Hal “Holy shit.” Izzy pushes herself up. I turn toward the man’s voice and realize why she exclaimed. “What are you doing on my fucking property?” The man stops about ten feet away from us. He’s pointing the gun at the ground, but his face holds such fury that I know he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. For the first time, I regret bringing Izzy with me. Christ knows, we’ve been in some sticky situations in the past, and she can hold her own, but this is the first time anyone’s ever pulled a gun on us. I hold up a hand. Carefully, with no sudden movement, I take my license from my back pocket and hold it in front of me. “We’re from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” I tell him. “The SPCA. We’re Animal Welfare Inspectors, and we have the legal power to remove an animal from its owner if we believe it’s being mistreated.” “Fuck off,” the man says. “You’re not taking my dog.” Izzy takes a de ep breath, then st eps forward. The lady has guts, I’ll give her that. “I appreciate she’s your dog, sir,” she says in her husky, calm voice. “And I understand you don’t wish to give her up. But the creature’s poorly, sir, and she needs to see a vet. It won’t cost you anything if we take her in. We’ll treat her, give her the medicine she needs. I’m sure you care for her and want her to be better.” It’s bullshit; this idiot doesn’t give a fuck for the dog. It’s a possession, not a living, breathing animal. The guy’s drunk and probably has been for days. He’s more than likely forgotten the dog’s out here. As SPCA officers, we have the power to investigate cruelty, abuse, neglect, and abandonment. We have the authority to enter property, houses, and vehicles, and to take a mistreated animal into care. First, though, we’re supposed to assess the possibility of giving the abuser advice and assistance, and to consider whether it’s possible they might be open to behavioral change. This man is open to nothing. There is not a snowflake’s chance in hell that I’m leaving this property without that dog in my arms. I move casually to the side, drawing the man’s gaze off Izzy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take out her phone and quickly take a few photos of the guy, the gun, the cage, and the surrounding area. We’ll need those if he takes us to court. “Sir,” I say to him, though it galls me to call him that, “you don’t want this dog. Let me take her. She’s a living, breathing animal. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.” Slowly, the guy raises the gun toward me. “Get off my fucking property,” he says in a low voice, “or I’ll put a bullet through your fucking head.” My heart skips a beat. Izzy and I freeze. I see her slide her phone back into the pocket of her jeans. “Get ready,” she says. I open my mouth to tell her not to do anything stupid, but before I can say it, she runs across the yard, toward the house. Automatically the guy swings the gun to follow her, firing as he does. Izzy!
Fear and rage sear through me; I have no idea if she’s been hit. I drop my shoulder and charge him the same way I’d tackle an opponent on the rugby field, and he staggers back, meeting the wall of the house with a crunch. He swings at me and his hand connects with my cheekbone, but it’s little more than a slap. I take a st ep back and give him a right hook. He crumples as if someone’s removed all his bones, falling into a heap on the ground. He’ll be out for a while. I shake my throbbing hand, take his shotgun and break it, tip out the cartridges, and throw them as far away as I can before tossing the shotgun aside. I’m betting he doesn’t have a firearms license for it. I’ll be calling the police as soon as I get back to the sanctuary. First though... I turn and run across the yard, breathless with fear. But Izzy’s already walking back toward me, unhurt, although she’s breathing heavily. I pull her into my arms and wrap them tightly around her. “Jesus.” I bury my nose in her hair. “I thought he got you.” “Missed me by a whisker.” She looks around at where he’s lying out cold on the ground, then buries her face in my shirt. “That was close.” She’s tall for a woman, but she feels tiny in my arms. The sun’s beating down on us, and as usual she’s wearing a long-sleeved top, so she feels warm. I know if I were to slide my hands beneath the top, her skin would be hot and damp. Her hair smells of lemons. “You’re squashing me,” she complains, fanning both hands on my chest and pushing. “Sorry.” I hold her for a moment longer, then release her. Her face is flushed, and she doesn’t look up at me. Instead, she walks around me toward the cage. “Hal, it’s not got a base to it.” She gestures at where the walls of the cage are pinned to the earth with hooks. I nod, and together we lean against the cage, pushing it up. It takes some muscle, but eventually the front hooks come out, and then it’s relatively easy to knock it back, where it falls onto the grass with a crash. “Go on,” Izzy says, placing a hand on my shoulder as I drop to my haunches in front of the dog. “Do your thing.” Animals can’t always tell friend from foe. Even when a dog has been mistreated, it can still be faithful to its owner, and see those coming to help as intruders. Officers are occasionally bitten by animals they’re attempting to rescue. I’ve never been bitten. Izzy calls me The Dog Whisperer, and I admit I seem to have a skill at calming most animals, especially dogs. I move a little closer, hold out my hand, palm up, and say, “Hello, girl. I’m Hal. I’m a friend, okay? Are you going to come with me? We’ve got water and food in the van, and a nice soft blanket for you.” I continue to murmur to her as I put a hand on her flank, being careful to steer clear of her sores. Beside me, Izzy unzips the emergency bag, takes out a blanket, and unrolls it. “Let’s get her in the van,” she says. “Then we’ll take a look at her.” I nod my agreement. I don’t want to be here when the guy comes around. Still talking softly to the Collie, I move closer and stroke her head. She turns it and licks my hand. My throat tightens, and Izzy says, “Aw.” I clear my throat and run my hands quickly over her ribs and limbs.
“It doesn’t look as if there’s anything broken. My guess is that he threw her in the cage and just forgot about her.” Izzy turns the bowl over. It has two compartments, although they’re both empty. “It probably had food and water in it initially.” We both know it would have run out after a day. “Come here, girl.” I know I’m not going to be able to do this without hurting the dog, so I grit my teeth, slide my arms under her, and lift her onto the blanket Izzy’s laid out. The dog doesn’t make a sound. She’s a real sweetie. We wrap the blanket around her, and I lift her again, pushing up to my feet. Izzy glances at the guy over by the house. “Shit. He’s stirring.” “Come on, then.” She shoulders the bag, and together we walk quickly across the yard to the gate. She hops over first, and then I climb up onto the gate and pass the dog across to her. She blows out a breath at the weight, but I hear yelling behind me, so I vault over and hurriedly take the dog from her. “Let’s go,” I tell her, running to the passenger side. I should place the dog in the back, but I get in and fumble with the seat belt, and then Izzy’s starting the engine, and even as the guy bellows behind us, she pulls away and heads back up the lane toward the main road. “Shh,” I whisper to the dog on my lap. But she’s trying to push herself up to sit, so I help her, hoping she won’t panic and try to get out of the van. Instead, she leans against me, tucking her head under my chin, and gives a shivery sigh. I look across at Izzy. She meets my eyes, shakes her head as if saying I don’t know how you do it, and returns her gaze to the road. I put my arms around the dog and hug her as Izzy slows to turn onto the main road, then heads back toward Paihia. “Want me to stop?” she says once we’re on the way and it’s unlikely the madman with the gun will come after us. “No, ke ep going. She’s okay.” I pick up the bottle of water I’d placed in the cup holder at the front. After removing the lid, I pour a little water into it and offer it to the dog. She sniffs it, touches her tongue to it, then has a few laps. “Good girl,” I murmur, doing it again. I fondle her ear. Her hair is matted and full of knots. She’s young though, probably only six months. She’s not wearing a collar and I’m betting she’s not been chipped. It wouldn’t surprise me if the guy didn’t even bother to give her a name. “I’m going to call you Miss Daisy. How does that sound, sweetheart?” “Jesus,” Izzy says. “Are you trying to make me cry?” I glance across at her while the dog splashes water over my hand. She doesn’t look emotional, but I know her well enough to believe she’s not untouched by the dog’s plight. I can remember exactly the last time I saw Izzy cry. Actually, it was the only time, and it was when she found out that her father had died. Even then, she turned away from me and walked off to be on her own. Even though I think we’re as close as a man and woman can be without being in a sexual relationship, she’s a very private person. I know her well, but even I’m not privy to her innermost thoughts. I take the opportunity of her concentration on the road to study her.
She’s tall, which I like, being gigantic myself, and she’s reed slim because she’s always on the go and frequently misses meals. I scold her about it, but I know I’ll never change her. She’s the most focused person I know, and the most dedicated of all the staff at the Ark, bar my cousins, Albie and Leon, who run the place with me. And Noah himself, of course. She has long brown hair, but she always wears it up. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen it down, but it looks glossy, like melted chocolate, and I know it would be soft and silky to touch. Her tanned skin emphasizes how much time she spends outdoors, and her eyes are brown, but a lighter shade than mine. She rarely wears makeup or jewelry. She doesn’t need it to make her beautiful. It would be like putting scarlet paint on a daisy. Today she’s wearing tight black jeans and her usual long-sleeved navy SPCA shirt, the sleeves rolled down, and buttoned up to the neck. When she was five, and her mother was looking the other way, she pulled a pot of boiling water off the stove and it tipped all over her. Above her collar, I can see the start of the puckered skin that extends, as far as I know, over a good part of her upper body. I’ve never seen the scar. At school, she refused to swim unless she could wear a long-sleeved sun top, and I’ve never seen her in a short-sleeved top or a dress. Briefly, I wonder whether, when she goes to bed with a guy, she lets him undress her, or if she prefers to ke ep her clothes on. She has no idea why I wanted her to come with me today. She has no conc eption of what a calming influence she has, on me and other people. Or of how capable she is. When she’s with me, I know the two of us will be able to deal with any situation, which she proved today, albeit by nearly giving me a heart attack in the process. And she certainly has no idea of the other reason I wanted her with me. I turn my attention back to the dog and pour her a little more water. She laps it, then turns her head away, so I return the lid to the bottle and put my arms around her again. She seems to like that, and is content to sit there, leaning against me, tucked under my chin while I stroke her. If only females of every species were as easy to please. “So,” Izzy says, “do you feel better now? After knocking out that guy?” She gives me an amused glance. I look out of the window. I did feel better for a while, but it wasn’t hitting the guy that did it, it was being with Izzy. Now, however, the anger rears inside me again, black and ugly. Izzy signals and turns onto the drive leading to the sanctuary. “Come on, Hal. We’re friends, aren’t we? Can’t you talk to me about what’s bothering you?” “No.” I’d planned to, but suddenly I’m not ready. She steers the van to the quad, parks in front of the surgery, and turns off the engine. Then she turns to look at me. “Why don’t you go and find Rosie, then? You obviously need to talk to someone, and we can do without you for an hour or two. I’ll take the dog.” I open the door, then pause. “Rosie and I broke up.” I get out of the van, shove the door closed with my foot, and head off to the surgery with Miss Daisy in my arms.