The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [39]
I learned this on the night of August 22, 1831. It started with the usual after-dinner walk to the tavern—man and his black Labrador retriever. My master was a bachelor named Tad Wheelan, whose family had lived in Southampton County, Virginia, since they’d gotten off the boat from Bristol in the New World fifty years before. He worked on a nearby plantation as a manager of exports. Tad was a subtle fellow, never bragged, rarely swore, and always dipped his hat to passing ladies.
It was a hot night. An hour or so before Tad and I started our walk, Nat Turner (an over-enthusiastic lay preacher or a revolutionary, depending on who you talk to) and his slave rebels rioted and murdered every white person on their plantation, several miles away. Of course, neither of us knew this then, or we wouldn’t have gone out. I’d had a definite whiff of danger before we left the front yard, but ignored it. I knew I smelled something bad, I just didn’t know it was something really bad.
Sometimes when you’re a man’s best friend, you have to make tough decisions. You can’t bark at any old thing that you sniff. You can’t get your master out of bed in the middle of the night over a nesting rat or interrupt Christmas dinner because of a passing wagon. You have to choose your moments. But if the snout picks up the scent of spilled white blood, a Southern dog in 1831 would best use that moment wisely. I didn’t.
By the time I identified that horrid smell of death, we’d gone too far. I nudged Tad’s leg, stopped, and sat. He kept walking. I raced ahead and sat down in front of him and he laughed, thinking I was playing a game and hopped around me. I began walking home by myself, barking, but Tad continued to walk toward the tavern. By the time I caught up with him again, it was too late. Turner’s rebels had started at us, a mangle of blades and clubs and a musket or two. Tad didn’t move. I think he’d been daydreaming and was caught completely by surprise. The best I could do at that point was try to protect him, so I latched onto the nearest leg I could—and was promptly beaten to death still clinging to it.
Dogs trust their noses because it’s their nature. In this instance, I should have trusted mine sooner. Humans don’t trust anything—because that’s their nature. Half of them have gut feelings they continually ignore. It’s not their fault. Instinct rarely fits on the pages of a day planner, and even if it did, human beings would manage to complicate the hell out of it.
Fred Livingstone looked at his watch. It was five thirty and he still hadn’t heard from his partner in Miami. He walked to his large teak desk, snatched the telephone from its cradle, and dialed. He waited through ten rings and hung up, then paced back and forth in front of his million-dollar Caribbean view and dialed again. This went on through sunset, and then into the evening until someone finally answered.
“Winston, what the hell are you still doing there? You said you’d call me at five,” he gruffed.
He listened carefully, then raised his voice. “I don’t care who wants it! I gave you the fucking money, and now I want the fucking keys!”
Winston was Fred’s live-in companion. At first, he was the gardener and pool boy. Then he moved in and started taking care of the place full time, decorating it with his wild eye for island artwork and doing laundry. Once he started doing housework and cooking, the relationship grew into a friendship and, eventually, both men