The Storm (14 page)

They survived the storm … but will they make it as a pack?

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THE PACK

“What are you waiting for?” Honey woofed, sticking her head Out beside Shep's.

“Shep-dog waiting to see if maybe Fuzz get eaten by snake before meet dog-pack.” The cat hissed at Shep from his perch on Honey's back.

Why couldn't Fuzz have been a nice cat, a friendly cat, a cat that didn't make you want to bite his bony neck in half? There might have been some chance of convincing the others with a nice cat. With Fuzz, Shep just hoped Callie didn't eat him before he and Honey could scramble back to their den.

In the alley, the pack was moaning about sleeping arrangements.

“Are we sleeping Outside?” whined Oscar. “I don't think I can sleep Outside. Those poop bags could use their jelly strings to strangle me in my sleep!” His tail was set firmly between his legs.

“Don't be silly, pup,” barked Ginny. “No dog of my breeding sleeps Outside like a common mutt.” She stood and shook her fur. “Where
are
we sleeping?” she woofed to Shep as he approached. “And don't say this tottering pile of stones.” She flicked her muzzle at Honey's building.

Virgil shifted on his paws. “I agree,” he grunted. Virgil paused near a second staircase, which led up to the third level. “Did any dog check up there?” he woofed to Shep.

Shep loped to the stairs. “Doesn't smell like it.”

Virgil gave off an odor of nervousness.

“I'll give it a quick scent,” Shep yipped. “We can do a more thorough search in the morning if I catch a whiff of any kib.”

Virgil smelled relieved. “I'll take up your post here until you return,” he barked.

Decision made
, Shep noted to himself.

He padded up the creaking steps. The third-floor hall was identical to the one below, dimly lit by the same front window, but now that it was evening and Shep was alone, the place seemed much spookier.

Shep sniffed the doorframe at the top of the stairs, nearest the window. There was a strong scent of dog; one was either trapped inside the den, or had been until recently. The only problem was the splintered beam that lay between Shep and the knob.

Shep pressed the beam with his forepaw. The wood groaned, and sodden scraps of ceiling material dropped onto Shep's back. Then the whole section of wall — door and all — crumbled into the den with a crash.

Virgil barked up the stairs, “You all right?”

“I'm fine,” woofed Shep, shaking flakes of wall from his snout. He coughed to clear the dust from his lungs, then sprang over the wreckage and into the den.

Everything inside smelled of salt from the wave. Mud lay thick on the floor. The dim light of the late sun filtered through the gauzy window cloths, which billowed out from broken windows. A moldering couch and cracked light-window stood at opposite ends of the room.

“Hello?” Shep woofed. “Is there a dog in here?”

A cat sprang from behind the couch, screeching like an old Car, and bolted down the den's dark hallway.

Shep sniffed the couch and confirmed that, at least before the storm, a dog had also lived in the den.

He loped into the den's food room to check if it was worth coming back up here for breakfast. It was not: The food room was a wreck. A mist of tiny flies hung over a bowl of rotting fruit on the counter. The cabinets had already been opened and scavenged, perhaps by the mangy cat. The room's outer wall had been torn away by the wave and the cold box had fallen through the floor. Shep stood on the lip of floor that remained and looked down at his packmates, who'd gathered in the street.

It struck Shep that this was the first time since he'd left his den that he found himself alone. Only the creaking of the building and the whisper of his own breath tickled his ears. The quiet felt strange, though only a few suns before, Shep had lived a solitary life with his boy. How quickly his mind had adjusted to the constant bark and banter of the pack. Then again, Shep was used to radical changes — he'd gone from fighter to wild dog to pet, from the safety of his boy's room to the violent chaos of the storm.

Shep sighed. He'd better check the remaining rooms to smell if the dog had survived, then join the others before it was completely dark.

“Fuzz said we had a visitor.”

A golden girldog stood in the doorway to the den's main room. Her wispy fur was matted in places, but Shep could tell that in better times, she'd been well cared for. The scrawny cat he'd seen before sat on her back.

The girldog padded closer, her fluffy tail flapping. “You smell like a nice dog,” she woofed. “I'm Honey!”

“Who's Fuzz?” Shep asked, wagging his tail.

“Fuzz is Fuzz,” the cat spat in a sort of half meow, half bark.

The fur nearly sprang from Shep's back.
The cat speaks dog!
“You taught him to bark?” Shep snapped at the girldog.

“Fuzz is my friend,” Honey woofed. “I know it's not supposed to be done, but I wanted to bark with him, so I taught him a few woofs. He taught himself the rest.” She grinned and waved her tail.

Shep sniffed the girldog, scenting for crazy. She'd violated the most basic code: A dog never spoke to another species, not ever. Dogs barked with dogs. Anything else was like woofing to your kibble: a sign you were four paws in the hole and going under.

Why did Honey even want to bark with the bony thing? Shep could smell maybe woofing to a fine hunting cat, but this meower looked heartbeats away from splintering like a cracked window. The cat had been hit by the storm harder than the girldog. His black fur was so matted it stuck to his skin. His spine stood like a line of hackles along his back, and his hip and shoulder bones jutted up like small ears.

“Well, I'm Shep,” he said finally, “and I'm here to help you.” He explained about the others, about how they'd survived the storm.

Honey listened, becoming excited as Shep barked, her tail wagging harder and harder. “Oh, Fuzzle!” she woofed. “We're saved, just like I told you!”

“How go with Shep-dog and he friends mean we saved?” the cat hissed. “You have food, Shep-dog? You have safe den to sleep?” The cat's strange slit-eyes glared at Shep.

Shep did not address the cat; he spoke only to Honey. “I won't force you to come,” he said, “but you might be safer with other dogs, safe from wild dogs and the like. I can't promise anything, though.”

Honey panted gently. “Don't mind Fuzzle,” she woofed, glancing back at the cat and licking him on the nose. “He's a worrier. We'd love to join your pack.”

We?
“Sorry,” Shep woofed, “no cats.”

“Why not?” Honey asked, her head tilting.

This girldog was looking at him like he was the crazy one, but clearly she was the one who'd grown fur on her brain. “He's a
cat
,” Shep barked. “A cat can't be a part of a pack of dogs.”

Honey's tail drooped. “Then I can't go with you. Fuzz is declawed, defenseless. I'm his only hope until our family returns.”

“Well, declawed or not, he can't be in my pack.” Shep glanced down through the floor-hole at his friends. “We're tight on food as it is. No one's going to want to share their kibble with a cat.”

“If that's how you feel, then I don't even
want
to be a part of your pack.” Honey's tail stood high and her proud eyes glared into Shep's own, unafraid and unwavering.

The cat licked his paw, flashing Shep a scathing look. “Some dog have honor, like Honey-friend. You, Shepdog, no honor.”

Shep growled as he considered things. Here was a big decision, and Callie wasn't around to make it.
That's good
, thought Shep.
This will show her that I can be a decider, too.

He couldn't leave a dog alone in a wrecked den with no kibble, he just couldn't, not after everything he'd been through. But the pack would never accept a cat. Right? Cats were … well, not dogs. They were Others; they were strange and solitary and smelled funny. Shep had sometimes watched strays in the alley below his den, hissing and spitting and scratching and screeching — cats were weird, simple as that.

But this was one cat. A defenseless cat in need of help. And he was a scrawny thing; maybe no one would notice him.

“Fine,” Shep sighed. “The cat can come, too.”

 

Shep hesitated in the doorway. The street shimmered with heat, though the sun was low in the sky and the moon already shone like a ghost near sunrise. He smelled the pack in the alley toward sunset.

 

“And I don't advise we start sniffing around in another building in the dark.” He then lowered his head. “If you'd like my opinion, Shep.”

“What about the yard?” woofed Honey, stepping out of the shadows. “There's a little Park behind my building with a stone fence around it. We'd be Outside, but the fence might protect us from a poop bag with jelly strings. What is a poop bag with jelly strings, anyway? Sounds exciting!”

She trotted into the group, panting happily, her tail wagging, but no one looked at her — everyone stared at the cat.

Higgins coughed slightly. “Uh, miss, uh, golden mix? Yes?”

“Goldendoodle! Isn't that fun? I'm Honey the Goldendoodle! I just love my name.” She flashed her bright eyes at each dog.

“Yes, dear,” Higgins yapped, “but have you noticed that there's a cat sitting on your withers?”

Honey panted. “Oh, yes,” she woofed. “That's Fuzz. He's a Maine coon cat. Say hello, Fuzz!”

“Hello, dog-pack,” Fuzz hiss-barked.

Every single jaw and tail dropped.

“Did that cat just bark?” Daisy yipped out the side of her jowl.

Shep stepped forward.
Time to assert some big dog authority.

“Yes,” he woofed, “the cat barks. And he's joining our pack.”

Jaws remained open, but now all eyes were on Shep. Callie flicked her tail to the side, indicating she wanted a private woof with him, but he ignored her.
I'm a decider
, Shep reminded himself.

“Fuzz is Honey's friend, and a special cat, as you can smell.” Shep licked his jowls. “He's — well, first, he can bark. Which is unusual.”

“Unusual?” yapped Ginny. “By Lassie's golden coat, it's undogly!”

Shep stood taller. “Unusual or not, he can bark, and we can understand him, which is kind of interesting, in addition to being undogly, right?” He panted lightly, looking each dog in the snout. Cheese waved his tail, and then Boji did. Dover licked his nose. Callie remained still as a rawhide chewie, eyes wide and tail low.

Shep continued, “And he can catch mice, which will help with the food problem.” He glanced at Honey, who had a dubious expression on her muzzle. The pack caught whiff of Honey's uncertainty, and tails began to fall again.

Shep reasserted his stance, chest out and tail high, ears up. “He's a pet who needs our help,” he barked, loud and clear. “Why should Fuzz be treated differently than any dog we find? Are we going to turn away a pet who asks for help, even if it's not a pet we'd want under other circumstances? I don't think that's the kind of pack we are. This storm has left all kinds in need of help, and if we happen to be the ones who can help them, then I think we
should
help them.”

Oscar leapt at Shep's paws. “Yeah!” he bayed. “This is what it means to be the Great Wolf! Shep even stands up for stinking cats.”

The other dogs remained still. Honey grinned, her mouth open in a friendly pant, and she waved her tail. Fuzz grimaced, ears back, ready to bolt. Shep wasn't sure if he should remain strong or loosen up and wag his tail.

Dover licked his jowls. “Honey, did you say something about a yard?”

“Yes!” Shep bayed, a little too loudly. “Let's all head to the yard!”

“Okay,” Honey woofed, somewhat confused. “Follow me.” She trotted past Shep.

“Let's move!” snapped Shep.

The dogs — out of bewilderment? Because Shep told them to? — followed Honey down the narrow alley along the side of her building. At the back of the building was a stone wall, as she'd woofed. A metal gate hung off the wall, ripped from its fastenings by the wave. Shep swiped it with a paw and the gate clattered to the ground. The pack filed into the yard, glancing warily at Shep as they passed.

The yard was only a few stretches wide, and was littered with odd bits of trash from the storm, but one corner was sheltered by a fat, old banyan tree. Its massive trunk was surrounded by a cage of roots, which grew down from the tree's low, spreading branches. Some had walls of bark between the roots and the trunk, forming miniature dens within the shadows.

“It's perfect,” Oscar woofed, marveling.

Shep watched as the pack wound its way into the sheltered dark and snuggled close to the trunk. Callie appeared at his side.

“Bold move,” she woofed, her bark cold.

“I'm sorry I didn't bark with you about the cat,” Shep replied, “but I thought I'd lose the pack if I stepped aside.”

“I just wish you'd woofed about this rescue idea with me beforehand. I'm all for saving dogs, but now we're supposed to rescue
all
the animals we find?”

“Not all,” Shep snuffled, “just those we can help.”

“Which ones are those, Shep?” Callie yapped. “Are you going to make calls on whether we have anything to offer a particular ferret who squeaks for assistance? We're barely surviving as it is!” Her eyes were hard.

“Honey wouldn't come without him,” Shep barked. “I didn't want to leave her behind, and I figured it's one cat, and he can bark, which makes him special, right?” Callie's eyes seemed to be softening. He woofed on, “We don't have to rescue every pet we come across. I mean, how many rodents speak dog? I'm guessing none.”

Callie hung her head. “I'm not really angry about that,” she grumbled. “I know what you meant. But you didn't say that — you said
every
pet who needs our help. As lead dog, you have to say only what you mean, only what you're willing to fight for with all the fur on your back.”