Another Life by Andrew Vachss Page A

my good little girl,” I said.

Then I squatted down and patted her. A real one this time, not just a quick touch of her head, like I’d been doing. I even scratched her behind one ear, just to make sure.

This time, she didn’t trot away.

“You want to come home with me?”

She sat, eyes shifting from my face to her father and mother.

“It’s time,” I told them.

The stud just watched. The mother looked at me. Into me.

Judge and jury, side-by-side. The only role still up for grabs was executioner.

I waited for the verdict.

Counted to fifteen in my head.

Then I started up the Plymouth. Let it reach operating temperature, the way I always do. I’d been keeping the passenger-side door open while I warmed up the engine for months now, getting them all used to the sight.

Usually, they all went right back into their dog condo as soon as I started up. This time, none of them moved.

The temp gauge said the Roadrunner’s engine was ready. I took one more look. Nova was nowhere to be seen. But his killer-witch wife was still there, standing next to her last child.

I opened the passenger door, patted the seat, said, “Come on, sweetheart.”

The dog I knew I was finally ready for jumped in next to me. I reached across her, closed the door. Her mother’s body was a statue, but her eyes crackled with death-threats.

I drove out slowly. Stopped. Went back, locked the gate behind me. And took my puppy home.
    * * *
    “S he’s a beauty, boss!”

“She sure is, Gate,” I told the man in the wheelchair who slipped his hand back from under his guayabera shirt when he saw me come in the front door of the flophouse he “managed” from behind a thick wooden plank.

“Yours?”

“I hope so, brother. You know what they say.”

“Time will tell,” the shooter replied, confirming the only test a born convict recognizes.
    * * *
    I f being carried up a few flights of filthy stairs bothered her, she didn’t let on. I opened the door to my place, put her down, said, “It’s yours, if you want it, Rosie.”

That’s when I realized I’d named her.
    * * *
    T raining a dog isn’t any more complicated than immediately rewarding them anytime they do something you want them to learn. Every time they do it, you add praise and a command, so they make the connection. Eventually they don’t need the treats anymore. But that’s just the mechanics of training, not the heart.

Rosie was a young dog, not a puppy. I’d never had a semi-grown one before, but I knew this much: if she was ever going to be really, truly mine, I had to be hers first.

She spent hours inspecting the place. I encouraged her verbally, but I didn’t try teaching her anything. That night, I made her a bed out of thick blankets, right across from my cot.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, she was curled up next to me.

Some wino on a lower floor started screaming. Rosie jumped down and charged the front door, snarling, wagging her tail happily at the prospect of battle.

Defending her home.
    * * *
    W hen I had to, I used to be able to leave my Pansy alone for days; I rigged it so she could get food and water by herself. But I’d raised Pansy from a pup, and she knew I’d always come back, so I never worried about her getting all anxious while I was gone. Neos aren’t exactly Jack Russells, anyway.

For the next couple of days, I took Rosie everywhere I went, but I didn’t want her to think that’s how it was always going to be. So I started leaving her. The first time, it was only ten minutes. The second I walked back in, she started spinning in place with excitement, then rushed me so hard she almost took me down.

Gradually, I increased the time between returns. “I’ll always be back for you, Rosie,” I told her, every single time.

Gateman was crazy about her, so I started leaving her with him, too.

“Watch this, boss!” he practically shouted when I came in late one night. Rosie had run over to me, and I was patting her and telling her what a