Can’t we try?”
The coverall man crossed his arms and lowered his voice with warning. “He’s unpredictable and damn powerful. A bad combination. He even mauled his trainer. They had to amputate the man’s hand.”
“Jason…”
“I know. I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise. But he deserves a chance, doesn’t he?”
His father sighed. “I don’t know.”
The boy knelt down and matched Brutus’s gaze. The dog wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. He locked eyes and slipped into a past he’d thought long buried away, of fingers clutching hot dogs, chases across green lawns, and endless sunny days. He pushed it all way. It was too painful, too prickled with guilt. He didn’t deserve even the memory. It had no place in the pit.
A low rumble shook through his chest.
