text: I've seen puncture wounds on just about every part of a dog, but nothing, and I mean nothing bleeds like a split ear. While there are several ways to wrap an ear, I prefer to bend at the natural seam and wrap the bandage around the entire head. This method discourages the dog from picking at the wrap and minimizes discomfort. Dogs will always choose normalcy over their well-being. That's where a balance of human intervention, and cooperation becomes necessary. This stray was brought in by the street guys, Peter and Paul; our canine-catching team of exactly two. Peter and Paul don't suffer from your average identical sibling rivalry. They got hired as a pair, work most of the same shifts, and just about split a paycheck. The rescue isn't exactly a well-funded operation, but we get by on a lot of passion and legwork. The split ear, which runs from the center, and divides the ear in two like ribbons isn't the last of the stray's problems, but it is the most urgent. Enough blood has dripped onto the examination table to create a steady trickle onto the floor. I take a step back to avoid getting blood on my shoes. A visible urge runs up the dog's spine, then around its broad neck. "He's going to shake." I say, but of course, no one listens to us 'enrichment' guys. The head veterinarian, Dr. Macnee, is measuring out her third bandage in as many minutes, and she's scrunching her face as if my suggestion is an affront to her years of schooling. It's an interesting dog, a lab mix with wire hair. Huge, but with nothing behind its eyes. I reload some peanut butter onto my spoon, which staves off the head shake momentarily. Then I drop the spoon, breaking its trance. His neck stiffens again. "He's going to shake," I repeat. But it's too late, and the dog ripples with kinetic force. With the urge relieved, the dog's tongue hangs proudly. The Doctor takes off her glasses, which are dotted now with crimson flecks, along with every surface in a four-foot radius. I hold up a fresh, new dollop of peanut butter. "One more try?" I ask. Later that day I'm out in the daycare yard overseeing a group of four for Social Hour. The group consists of Rocky the house mutt, a Boxer named Champ, and two Staffordshire Terrier Mixes, both named Luna. Rocky sits at my side watching the rest of the group like a retired athlete; like he's wondering if he's got one more game left in him. In a past life, Rocky was a bait dog; a chew toy used to foster aggression in tougher dogs. Probably the runt of his litter, or a genetic mistake that canceled out his killer instincts. His ears are cropped so close to his skull, that all that remain are two tufts of hair that have thickened in his golden years, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist, or an inbred marmoset. A muscular tongue dangles over his stalagmite teeth, and the corners of his mouth are pulled into a wide grin. Champ is off in the corner of the fenced-off yard, scratching his back against the artificial turf, and tanning his belly in the July sun. I want what he has; that unbothered look. Dogs don't test Champ, but they don't fear him either. His existence lies somewhere between the sun, and that flea-and-tick-resistant-turf, which is good enough for us both. The Bullies have had a slow start. This is their third meeting so far, the second of which ended abruptly after Luna 2 stiffened up and started growling. Today we've made some progress, with Luna 2 even engaging in bursts of play. She gets herself into a push-up position and looks up at Luna 1. A dog's behavior can teach you plenty about life if you're dumb enough, or weird enough to comprehend the lesson. By my count, a dog only feels one of five things at a given time. Their primary colors are happiness, discomfort, fear, hunger, or lust. People like to over-complicate things with degrees, and medical jargon, but they aren't the ones picking up shit, or breaking up fights. The real dog people know better. Dogs are simple, it's people who aren't. After the blood shower in the examination room, Dr. Macnee asked the staff to stay late for a deep clean. Gwen from the grooming department has stopped by to help. She takes care of the walls, while I disinfect the kennels, and remove hair from their rolling feet with a vintage sterling-silver pocket knife. "I'm heading to the Lamb tonight," she says, apropos of nothing. She's referring to a small bar on Main Street; the sort of place with Classic Rock and darts during the week, and DJs and college crowds all weekend. "That's cool," I say. "Have fun." Gwen laughs, but I don't know why. After the deep clean I hand my keys to the overnight employee, a late teenage girl who surveils the dogs on an hourly basis, or between rounds of homework. She waves me goodbye in a way that manages to feel unfriendly, and I make my way to the bus bench across the street. My bus is twenty-four minutes away, but I've brought a book, and I welcome the isolation, and summer night's breeze. I open the cover and find my place, and within moments, the Westchester County backstreets evaporate and are replaced by the high, guarded walls of my fantasy novel's kingdom. The hero of the novel has just discovered the full scope of the looming threat and retreats to his garden to ponder his options. The writer embellishes with thick descriptions of lush gardens where flowers display a degree of sentience. The hero looks to the sky, and- The moose-call horn of a Honda Accord erupts through the quiet street, and nearly jolts me off the bench. Gwen looks over from her driver's seat. "The Lamb," she says, "Are you coming, or what?" Gwen's radio is turned down, and I miss the rustle of the breeze, and the cicada's songs as soon as the door is fully shut. "I'm glad you're coming," Gwen says. "I've been trying to get you out for months." "You have?" I ask, but my attention veers to the passenger side mirror where a white van careens dangerously into the first spot outside the rescue. I recognize the Italian flag backdrop of the license plate, then both doors swing open, and two short, identical, muscular men emerge from either side. Peter is wearing a plain, black tee shirt that appears damp even in the low light. A tan-colored gauze is wrapped tightly around his left bicep, with prominent rust-colored stains throughout. His gold chain, a massive Cuban link with a diamond-encrusted microphone pendant swings wildly as he sprints to the rear of the van. His brother, Paul, meets him there, and they disappear from my view. "It's kind of late for a drop-off," I say. "Do you know if anybody called in any strays?" "Who cares?" Gwen says, "And no work talk once we get to the bar," and she puts the car in drive, and coasts away. At The Lamb, Gwen fumbles through a series of interrogation-style questions that fill me with unease. "What do you do for fun?" She asks. "I don't know," I respond. "I mostly just read and go to work." Gwen laughs, and for the second time tonight, I am confused. A few tables over, a tall guy wearing a college sweatshirt loudly teases his friend, causing the table to erupt in laughter and applause. "You are so boring!" She exclaims. "I'm sorry," I reply. "No, don't be sorry. I meant like, it's cute." Gwen stares at me for long enough that the grip on my pint glass weakens. In the dim lights, I notice for the first time that Gwen has freckles and a perfectly straight smile. I am relieved when a loud commotion diverts both of our attentions once again to the table of collegiate boys. "Why are you acting like such a pussy?" Sweatshirt demands. He's staring down at a skinny, smaller boy in a dress shirt. The boy in the dress shirt is studying his drink, while the other occupants at the table laugh, and exchange animated glances. "I said, why are you acting like a little bitch?" Sweatshirt doubles down. Dress-shirt says something inaudible to me, and without a moment's hesitation, Sweatshirt smacks him with enough follow-through to relocate him to the edge of his seat. Gwen gasps from somewhere behind me, but it's swallowed up by the explosive din of a fully enthralled crowd. People laugh, and cheer as Sweatshirt closes in on his friend, and grabs the collar of his shirt, snapping the top buttons off. Dress-shirt pushes a hand against Sweatshirt's face in an attempt to create distance. Sweatshirt cocks an arm back for a punch, but he's grabbed at the elbow, and then around the neck by a slab of muscle in a black security shirt. "We were just fucking around," he pleads as the bouncer shoves him past our table, and toward the door. I look over at Gwen, and her face has reddened, significantly reducing the contrast of her freckles. I think I see tears in her eyes, but I'm not sure. "I'm sorry," she said. "We should have gone somewhere else." "Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It just seems like you're having a bad time." She says. "I'm not having a bad time," I say. "I just don't do this very often. "Kids are so stupid," she says. "Why would you pick a fight with your own friend?" "Predatory drift," I answer. Gwen squints at me. "Dave, I thought I said no work stuff," she says, but this time I can tell she's joking. "It's sort of like when two dogs play, they're actually just testing one another. You know, who's faster, who's stronger, who would win in a real fight, that sort of thing," I begin. "But sometimes with a more dominant dog, you get these bad instincts, and they kick in if the other dog shows real weakness. Like, 'If you can't keep up, and you can't play-'" and I choose my next words carefully. "Then you're prey," Gwen concludes. We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, then pay up our tab. **\*\*\*** Back in Gwen's car, and with work-talk back on the menu, conversation flows freely. Gwen asks if I want to come overand watch a movie, and I agree. We chat as we pass the quiet suburbia of Pelham Road, then onto the heavily forested, sparsely lamp-lit glow of Shore Road on the border between New Rochelle, and The Bronx. As houses and taverns are traded for trees and horse stables, I realize that I am comfortable around another person for the first time in my adult life. "What about Dennis?" she asks. "Who?" "The guy with that silly tattoo of the sun with sunglasses." "Oh." I remember, "What about him?" "He was just so weird." She says. "He wasn't weird, just quiet," I answer. "But to answer your question, he stopped showing up about a month ago. It doesn't surprise me either. He was the only guy who Dr. Macnee treated worse than me." "Yeah, what's her deal with you, anyway?" Gwen asks. "I'm not sure," I say, but that isn't true. The truth is that she doesn't respect me, or anyone without a degree in the field. I look out my window. A chain link fence becomes visible in a gap amid the tree line. Far beyond that fence is several miles of golf course. But directly beyond that fence, and only barely visible in the dying glow of a far ahead street lamp, are three sets of green eyes focused on my side of the vehicle. Around the eyes, I can make out the jagged silhouette of thick, spiky fur, and sharply pointed ears. I stare back curiously, but a sharp jerk of the steering wheel sends my concentration to the front windshield. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It was a dead deer or something. It was too dark to see until I got close." I look back at the treeline just as it ends and a lane of parkway begins. In Gwen's neighborhood, we circle for nearly fifteen minutes before a spot opens up several blocks from her apartment. "It's a few blocks this way," she says, and motions with her chin. It's late, but Gwen's neighborhood bustles loudly into the summer night with car stereos playing loud music, and older men seated in beach chairs, and drinking beers on the sidewalk. We pass a deli, and then an old-looking church. A man is lying on his side on the church steps, and he watches us as we walk past. "That's a pretty girl." the man rasps, then lets out a phlegmatic-sounding laugh. Gwen's pace quickens slightly, and her forward gaze becomes rigid. "I said you're pretty, bitch, you not gonna say thank you?" Gwen's stride is automatic now, and she rustles her hands in her hoodie pockets. I put an arm around her waist, and her body molds into mine as our steps synchronize. There's a blur to my left, and then the man is in front of us, smiling. His teeth are yellow and jagged, and his mouth stretches far into the sides of his face, giving his nose and jaw a snout-like appearance. He wears an unbuttoned shirt that shows off a topographic map of deep gashes on his torso. A chunk of his arm looks bitten into, giving the flesh the appearance of an apple core. Blood crusts alongside yellow cholesterol deposits on the missing portion of the arm. Gwen is nestled so far under my arm that my heart beats against her face. The man looks her up and down hungrily. He has not regarded me once. For some reason, I think about Rocky the house mutt. Then I think about the hero in my novel. I reach for strength that I don't own. "Leave us alone," I demand. The man cocks his head back and projects another mucous-filled wheeze. Then he directs his focus to me, and even with his mouth closed, the lip line stretches for an unpleasant distance across his face. His eyes smolder like a smoking sinkhole as he passes them over me. "Aw," he condescends. "Why? What you gonna do about it." I place a hand in my pocket and grasp the sterling silver folding knife, allowing the handle to poke visibly next to my waistline. I maintain eye contact as my spine straightens stiff. I concentrate on my breath. Then I bark. "Leave us alone," I demand again. "Or I'll cut your eyes out of your fucking face." I pull the knife fully from my jeans now. The too-wide lips creep and curl around the man's cheekbones. Then the smile fades, and he studies the blade for a moment. "I'm just fucking with you, yeah?" Then he looks at Gwen, "And it was a fucking compliment. I'll see you around, beautiful." He looks to his side and then takes off down the church alleyway with alarming momentum. He hops a small fence at the back of the alley and disappears into the night. I look down at Gwen who is still nestled into my chest. Then she looks up at me. "Let's go," I say, and she blinks out of her trance. "My building is just down the block," she confirms. We half-walk, half-jog to the front of her building where she stops to catch several breaths. "Thank you," she says and looks me right in the eyes. Then she grabs the front of my shirty and kisses me on the front steps, and under the beautifully full moon. **\*\*\*** I have an early morning scheduled at the rescue, and Gwen offers to drive me. Something has changed throughout the night, and she touches me often and speaks in a softer voice. To my relief, her neighborhood is fast asleep as we approach her parked car. "Thank you again for last night," she says once we're on the road. It's the dark morning hour when the street lamps are turned off in anticipation of the morning sun. Gwen turns on her brights as she sharply turns onto Shore Road. After a short stretch, we see the culprit for her sharp swerve from the night prior. "Oh my God," Gwen moans, and we both turn our heads, Beside our vehicle is a mushy pile of blood, bone, and fur organized into a heaping mass. Bits of meat held together by clumps of fur are strewn for several feet of road in either direction. A few feet past that, and a large buck antler becomes visible above the passenger door guardrail like some crude memorial. "What do you think did this?" Gwen asks. I think about the trio of green eyes, then the man with the wide-set mouth. "I don't know," I say. We drive in mostly silence, and as we approach the rescue, I am surprised to see Dr. Macnee's car in the lot. After we pull to a stop, Gwen kisses me goodbye and tells me to call her after work. Then she drives away as I approach the already unlocked front door. The first thing that strikes me is the absence of a night clerk at the front desk. The next thing that strikes me is a small stippling of blood near the door to the hallway. My heart beats with syncopation as I follow its trail to the examination room. As I open the door, I see Dr. Macnee slightly hunched, and at eye level with the most grotesquely inbred, or birth-defective dog that I've ever seen. Its hair is thick at the top of the skull and spine, but sparse elsewhere. Through the thinning fur, I can see blueish-gray skin textured with blood vessels and liver spots. The joints all twist inward at a point, giving the dog a cracked, and hunched appearance. It sits atop an examination table that is not at all raised, suggesting a standing height of approximately six-and-a-half feet. "Good morning," I say or ask. "Did Peter and Paul drop this stray off?" Dr. Macnee doesn't look at me and continues the examination. She peeks in the dog's sharply pointed ears, then pulls back his gums, revealing two rows of strangely uniform, plaque-riddled cuspids. "What are you doing here so early?" I ask. "Forgot my purse," she starts blankly. "Forgot my purse, and what do I walk into?" I am too confused to respond, so I just stare at the grotesque dog. The lankiness of its limbs should not support its massive center of gravity. Its hackles stand at full attention from a painfully visible spine, and its ribs thump with short, quick breaths. Its jaw is covered in red and dark brown stains, but what draws me is the eyes. "I asked you to deep clean last night," she finally continues, "And somehow, you manage to make it worse in here. Did you try to redo the bandage on your own?" The dog's deep brown eyes lock onto mine. There is a depth behind them that suggests a level of comprehension beyond "sit" and "stay". "I did deep clean last night," I say. "And Gwen from grooming helped me." Dr. Macnee snorts, then forces a chuckle. "I never wanted an 'enrichment' division," Dr. Macnee spits. "We pay you to, to what exactly? Play fetch? Clean up shit? And you guys can't even get that right. I took pictures, and I can't wait to send them to the director-" She continues speaking, but the canine's eyes snatch my attention mid-sentence. It looks from me to Dr. Macnee with a flick of its eyeballs. Blood vessels constrict in the whites while the pupils burn black with dilation. The eyes bulge in their sockets, eclipsing their depth in singular focus. "Dr. Macnee-" I interrupt. "Don't you speak while I'm speaking!" she spits and points a finger at me. "I am sick and tired-", she continues. The beast's lips curl back revealing lines of spittle that vibrate like blades of grass against the first visible signs of a deep, gurgling growl. "Dr. Macnee, seriously-" I start again. "What?!" she yells. "He's going to bite." She turns her face just as the hideous beast removes most of her ear with an easy snap of its muscular jaws. Dr. Macnee's scream is high and hysterical as her wide eyes strain to assess her loss. The beast munches hungrily, then swallows. Dr. Macnee is still screaming as the muscles twitch in the beast's neck, and he springs forward with intent. The jaws unhinge, then clamp with force in the same instantaneous beat. Dr. Macnee's right eye socket down to her jawline is ensnared in a craggy prison of yellow teeth. She pulls back reflexively, causing the teeth to sink, and lock. The skin from her face stretches, pulls, then shreds like stringy gristle from a butcher's block. The jaws of the beast twitch dutifully, and with a squelching pop, the beast cleans the meat from the bone. The untouched portion of Dr. Macnee's face twists in horror and confusion, while her eyes spin and twitch in their sockets. A gash runs from the inner ear down through what remains of the lobe which forcefully spurts pints of blood across the examination room. Then the beast rises deftly to two feet and takes the Doctor's throat into its maw. He shakes his head once, eliciting a snap, and her body goes limp. I am frozen with fear and confusion as the beast makes eye contact with me. Dr. Macnee hangs heavily from between its jaws as he lowers back onto four legs. The beast turns toward me, and I place my palms up defensively. "Easy," I command. "Easy, boy." I take a step back with my palms still outstretched. "We're good." I keep my voice steady, "It's okay." The beast walks toward me, dragging Dr, Macnee beside it across the tiled floor. As it steps past me, it looks me in the face. "Easy boy," I repeat. It continues its walk into the hallway, and I slowly shut the door behind it. As the door shuts, I catch one last glimpse of the beast. On the side of its right arm, just visible beneath patchy, and thin fur, is a crude outline of a cartoon-style sun wearing sunglasses. The examination room door closes, and from beyond the glass panel, I can see the doors to the hallway open and shut. I wait painfully still for several moments before the main door is opened and closed as well. After the shock dwindles enough for me to regain my faculties, I call the police and then feed my dogs. Rocky smiles when he sees me, and his eyes gleam with admiration as I place the slow-feeder on his crate tray. When the cops arrive, they take a quick statement, then I show them footage from the examination room, and then the lobby. They exchange worry and confusion-filled glances. The attack footage in the examination room has been conspicuously deleted but cuts back just in time to place me away from the main computer as the hallway, and lobby footage are also cut. They tell me to leave for the day as the rescue is deemed an active crime scene. "I still need to let my dogs out," I tell them. After some deliberation, a promise from their K9 unit, and several neatly scribbled notes about medications, feedings, and temperaments, I finally agree to leave. They tell me that a detective will be in touch with me shortly. As a final word, the officers ask me not to speak with anyone. "No problem," I say. My bus is a half an hour away. I want to call Gwen, but she is probably home and in bed by now. With thirty minutes to kill, I take a seat on the bus bench across the street. I fish for my novel, then crack it open across my lap. Maybe I'll finally learn how the hero of this story deals with the looming threat. As I flip for my page, the sharp crack of a twig snags my attention. In the distance behind my bus bench, and across a small parking lot, a group of four massive, grotesquely lanky dogs plod along a treeline. A glimmer from the fading moon bounces light off a metal object around the neck of the third dog in line. They move with synchronicity, but no urgency, and a calm permeates my spirit as I watch them. As the moon catches off the metallic object again, I get a better glimpse of the small, shiny microphone pendant, bouncing with each step.