Webster: Tale of an Outlaw - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ellen Emerson White lives in New York City. She is wicked private.

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Webster

CHAPTER ONE

The dog was way too cool to be scared. Or alarmed. Or even a tiny bit nervous.

But, apparently, when it came to being adopted, the third time wasn’t the charm.

Did he care? Nope. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen—even if it was bad. No big deal. He could handle it.

Probably.

He had been so happy when the big, noisy family adopted him—but, he probably should have known that it wasn’t going to work out when the first two things they did were to slap a tight, metal-pronged choke collar around his neck, and then name him “Beast.”

It also maybe hadn’t been a good sign that they left him outside every single night, chained to a rusty metal fence. Even when it was cold, or raining—or snowing, he would be stuck out there by himself, trying not to shiver.

Today, one of the little girls in the family had snuck him into the kitchen, even though he was supposed to stay in the yard on his chain. She’d tried to dry off his fur with some paper towels, and then put a bowl of cereal on the floor for him to eat. Cornflakes and milk weren’t exactly his favorites, but the dog was so hungry that he pretty much inhaled them.

Then, the father came into the room and tripped over him. He yelled, “Bad dog!” and kicked him as hard as he could in the ribs. The dog had tried to scramble out of the way—and the man kicked him again, even harder. There was a lot of yelling and commotion, the kids started crying—from the baby, all the way up to the thirteen-year-old boy.

At that point, the mother slammed a plate down on the counter so hard that it broke. “That’s it, I can’t take it anymore!” she shouted. “He goes now!”

The next thing the dog knew, the father stomped off to work, and the rest of the family got in the car. The kids were all still crying, and begging for another chance, and promising to take better care of their Beast—but, the mother didn’t seem to be listening.

They took him to an animal hospital first, to try to have him “put to sleep”—which were possibly the three worst words in the whole world. Luckily, the veterinarians had refused to do it, and the family ended up bringing him to a place called the Green Meadows Rescue Group, instead. It seemed to be a farm, and there was a big white house with freshly painted black shutters, and an old red barn, and lots of outdoor kennels and fields. A few people were carrying around hoses and buckets and that sort of thing, and a bunch of dogs were running in a big grassy area, enclosed by a tall wooden fence. He could smell lots of dogs and cats, along with some horses and geese and chickens, and what might be a goat, too.

The children were all still really upset, but the mean mother signed some papers, and handed him over to a lady named Joan, who was the owner of the shelter or something. And then, just like that, the family piled back into their car and drove away. Left him. Alone.

The dog watched anxiously until the car was gone. Maybe they would change their minds, and come back? Not that it had been a great home, but at least he had had a home. His throat felt tight, and he was having trouble swallowing. With luck, no one would be able to tell how afraid he was.

Because, okay, he was scared. Petrified, even.

Joan reached down to pat him. She had long brown hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, and was wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a green sweatshirt with the black silhouette of a running dog on the front of it. “It’s okay, buddy,” she said, in a very kind voice. “You’re going to be fine now.”

The dog had learned a long time ago not to trust people—and he wasn’t about to start now. He could hear some barking out in the meadow, but it didn’t sound frightened, or frantic. So maybe, as shelters went, this was a fairly nice one? Maybe he wouldn’t be shivering on a wet, filthy cement floor for weeks on end this time? He hoped so, anyway.

A tall man with glasses and a lot of unruly blondish hair came out of the house, walking an arrogant little Yorkshire Terrier on a leash.

“What do we have here?” the man asked.

Joan sighed. “That family just gave him to us. Look at how thin the poor thing is.”

The man nodded. “It looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks.”

Okay, the dog would admit that he was rather slim, but in a totally excellent athletic sort of way.

In the meantime, the Terrier gave him a cocky You think you’re tough? I’m tough! look.

Which the dog chose to ignore.

“I run this joint,” the Terrier barked at him.

Oh, yeah, no doubt. “Move along, buddy,” the dog barked back. “Nothing to see here.”

The Terrier laughed. “You’ve got that right,” he said in a high yap.

The dog had walked into that one—so, he couldn’t be offended by the insult.

Much.

The dog tugged experimentally on the leash, and felt the metal prongs bite into his neck. He hated this collar. If this Joan person took it off him soon, he might actually start to like her.

A little.

Maybe.

“Touch any of my toys, and I will vanquish you,” the Yorkshire Terrier muttered.

Yeah, right. “You and what munchkin-dog army, little man?” the dog asked.

“Okay, guys, calm down,” Joan said, with a laugh. “You don’t need to bark at him, Jack.” Which was obviously the Terrier’s name.

The Terrier gave the dog a long do not underestimate me blink—and the dog resisted the urge to step on him.

Joan was talking to the man, who seemed to be named Thomas, about taking him to the vet—whoa!—but then, another shelter worker came out of the house and told her that the vet, Dr. Kasanofsky, was going to drive over as soon as his office hours were finished and examine him right here, instead.

As far as the dog was concerned, that was strike one for life on the rescue farm.

Joan led him inside, where there was a small office near the front door. File cabinets, desks, computers, and other boring stuff. It looked like the area off to the right was a regular house, and that the newer wing on the left was for animals. When the dog had been in other shelters, there were stained concrete floors everywhere, dented metal dishes full of stale water, and lots of rusty chain link fencing. With luck, this place wasn’t going to be as awful as those had been.

Not that he was planning to stay long. In fact, the first chance he got, he was going to escape. He was done with people. He would hit the open road soon enough, off to a new life of adventure, excitement, and, like, hijinks!

There seemed to be a couple of rooms set aside just for cats—not his favorite animals, so that was strike two—with lots of pillows on the floor, and carpeted climbing structures. Maybe the cats had their own cages, too, but he couldn’t see any.

They passed a grooming and bathing room, what looked like a doctor’s office, and a big kitchen. The kitchen smelled good, and he could see an older woman putting some large flat metal sheets into an oven.

“Do you have anything special for our new friend here, Monica?” Joan asked.

The older woman smiled. “Oh, isn’t he a beauty! What’s...