Free Dog Gone by Cynthia Chapman Willis Page B

me,” his mother snaps.
    â€œThe sheriff asked me to watch out for loose dogs,” the Mosquito whines. “And I think that Dylan MacGregor has a yellow mutt.”
    â€œThe sheriff asked him ?” Cub growls. “A butt-kissing insect?”
    Dead End whines, squirms. I stroke his face to calm him, the way G.D. does, the way Mom always did. “Please be a good dog,” I beg, whispering in his ear. “Please be quiet. Please.”
    Skeeter waves his crop in our direction. “There’s a dog in that field.”
    My heart races. Cub snarls “thorn-in-my-butt” again through clenched teeth.
    â€œDameon, get back in this truck,” his mother screeches. “I don’t have time for you or your nonsense.” The engine revs.
    A long moment passes before Skeeter does what she says. He barely slams the truck door shut behind him when gravel spatters and the truck becomes a red bullet in a cloud of dust.
    I breathe only after the engine rumble fades and the dirt settles.
    â€œToo close.” Cub rolls off Dead End. The dog jumps up, sneezes again, and shakes from nose to tail, twice. “Especially after Skeeter heard us talkin’ about those killed sheep.”
    â€œAnd like everyone else around here for five miles, he knows Dead End is a yellow dog,” I add. “Exactly why coloring him Saturday Night Red is a good idea.”
    Mumbling something about it being more of a stupid idea, Cub heads back to the road. Dead End takes after him, leaping and nudging at his hand, looking to play. “Cub, get this leash around him somehow,” I call, holding up the nylon strap.
    But before I can get it to him, Dead End freezes. His ears go up. And then he bolts, becoming a yellow blur.
    â€œCub!”
    He runs after the pooch, pointing at something small tearing through the field grass, in front of Dead End. “That dog’s after a rabbit … or a skunk … or … something running for its life!”
    Whatever is running from him carves a U in the grasses and throws itself onto the dirt road. There, the small, brown lump—a groundhog—scrambles as fast as its stubby legs will go. But not fast enough.
    â€œBAD DOG! NO!” My shriek rips through the air, seeming to put everything in the world on pause . Everything except Dead End.
    Before the groundhog gets halfway across the road, the dog leaps, lands, and sinks his face into the animal’s neck. I gasp. Sickening horror and disbelief fill me up. When Dead End shakes that groundhog hard and fast until it goes as limp, I nearly throw up.
    Cub waves his arms in an insane frenzy. “Bad dog! BAD DOG!” His voice wavers and cracks as if he’s about to cry.
    I hope with all I have that the groundhog’s fur has protected him, that he’s only playing dead. “Cub! Get Dead End away from that animal!”
    â€œDROP IT!” Cub flings a rigid finger at Dead End’s nose. The groundhog hits the dirt with a dull thump. Dead End, his tail plastered between his legs now, licks his bloody lips and shrinks back from his crime. He looks off to the side, avoiding Cub’s glare.
    â€œAhh, gross.” Scrunching up his face, Cub slaps a hand over his mouth and nose. He leans toward the groundhog, but quickly hops back. He fidgets, and then steps close to the animal again. He does this bizarre dance two times before he finally pushes gently at the brown lump with the toe of his boot.
    The animal lays as lifeless as a log. My hand goes to my stomach where thick and putrid disgust churns and crawls up my throat. “Is it…?” I can’t say the word that finishes my question.
    â€œDead as a dinosaur,” Cub says from under his hand, his face pastelike all of a sudden.
    I start to shake from the inside out. A sob with roots that reach deep down wells up inside me. It takes all I have to swallow this, stuff it back into the jar, and secure the lid