Free Flawed Dogs by Berkeley Breathed Page A

smelled besides the man’s sweat and fear:
    Shame.
    Sam sensed and saw it on the man’s face as he gently lowered Sam into the tiny arena, now surrounded by yelling faces and waving money. Shame. The man’s eyes avoided Sam, and he turned to make some sort of arrangement with all the money-waving men.
    Sam realized now that it was that, the money, that this was all about. And the trembling spitting screaming beast that ached to get at Sam across the pit was the obstacle for the man getting it.
    Sam was meant to fight. And win. And survive.
    Not likely.
    Which is why Sam lay down against the wall and closed his eyes, allowing—for the first time in many years—the memories of a long-past life to flood his mind before the coming violence descended upon his tiny body. He was back in the grass of Vermont, running, a girl’s voice calling his name . . . when another familiar voice broke through.
    “BUDDY!”
    Sam opened his eyes and looked up at the crowd of faces. He saw the Rough-Handed Man looking down at him.
    But he saw something just below him. A ragged poster next to others lining the filthy walls of the pit. It was for the Westminster Dog Show in New York City. It was the large picture of a dog at the center of it that made Sam sit up and squint into the glare of overhead lights.
    It was a huge poodle. Looking gorgeous and regal and very, very familiar.
    Cassius.
    A word that he had long blocked out along with the rest of his memories. A word that suddenly fell on his mind like a butcher’s cleaver.
    “Cassius!” said Sam loudly. “CASSIUS!”
    The crowd heard a bark from the absurd, tiny dog lying in the pit waiting for death.
    Silence.
    Two hundred voices suddenly went still, their waving hands grasping the money stopped. The Rough-Handed Man stared, as did the others, waiting. Even the great snarling pit bull opposite Sam froze.
    Cassius. The destroyer of worlds . . . Sam’s world. Cassius was alive!
    If only it were he that stood five feet away at this moment, thought Sam, rather than the mindless, broken pit bull that was.
    That would be something to live for. To die for.
    To kill for.
    Cassius is still out there.
    That single thought . . . the seed of an unfinished idea . . . was enough to hook the frayed remnant that had become Sam’s life and keep him from sinking.
    The stunned crowd watched in disbelief as Sam got to his feet. His eyes, now wide and focused, scanned the small pit and wood wall that surrounded it . . . and the killing machine opposite his nose.
    Gotta get out of this place! he thought, his mind racing, roaring, cooking at full boil.
    But first he had to deal with the huge saliva-dripping problem in front of him. He dug deep for the instincts and skills from a distant time in his life.
    Time to change the rules.
    “Let him go!” Sam barked to the man holding back the pit bull . “NOW!”
    The pit bull opposite was released, but before the great dog could lunge, Sam was rushing him. The massive jaws snapped at Sam’s tiny head but found only air, for Sam had dropped low and slid between his wide-set legs as if on ice, emerging below the dog’s tail. Spinning, Sam leapt atop the beast’s back and careened off his head like a squirrel bouncing across a rock in a stream. But as Sam passed the smooth head, his stainless steel leggle whacked the surprised beast on the skull, stunning him, making him wobble on his spread feet.
    Sam raced around the perimeter at blinding speed, the bigger dog spinning dizzyingly in the opposite direction,
vainly trying to intercept the smaller, faster one . . . all of which made Sam look like the tiny ball spinning around a giant roulette wheel.
    The crowd screamed. This they’d never seen before. The Rough-Handed Man simply sat, mouth slightly open, eyes wide in shock.
    The pit bull was powerful but slower than the tiny target, and Sam stayed in front of his flashing teeth. Over and over, Sam would leap high on the wall and fall atop the big dog’s head