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I sit in the dog park, an ache in my gut, thinking of Loki. As crazy as it would seem to some people, that energetic Jack Russell was my best friend in the real sense—not justman’s best friend. He was at my side every day, and now, because ofmymistake, he’s gone.
It happened last week in this very park. I was playing fetch with Loki, his black-and-tan body trembling in anticipation every time I told him to stay and wait for me to throw the ball. Then, on the other side of the park, a druggie started to have a fit, frothing at the mouth, and the whole deal.
We were the only people in the park, so it wasn’t like I could let the bastard die, but Loki’s a reactive dog. I knew that if I led him over to the man, he’d go crazy, panicking at the man’s strange movements. He’d start barking. Maybe even sprint away. Loki is a rescue. I got him four years ago. Bad things happened to him before he was mine. I’ve trained a lot of it out of him, but it’s hard to change a person fully or a dog.
So I made a mistake. I tied his leash to the park railing to deal with the convulsing man. I’d seen him before, lurking under the tree, smoking out of a pipe. He was friendly enough to me, but then, most people are.
After I’d called911and stopped the prick from choking to death, I turned and saw a man grab the leash from the railing. I started running so damn fast, even faster than I did overseas, with more fire pulsing through me and rage. The hooded motherfucker was lucky I didn’t reach him in time.
He bundled Loki into the back of a van and drove away. I got the license plate and immediately hired several PIs to chase it up. So far, nothing. The cops don’t care. Or, if they do, they’re so underfunded and overworked, and there’s so much crime, there’s not much they can do.
I’m constantly waiting for my cell phone to ring. Dog thefts and illegal sales have risen recently. I looked it up after they took my dog. All I need is a location. If one of the private investigators called me up and said,He’s here, I’d go in, ignoring the law. I’d get my dog back, and if I discovered they’d hurt him…
Am I willing to go to jail for this? Honestly, yeah, I am. I don’t care anymore. My nights are filled with screaming. I flinch way more often than I should. I’m forty-one, and I feel old. Ancient. My body is fitter than it’s ever been. I punish this mental weakness with physical activity. Workouts that would make some men’s ears bleed. Loki would run hills with me, but even he would sometimes rest at the bottom, watching me with disbelief in his shiny, accepting eyes.
“Evening, Fletcher,” Miss Appletree says, causing me to look up.
She’s a kind, elderly British lady with a mean Chihuahua who hates almost everybody. I lean down, offering her dog my hand as I do my best to smile at the lady. It’s not her fault I’m ready to attack the whole world right now. Rascal, a fitting name, trots over and starts sniffing and licking my hand.
“It’s been a while,” I say.
“I’ve been in London. What a trip! Where’s your little Loki?”
I sigh, then tell her what happened.
“Oh, good Lord,” she says. “How absolutely awful! They justtookhim?”
“Don’t let this little Rascal stray too much.”
“I won’t. Yes. Thank you. Perhaps I should put a notice up on the message board?”
“The message board?” I ask, scooping up Rascal when he whines. He curls up in my lap. Dogs are so much simpler than people.
“You are funny, Fletcher. I’ve told you there’s an online message board for this park. Of course, the perpetual lone wolf wouldn’t join something like that.”
“Guilty as charged, Miss Appletree,” I say, stroking Rascal behind the ear.
“You’ve got the magic touch,” she replies. “He hates most people.”
I laugh gruffly. “We have that in common.”
“Oh, please. You’re as friendly as they come.”
“With you, maybe. I try to be.”
“What are the police doing?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, “but I am. I’ve hired three private investigators, the best in the city.”
It’s costing me more than one hundred dogs would. That’s what James said when I told him. He had no concern in his eyes. It gets me thinking about the nightmares again, all those years overseas, not there for my son, with his mother twisting him into this entitled shape. Or maybe he was just born that way.
“If you find them, what will you do?”
“If it was Rascal, what would you want me to do?” I ask.
She bites down. Her eyes flash with a hint of violence. Regular people have never had to unlock that part of themselves. They’ve never had to learn just how brutal they can be when the world forces it on them.
“Bad things,” she says quietly.
