Doglands by Tim Willocks Page A

because she thinks you’re cute—which in your case, Furgul, is a long shot because most people think that greyhounds are vicious and insane killing machines that will run down anything that moves.”
    “Or?” asked Furgul.
    “Or what?”
    “What’s the second way out of the Needles?”
    “Oh,” said Skyver. “Or you leave in the back of the truck for the incinerator.”
    “The incinerator?”
    “It’s the machine that they burn dead dogs in.”
    “Why would I be dead?” asked Furgul.
    Skyver gave a sour laugh. “If no one rescues you within five days, they give you the lethal injection. The needle—the Needles—get it?”
    “They’ll just kill us?” asked Furgul.
    “Some animal shelters have a no-kill policy,” Skyver explained. “They feed you and look after you until you get lucky—for as long as it takes. They don’t kill dogs—unless you’ve got rabies or you’re a total psycho. But there aren’t very many no-kill shelters around, and where we’re going isn’t one of them. For every ten dogs they take to the Needles, only four get out alive.”
    Furgul could hardly believe what he was hearing. It sounded even worse than Dedbone’s Hole. Dedbone wasn’t killing six in ten of his dogs.
    “But why,” said Furgul.
    “Why what?”
    “Why would they kill us?”
    “The pound has got a fixed number of cages, see,” said Skyver. “For every dog that goes in, another dog has to goout—one way or the other. The masters kill millions of us dogs every year. Millions and millions, didn’t you know? Cats too, though, of course, that’s no great loss.”
    “I quite like cats,” said Zinni.
    “I live with one,” said Tess. “They’re not so bad, once you get used to the rituals.”
    Furgul didn’t know what a million was. But it sounded like an awful lot. He asked, “So because I’m going in there, some other dog has to die?”
    “That’s the way it works.” Skyver shrugged. “Five days to get lucky. Then it’s our turn. You and I will take that last long walk to the death house side by side.”
    “There is a third way out,” said Tess. “Your owner can come and claim you. That’s what mine will do. I’ve been in there four times. I’ll be home tomorrow in time for lunch.”
    “You’ve got a name tag and collar, Tess,” said Skyver. “Furgul here hasn’t.”
    “I haven’t got a collar either,” piped Zinni. “Some sneaky guy stole me, then he took my collar and abandoned me in the street.”
    “What kind of weirdo would steal a dog collar?” wondered Skyver aloud.
    “My collar had diamonds on it,” said Zinni.
    “Then don’t worry,” said Tess. “Your owner will call the dog pound and find out if you’re there.”
    “Perhaps your owners will call the dog pound too, Furgul,” said Zinni.
    “Furgul didn’t have any diamonds round his neck,” laughed Skyver.
    “My masters are far away,” said Furgul. “But maybe there’s a fourth way out. Maybe we can escape.”
    “Dream on,” said Skyver. “The Needles is a maximum-security pound. They’re not going to take their eye off a bad boy like you.”
    “I don’t think he looks so bad,” said Zinni.
    “You can’t see the buckshot scars,” said Skyver. “A dog doesn’t get himself shot for nothing.”
    Furgul felt his tail hanging down. He didn’t see any point in explaining why he’d been shot. Had he escaped from Dedbone’s Hole just to die in some stinking dog pound? He remembered the promise he had made, to go back and set Keeva free, and set the wrong things right.
    “I won’t give up hope,” he said.
    “Good for you,” said Skyver. “As my long-suffering mother used to say: ‘Skyver, life is like a bowl of dog food. Most of the time it’s like eating your own poop. But every now and again somebody leaves a raw steak lying on the table.’ ”
    A sudden buzzing and squawking exploded from the radio inside the driver’s cab. The driver squawked back. A siren wailed. Then the dogs