The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [77]
It’s also your job to do the responsible thing if you’re left with a dog you thought you wanted but can’t keep. Don’t ever think that releasing a pet into the wild is a good idea. It’s not. It’s cruel and lazy—especially these days when there are so many shelters that can help you do the right thing. Stray dogs are not happy dogs. They can become a menace and can do serious damage and even kill
Each year, in many cities and towns, packs of stray dogs take over neighborhoods and prowl the night. Sometimes the news airs a viewer’s video, dark and shaky, with a dozen wagging tails barely visible. People are warned to stay indoors, to know where their children are. I find this funny, because humans all over the world are doing far worse things and aren’t getting any airtime at all.
I learned a great lesson about human packs when I lived in Mexico (now Arizona) as a gray wolf from 1865 to 1877. I lived with a wild tribe who called themselves the Apaches, and I was happy. They, however, were not so happy. Having had decades of hassle from the Mexicans, losing many of their relatives and children and now facing new soldiers from America, the Apaches didn’t have much going for them, luck-wise. They eventually, like all the native tribes in North America, lost their luck, their land, and many of their lives to the new invaders. I was killed by a man named Nelson Miles, who shot me in an attempt to make Geronimo surrender—but it didn’t work. Geronimo didn’t surrender until 1886, nearly ten years later. My gray wolf descendants were shot dead too, but only because they got in the way and seemed scary as they roamed in large packs across the plains.
Expecting modern dogs to stop roaming in packs is pointless. It is as pointless as the Apaches trying to get their land back. Pack mentality is built into every dog, the same as “finders keepers” is built into every imperialist. (One hundred and thirty years later, I find it amusing that if I ask modern Americans about genocide in Native American history they are outraged, and say I haven’t heard of the great consolations provided. They speak about spacious reservations, government handouts, and casinos. Hundreds of fabulous casinos. As if Native Americans are the world’s billboard for lucky.)
The truth is, humans roam in more fearsome packs than dogs ever have. All over the world, this very minute, human packs (armies, political parties, PTA mothers, corporate bodies, country club socialites, and high school cliques) are operating to recruit new members and eliminate outsiders because of one thing—security. It’s safer in the pack. Everyone knows that.
Dat man is crazy, ya know,” Hector said when I told him about Fred Livingstone.
“Yeah. I figured.”
“I mean it. Stay way from him, girl. Da man is trouble.”
Hector drove so fast, and played his roots so loud, that my stomach turned. Though I trusted him, I couldn’t look out the front windshield, so I kept my eyes firmly planted on the road signs we passed.
When we got back to the hostel, I rushed through the small lunch Hector’s cook had made us so I could get back to searching the beach. I hoped to find a different way into Fred’s sea grape grove, and finding it while he was still in Black River would save me a lot of trouble.
Stupidly, before I left, I called the trailer park in Hollow Ford to let them know I was okay. For some reason, when Junior answered the phone I wasn’t the least bit surprised.
“I got your room,” he began.
“Good for you, Junior. Is Mom there?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“Asleep.”
“Asleep?” I sliced off the top of his head, like a machete through a coconut.
“Yep,” he answered, half talking to someone else standing next to him.
“Will you tell them that I called?” With the pointed tip of my boot, I kicked his brains into his skull until they were mush.