Doglands by Tim Willocks

an orange uniform holding the pole. He was one of the Traps—the dog catchers that Pace had warned him about. The man in the thin-striped suit handed the Trap some folded money. The Trap shook his head, but the man shoved the money into the Trap’s pocket. The Trap pulled on the long pole, and Furgul followed him toward an orange and white truck. The back door of the truck was open.
    Furgul’s heart sank as he saw that the truck was full of cages.
    Furgul was locked in one of the two cages nearest the door. The cage facing him was empty. The Trap gave Furgul a smile as he closed the door of the truck. It was meant to be a comforting smile. The Trap seemed like a nice man. But it was still the smile of someone who had nearly strangled him and locked him up behind bars.
    The Trap truck rumbled off.
    Furgul curled up on the cold, hard floor of the cage and wrapped his tail over his eyes. He could smell other dogs in the truck and didn’t want them to see how dismayed he felt. He’d woken up that morning in his basket next to good old Kinnear, in a warm home with kind masters. Now he was in a strange cage in a strange place miles and miles and miles away.He’d only wanted to hang on to his nuts. He didn’t even know what his nuts were for. He’d wanted to find his mother, Keeva, too, so she wouldn’t have to live in a crate, so she could have a little bit of freedom. Now he was prisoner himself. Perhaps he was a bad dog after all.
    He couldn’t help letting out a sigh of despair.
    “Cheer up,” said a small female voice. “It isn’t over till it’s over.”
    “That’s true,” added a sly male voice. “But it might be over sooner than you think.”
    Furgul stood up and looked around. “I’m Furgul.”
    In one of the cages opposite was a tiny bundle of silky white fur. She was a papillon by breed. “My dog name is Zinni,” she said. She indicated a shy white and tan female beagle in the next cage. “This is Tess.” Then, with some misgivings, Zinni pointed through the bars of the cage next to Furgul’s. “And that’s Skyver.”
    For a moment Furgul wasn’t sure that Skyver was a dog at all. All he could see was a mound of dirty fur. The fur was a mixture of so many lengths and shades—here the hair was long and red, there it was short and black, and there it was white and tufty—that Furgul wondered if there was more than one animal in there. Then the fur jumped up onto four lanky legs, and a head appeared with two bright, crafty eyes—one blue and one brown—and one ear sticking up and the other hanging down. Skyver grinned at him with a set of huge, yellow, broken fangs.
    “That’s my ‘pile of dead cats’ trick,” said Skyver. “Not bad, eh?”
    “Amazing,” said Furgul.
    “I’ve been fooling the Traps with that one for years. Dead cats is garbage, you see—waste disposal, not animal control. Different van, different uniform—different jurisdiction, as they say. Many a time those garbage boys have shoveled me into their truck and driven me right to the dump, where the eating can’t be bettered. You wouldn’t believe the grub that people throw away these days. But tonight the dead-cat scam worked too well—one of the Traps trod right on my—” Skyver glanced at Zinni and Tess. “Well, let’s just say I barked so loud I set off half a dozen car alarms. Anyway, it’s nice to meet a fellow mutt.”
    “I’m a lurcher,” said Furgul.
    “Oh, I see, putting on airs and graces, are we?” said Skyver. “Well, I’ve been told I’m the scruffiest dog in the world, but you don’t hear me bragging about it, do you? Everyone’s equal in the Needles. Five days to live, or five days to die, whether you’re a purebred pedigree, the son of the son of the son of a mongrel’s son—like me—or a lurcher.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Zinni.
    “Once you’re in the Needles, you’ve got only two ways out,” said Skyver. “Either you get lucky and some dog lover rescues you