turned up now, he was gazing up into the air,
just as the girl was gazing up at him. The four-story building. The deserted building
where the ten dogs had been training, learning to herd, to corner. A silhouette on
the roof. A dog in outline.
The dog stepped quietly, calmly to the edge.
He was gazing down, it seemed, at the old man and the girl.
Slightly larger than the other dogs, he lacked their youthfulness. That much was clear
even at a distance. But he had something else in its place. Authority, a commanding
presence. That, too, was clear even at this distance. “Belka,” the old man said.
The dog didn’t respond.
He’s old, really old, the old man told the girl. Same as me. But he’s not deaf.
Once again, the old man called to the dog, somewhat louder. “Belka, why don’t you
bark?”
This time the dog replied. Uuoof . Just once, quietly. To the old man and the girl.
By then the girl was looking up at the roof too. All of a sudden, she was pissed.
She felt as if the old man had ordered the fucking dog to bark at her, and it had.
She was furious.
“Hey, gramps,” she said, ignoring the dog. The old man sensed the forcefulness of
her tone. He turned to face her. She looked him straight in the eye and continued,
“I fucking hate you more than anything. Fucking Roosky. Drop dead.”
Drop dead , she said. In Japanese. Shi-ne .
The old man paused, as if he were reflecting on what she had said. And then he repeated
the sounds of the Japanese word she had spoken.
“SHE-neh.”
“Senile dick. Don’t fucking converse with me.”
1957
Dogs, dogs, where are you now?
Mainland USA, 1957. Fate unites two lineages. On the one hand, the purebred Sumer;
on the other, the mongrel Ice. Both were bitches, each having borne more than one
litter.
Sumer was gorgeous. Her skull and muzzle were of equal length, et cetera, et cetera—she
was the perfect embodiment of the purebred German shepherd standard. She hadn’t lost
her looks, even now that she was getting old. There she was, in a cage, in a kennel,
in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.
Ice was frightening. Her father had been a Hokkaido dog, her mother a Siberian husky,
and one of her grandmothers was a Samoyed. She had a face like a fox’s with brilliant
blue eyes, a sturdy bone structure, hair on her back that the wind whipped like a
mane. She looked odd, even eerie, resembling the standard image of no breed. No one
owned her. She roamed freely across a wide swath of Minnesota, bound by nothing. Until
they came after her with rifles.
Sumer bore puppies who were contenders to the throne. Any number of them, blessed
creatures with everything going for them, expected by dint of their distinguished
lineage to dominate the dog shows. She was getting on in age, but the planned mating
continued; she got pregnant and gave birth again and again and raised her pups until
they were four or five months old. She was, in short, a mother.
Ice obeyed her instincts, mating with pet dogs in residential developments when she
was in heat, absorbing into her own bloodline the strengths of dogs whose looks and
personalities suited hers. The puppies she gave birth to were another step away from
purity. Their looks were unclassifiable; they had a dangerous, untamed strength. Ice
led her children, and she led those of the other dogs in her pack. Five dogs from
the team that had once pulled a sled in Far North Alaska and their children. They
were all “wild dogs” now, regarded with unease by the humans, and she was the top
dog. The leader of the pack.
A beautiful German shepherd who was, above all, a mother.
A freakish mongrel who was a mother, yes, but also a queen.
Queen of the freaks, of the monsters.
Ice, Ice—they came after you with rifles. The townspeople despised you. They hated
you, and they hated your pack. Human society could not countenance your existence.
You were evil. Monsters stalking the
just as the girl was gazing up at him. The four-story building. The deserted building
where the ten dogs had been training, learning to herd, to corner. A silhouette on
the roof. A dog in outline.
The dog stepped quietly, calmly to the edge.
He was gazing down, it seemed, at the old man and the girl.
Slightly larger than the other dogs, he lacked their youthfulness. That much was clear
even at a distance. But he had something else in its place. Authority, a commanding
presence. That, too, was clear even at this distance. “Belka,” the old man said.
The dog didn’t respond.
He’s old, really old, the old man told the girl. Same as me. But he’s not deaf.
Once again, the old man called to the dog, somewhat louder. “Belka, why don’t you
bark?”
This time the dog replied. Uuoof . Just once, quietly. To the old man and the girl.
By then the girl was looking up at the roof too. All of a sudden, she was pissed.
She felt as if the old man had ordered the fucking dog to bark at her, and it had.
She was furious.
“Hey, gramps,” she said, ignoring the dog. The old man sensed the forcefulness of
her tone. He turned to face her. She looked him straight in the eye and continued,
“I fucking hate you more than anything. Fucking Roosky. Drop dead.”
Drop dead , she said. In Japanese. Shi-ne .
The old man paused, as if he were reflecting on what she had said. And then he repeated
the sounds of the Japanese word she had spoken.
“SHE-neh.”
“Senile dick. Don’t fucking converse with me.”
1957
Dogs, dogs, where are you now?
Mainland USA, 1957. Fate unites two lineages. On the one hand, the purebred Sumer;
on the other, the mongrel Ice. Both were bitches, each having borne more than one
litter.
Sumer was gorgeous. Her skull and muzzle were of equal length, et cetera, et cetera—she
was the perfect embodiment of the purebred German shepherd standard. She hadn’t lost
her looks, even now that she was getting old. There she was, in a cage, in a kennel,
in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.
Ice was frightening. Her father had been a Hokkaido dog, her mother a Siberian husky,
and one of her grandmothers was a Samoyed. She had a face like a fox’s with brilliant
blue eyes, a sturdy bone structure, hair on her back that the wind whipped like a
mane. She looked odd, even eerie, resembling the standard image of no breed. No one
owned her. She roamed freely across a wide swath of Minnesota, bound by nothing. Until
they came after her with rifles.
Sumer bore puppies who were contenders to the throne. Any number of them, blessed
creatures with everything going for them, expected by dint of their distinguished
lineage to dominate the dog shows. She was getting on in age, but the planned mating
continued; she got pregnant and gave birth again and again and raised her pups until
they were four or five months old. She was, in short, a mother.
Ice obeyed her instincts, mating with pet dogs in residential developments when she
was in heat, absorbing into her own bloodline the strengths of dogs whose looks and
personalities suited hers. The puppies she gave birth to were another step away from
purity. Their looks were unclassifiable; they had a dangerous, untamed strength. Ice
led her children, and she led those of the other dogs in her pack. Five dogs from
the team that had once pulled a sled in Far North Alaska and their children. They
were all “wild dogs” now, regarded with unease by the humans, and she was the top
dog. The leader of the pack.
A beautiful German shepherd who was, above all, a mother.
A freakish mongrel who was a mother, yes, but also a queen.
Queen of the freaks, of the monsters.
Ice, Ice—they came after you with rifles. The townspeople despised you. They hated
you, and they hated your pack. Human society could not countenance your existence.
You were evil. Monsters stalking the
Similar Books
