Yes, my clothes are torn, I see that. My limbs are thin and bent. But why do you point at me so? My head is smooth and bald. What did you expect?
Where are you going?
Come back.
They do not fear me. They will be on me in an instant.
Class.
Come back.
Class, please return. Don’t leave me alone. I cannot face them any longer.
THE GAZE DOGS OF NINE WATERFALL
by Kaaron Warren
Rare dog breeds; people will kill for them. I’ve seen it. One stark-nosed curly hair terrier, over-doped and past all use. One ripped-off buyer, one cheating seller. I was just the go-between for that job. I shrank up small into the corner, squeezed my eyes shut, folded my ears over like a Puffin Dog, to keep the dust out.
I sniffed out a window, up and out, while the blood was still spilling. It was a lesson to me, early on, to always check the dog myself.
I called my client on his cell, confirming the details before taking the job.
“Ah, Rosie McDonald! I’ve heard good things about your husband.”
I always have to prove myself. Woman in a man’s world. I say I’m acting for my husband and I tell stories about how awful he is, just for the sympathy.
I’ll bruise my own eye, not with make-up. Show up with an arm in a sling. “Some men don’t like a woman who can do business,” I say. “But he’s good at what he does. An eye for detail. You need that when you’re dealing dogs.”
“I heard that. My friend is the one who was after a Lancashire Large. For his wife.”
I remembered; the man had sent me pictures. Why would he send me pictures?
“He says it was a job well done. So you know what I’m after?”
“You’re after a vampire dog. Very hard to locate. Nocturnal, you know? Skittish with light. My husband will need a lot of equipment.”
“So you’ll catch them in the day when they’re asleep. I don’t care about the money. I want one of those dogs.”
“My husband is curious to know why you’d like one. It helps him in the process.”
“Doesn’t he talk?”
“He’s not good with people. He’s good at plenty, but not people.”
“Anyway, about the dog: thing is, my son’s not well. It’s a blood thing. It’s hard to explain even with a medical degree.”
My ears ring when someone’s lying to me. Even over the phone. I knew he was a doctor; I’d looked him up.
“What’s your son’s name?”
The silence was momentary, but enough to confirm my doubts there was a son. “Raphael,” he said. “Sick little Raphael.” He paused. “And I want to use the dog like a leech. You know? The blood-letting cure.”
“So you just need the one?”
“Could he get more?”
“He could manage three, but your son … ”
“Get me three,” he said.
I thought,
There are dogs rare because of the numbers. Some because of what they are or what they can do.
And some are rare because they are not always seen.
I remember every animal I’ve captured, but not all of my clients. I like to forget them. If I don’t know their faces I can’t remember their expressions or their intent.
The Calalburun. I traveled to Turkey for this puppy. Outside of their birthplace, they don’t thrive, these dogs. There is something about the hunting in Turkey which is good for them. My client wanted this dog because it has a split nose. Entrancing to look at. Like two noses grown together.
The Puffin Dog. Norwegian Lundehound. These dogs were close to extinction when a dog-lover discovered a group of them on a small island. He bred them up from five, then shared some with an enthusiast in America. Not long after that, the European dogs were wiped out, leaving the American dogs the last remaining.
The American sent a breeding pair and some pups back to Europe, not long before her own dogs were wiped out. From those four there are now about a thousand.
The dogs were bred to hunt Puffins. They are so flexible (because they sometimes needed to crawl through caves to hunt) that the back of their head can touch their spine. As a breed, though, they don’t absorb nutrients well, so they die easily and die young. We have a network, the other dealers and I. Our clients want different things at different times so we help each other out. My associate in Europe knew of four Puffin Dogs.
It’s not up to me to ponder why people keep these cripples alive. Animal protection around the world doesn’t like it much; I just heard that the English RSPCA no longer supports Crufts Dog Show because they say there are too many disabled dogs being bred and shown. Dogs like the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, whose skull is too small for its brain. And a lot of boxer dogs are prone to epilepsy, and some bulldogs are unable to mate, or are unable to give birth unassisted.
It’s looks over health. But humans? Same same.
The Basenji is a dog which yodels. My client liked the sound and wanted to be yodeled to. I don’t know how that worked out.
Tea cup dogs aren’t registered and are so fragile and mimsy they need to be carried everywhere. Some say this is the breeders’ way of selling off runts.
Then there’s the other dogs. The Black Dogs, Yellow Dogs, the Sulphurous Beast, the Wide-Eyed Hound, the Wisht Hound, and the Hateful Thing: The Gabriel Hound.
I’ve never been asked to catch one of these, nor have I seen one, but godawful stories are told.
The only known habitat of the vampire dog is the island of Viti Levu, Fiji. I’d never been there but I’d heard others talk of the rich pickings. I did as much groundwork as I could over the phone, then visited the client to get a look at him and pick up the money. No paper trail. I wore tight jeans with a tear across the ass and a pink button up shirt.
He was ordinary; they usually are. The ones with a lot of money are always confident but this one seemed overly so. Stolen riches, I wondered. The ones who get rich by stealing think they can get away with everything. Two heads taller then me, he wore a tight blue T-shirt, blank. A rare thing; most people like to plaster jokes on their chests. He didn’t shake my hand but looked behind me for the real person, my husband.
“I’m sorry, my husband was taken ill. He’s told me exactly what I need to do, though,” I said.
The client put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “He’s lucky he’s got someone reliable to do his dirty work,” the guy said.
He gave me a glass of orange soda as if I were a child. That’s fine; making money is making money.
I told him we’d found some dogs, but not for sale. They’d have to be caught and that would take a lot more.
“Whatever … Look, I’ve got a place to keep them.”
He showed me into his backyard, where he had dug a deep hole. Damp. The sides smooth, slippery with mud. One push and I’d be in there.
I stepped back from the edge.
“So, four dogs?” he said. “Ask your husband if he can get me four vampire dogs.”
“I will check.” My husband Joe had his spine bitten half out by a glandular-affected bull dog, and all he could
