“Yes, I can, brother. Talk to you soon.”
* * * *
I got with Lonnie, Jake and Vlad to look over the map that was always in Lonnie’s glove box.
“You guys see the map anywhere?” asked Lonnie.
“No, not me. Me neither,” we responded.
“The ladies took it,” his wife spoke up. Joy came around the front of the truck with Nancy, Lucy, Kat and her sister.
“We’ve got it,” she told Lonnie, “and here’s the path up the mountain.”
Each town had a number next to it, signifying the number of miles up the road from the last one. She pointed to the light-yellow highlighted path through all the previously agreed on towns, marking off rivers, lakes, and alternate routes around each town, if it came to that.
“This is impressive,” said Lonnie, studying it in earnest.
“Who would have thought an old-school map would end up one of our most prized possessions?” said Vlad, winking at Kat’s sister.
* * * *
We packed up and said our goodbyes. I felt good about what we had done. It was gritty and nasty, for sure, but our group held the line and let Mike do what he does best. Yes, there was bloodshed, but there was also liberation that no man or woman can put a price on.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” called out Lonnie over the radio and honking the lead truck twice. He stopped a few miles out to discuss the final route with each driver. Jake and I tagged along and promised to fill Vlad in on the specifics.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Eleven
Lake Pueblo State Park
Pueblo, Colorado
“Look! It’s doggies,” said Jax, pointing out the Blazer window to the east. All the children put their heads outside the window, hollering for them to come over.
“Here, puppy!” they clamored.
“They’re coming over,” said Hudson and Danny excitedly.
Joy was talking with the other ladies in the car when she saw it.
She laid on the horn as the twenty or more dogs closed the gap from nowhere to the convoy. Some had collars, and all varied in size from small to a big Saint Bernard, like in that kid’s movie, maybe called Beethoven.
Just one or two wouldn’t have been much of a concern, but these were not house dogs. They barked, yipped and snarled, many with dried blood streaking their fur. The mangy lot closed in at full speed, with Joy scrambling to put the windows up. Ringo and Mini knew something was wrong, with Mini barking and shivering with her tail between her legs and looking down over the trailer.
“Incoming at 3 o’clock,” announced Lonnie. “Everyone inside or on the trailers now!”
I jumped from the bed of his truck onto the back trailer and reached towards Ringo, standing on the trailer’s side with a low growl.
His collar slipped through my hand when his body launched the six feet off the trailer. He rolled at the bottom, and I was sure he had broken a leg when he popped up and ran towards the pack.
“No, Ringo!” I yelled. “Come back here!”
He couldn’t hear or maybe couldn’t stop, and in a moment they were on him. I could hear children’s screams from inside the vehicles as the pack surrounded one of my best friends in this world.
Without thinking, I jumped off the trailer with rifle in hand, only remembering to land on my good leg at the last second. It wasn’t the smartest thing I had ever done, but I rolled at the bottom and kept my rifle from touching the ground.
I hobbled towards the pack, firing rounds into the air above them. Some were scared off but not even half of them left.
The remaining ones were only agitated by the shots and closed in on Ringo. His barks were mixed with yelps and
I felt helpless, still twenty yards away, firing into the air without a clear shot.
The Boom! came from over my right shoulder and another two on my left.
One of the bigger dogs let go of mine and hobbled off, limping badly. Four more shots hit their marks, dropping two more where they stood. There were still seven or eight; I couldn’t be sure in the mix. One turned, running away, with no shots to be heard.
“Hold on, Ringo,” is all I could think to say.
I was now five yards from the pack as they ripped at his fur with their teeth. I steadied to fire from ground level, without a clear shot, in a Hail Mary attempt to save my friend.
“On the ground, Lance. Now!” yelled a familiar voice over the megaphone. It was Lonnie, I was sure, and in a last-ditch effort to save my brave guy I went facedown to the ground. Ten shots—maybe fifteen or more—flew over my head, most with a thud and yelp to match.
I looked up, expecting to try and fend off the last of them, but they were all either down or running away. Only Ringo lay on the ground, his white fur stained bright red. He tried to stand but could only get halfway up before collapsing again.
“Nancy!” I yelled. “Nancy! I need your help,” I called without taking my eyes off him. “Hey, big boy. It’s me,” I said, approaching him. He was breathing heavily but lifted his head slowly. I put my face to his, wanting to be the last thing he saw if he died right there on the hard ground.
I remembered reading an article once, written by a veterinarian, that said his biggest regret was not requiring a family member to be present when their beloved canine was put to sleep. The part I most remember him saying went something like, “The last thing they see on this earth should not be a stranger in a scary sterile room.” I had had the
