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Fezzi climbed on and waited.
“Stay.”
He settled down on the bed, as used to the commands Pete had taught him years ago as he was to his feeding and walking routine. Constance collected a leash and went back outside for the mama and her pups. Mama blinked her eyes open when Constance slid open the rear door of the van. Constance let her sniff the leash and feel it against her fur, then slipped it over her head. She lifted the orange crate in one arm, took the leash in the other hand and led them inside.
Constance transferred the pups to the whelping box first, which prompted the mom to climb right in after. Once they were settled, Constance left to collect food, water and a wet, warm cloth. Fezzi snorted at her as she went by, but Constance only held up a finger. “Stay.”
As always, Fezzi obeyed.
While the mom ate from the bowl of food, Constance used the wet towel to wash away what she could of the grime. “Life has not been kind to you,” she murmured as she toweled off the pittie. There were several old scars that ran over the dog’s face, including a chunk missing from her ear. Most likely, this had been a bait dog for one of the Matteri thugs, years ago, back when they ran a dogfighting ring. Over time, all of those Matteris had ended up in jail, with the exception of Janice, who’d turned instead to running a puppy mill.
Who knew how many fights this mama had been used for or how often she’d been bred. Whatever damage was left, Constance would have to leave for Dr. Winters, the mobile vet who worked on Sunny’s dogs.
Other than massage, of course.
That was Constance’s milieu.
The pittie’s energy was low, which was no surprise. But as Constance ran her hands gently over the dog’s shoulders and back—white with brindle patches, like puddles and pebbles—she could feel the life inside, the ember that remained, even after all she’d been through. Despite probably being used as a bait dog, this girl was a fighter. Constance maintained light pressure and rhythmic breathing to loosen the mom’s muscles and get her deeply relaxed. Her abdomen was smooth and cool, indicating clear milk ducts. Soon, her eyes fluttered closed.
“That’s it.”
The pittie’s eyes opened again, drooped, opened and drooped, like the dog was used to having to fight sleep to stay alive. Constance raked her fingertips down the dog’s sides and over her rib cage, loosening her tight intercostal muscles. Her ribs expanded more fully, and her next exhale came in a great sigh. Finally, the dog’s eyes closed for good, the orangey light of the fireplace washing over her and the puppies like a blanket.
Constance left her hand at rest on the mama for a few more minutes. Everyone was asleep and seemed stable. The small, weak pup who’d shook so hard beneath Constance’s touch didn’t look as good as the others, though. His fur was duller and his breathing more shallow. Constance said a little prayer, knowing the vet would check them all tomorrow.
She quietly rose and went to take a shower, washing away the fur and dirt and smell, then settled on the couch for the night, to stay close to the brood. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice. Even after six months, Constance didn’t like sleeping alone in her bedroom. Josh’s side of the bed remained cold and untouched, even though Constance could’ve sprawled out and taken up the entire mattress.
She snapped her fingers, and a few seconds later Fezziwig came padding into the room. He leaped on the couch, curled up behind her knees, settled his chin on her legs and puffed out a great sigh. He knew the mom and puppies were there, but he wouldn’t go near them until Constance allowed it.
“That’s my boy.” Constance rubbed his head. Five years old, he was Sunny’s first rescue. She’d found him in the street, lying in a pool of his own blood, his foot so mangled it looked like hamburger. He’d been thrown there, not far from the same house where Constance had just found Mama and her pups. He’d been left to bleed out, since he couldn’t be fought anymore. Sunny took him home and Dr. Winters had him on IVs for days. When she finally gave him back she’d said, “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Fezzi had lost his leg, but not his life. And despite the odds, Pete had turned Fezzi into his first Canine Warrior.
As Constance’s eyes closed and her mind drifted into dreams, she felt the tiniest bit guilty at how much comfort she got from the warmth and glow of the fire, and the presence of so many heartbeats to match her own.
