Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,102
well.”
“The cat live?”
“Yeah, but not well. The cat was kinda… weird after that.”
“Oh.” Her skin goes clammy. “Will Whitey be… weird?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Atlanta stares off at a point that doesn’t exist here in this room. “No, it’s cool.”
It’s a thousand miles from cool.
“Your dog’s breed is rare,” Betsy says. “I was doing some reading. You know those dogs used to hunt mountain lions?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah. They chase their prey and just keep throwing themselves against the animal again and again until the prey falls down—and then the rest of the Dogo’s pack joins in, both dog and man. Hunting mountain lions like that? Lord. That tells me your guy back there is one tough cookie.” She looks at the now-empty plate. “Um, no pun intended. I’m just saying, if any dog’s gonna make it through this, it’s yours.”
“I hope so.” Atlanta forces a game smile. “Thanks.”
Betsy pats Atlanta’s shoulder. “If you need another water, just say the word.”
* * *
It’s another three hours when Chennapragada appears, and says five words.
You can see him now.
Atlanta does not hesitate.
Walking into the back is a slow-motion walk. She wants to hurry but Chennapragada moves slow with a trundling hip-sway—Atlanta wants to shove her out of the way but wouldn’t know where to go once she did.
The vet takes her to the final door. It swings open, no doorknob. The smell back here is strongly antiseptic, a medicinal sub-layer and beneath all that, the smell of musk and fear and animal piss.
There, in the center of the room, on a shiny metal table, is Whitey.
He looks dead.
“He’s not dead,” Chennapragada says, obviously aware of how it looks. “He’s under anesthetic.”
The eye below the hole—now hidden behind a square bandage—is a tight pucker, the fur around it shaved down, the stitches suturing the eyelid edges closed.
His face seems to sag on that side. Like he’s got a palsy.
But his chest rises and falls. Slowly. Steadily.
“Here,” Chennapragada says. “Souvenir. If you want it.”
She rattles a metal tray—a 9mm bullet rolls around in there. It smells strongly of rubbing alcohol. The lead has mushroomed, like a muffin that blew up and out of its tin.
“He’s going to be okay?” Atlanta asks.
“He should be, yes. I’ll give you antibiotics and some pain pills.”
“I can take him home today?”
“He should stay here for a couple nights. So I can monitor him. But you’re free to visit with him.” The doctor eyes her up and offers a small, wry smile. “You can go over to him. He won’t bite.”
Atlanta didn’t even realize it but she’d been hanging back. Afraid to touch him like he was a pile of dust and if she got too close he’d blow away on the wind of her breath. She hurries over, wraps her arms around him gently. He’s warm. The rise and fall of his breathing gives comfort.
Then: a stink fills the air.
Atlanta’s nose crinkles. “Something’s wrong. That smell…”
“Gas,” the vet says with a chuckle. “He farted.”
“Oh.”
Chennapragada shrugs. “Welcome, Miss Burns, to the joys of dog ownership.”
Whitey remains asleep but his tail thumps against the metal table: clong clong clong. Happy in gassy oblivion.
* * *
Home again, home again.
By the time she makes it home—on foot—evening’s creeping in. Not yet dark but will be soon, the paint of twilight already spilling slow across the sky. A few early fireflies light up their butts across the driveway and above the corn. Should be peaceful. She should feel settled. She doesn’t. She feels on edge. Like she’s stepping on the ragged tail of an Adderall high, but she hasn’t had Adderall in months. Itchy. Twitchy. Angry.
Inside, an answering machine message from her mother. Things didn’t work out with Cousin Harley. Coming home soon. Couple more days then she’ll be back. Hope everything is good there, whatever, blah blah blah.
Yeah, Mama, things are peachy-keen here. One big dollop of ice cream on a giant shit sandwich.
Mama coming home soon. Whitey, too.
Atlanta’s alone.
She should feel scared but she doesn’t.
She calls Shane, and then she calls Guy.
It’s time to do something.
* * *
After she tells them both the whole story, they both sit and look shell-shocked. She expects that from Shane—that’s one of his default looks. You tell him there’s pudding pops in the freezer or that it’s the day that the new comic books come out and he tends to get that deer-in-the-headlights-of-an-oncoming-Peterbilt look. Guy, though, he’s sharp, snappy, ready for all that crazy stupid shit life throws at folks—and he’s got the same look, like maybe