Free Flawed Dogs by Berkeley Breathed Page B

with a well-aimed whack of the steel ladle. But this would not be enough. It only drove the pit bull into further rage, the snot blowing from his flared black nostrils like dragon’s breath. It set itself up for one final run straight at Sam, backed up against the wall.
    The big dog kept his head low, knowing Sam’s favorite trick. The muscled legs propelled the fighting machine forward with shocking power, and his head was nearly upon Sam when the dachshund leapt straight up, four feet like a sprung mattress spring. He wrapped his front legs around the surprised fist of the Rough-Handed Man leaning over the railing . . . and hung on.
    The pit bull never saw Sam do this and to this day remembers none of it, for when he hit the wall with the top of his pointed head, he was knocked clean into blissful unconsciousness, where he immediately commenced a dream of being stuck inside a locked closet filled with expensive shoes and beef liver and then eating his way out: the default fantasy for all pit bulls.
    The crowd sat stunned, silent. They turned their eyes up to Sam, still dangling on the Rough-Handed Man’s arm, who lifted the victorious dachshund and placed him on the wall before him. Slowly and silently, men began handing fistfuls of cash to the man, laying them in little piles next to his dog. Their bets.
    It was a lot of money.
    Sam looked up at the only small window above the crowd’s heads, the full moon shining brilliantly beyond the distant horizon. He looked back over at the man’s eyes and looked at him squarely. Even if this human being would have understood the dog, no words were needed:
    It was time for Sam to leave.
    The Rough-Handed Man looked back into the eyes of the dog that he’d nursed back from the edge of death many months ago, and he smiled.
    Then with a wink he stared squarely at Sam and began singing under his breath: “Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies . . .”
    Instantly, Sam hopped atop the man’s head and then leapt to another two feet behind him. That man threw his hands up to try to catch the bounding dog, but Sam was long gone to the next noggin. And the next, moving ever closer to the window behind them all as the men went wild again and roared, pushing closer and reaching to stop the head-leaping runaway.
    Dogs just don’t escape, they were all thinking. Not here !
    And especially not one that took their money.
    Food and drink cups and bottles hurtled toward Sam, but the dog simply ducked and dodged the missiles. Two men spotted his destination and moved to block the tiny window. Now where? Grimy hands reached for him, tearing at the folds of his skin but finding no purchase with the smooth coat of fur. Sam moved in jerky, frantic changes of directions as he looked for any escape, any exit, any possible path to freedom, but the enraged crowd only closed in tighter. The lights went out and the room fell into darkness.
    Suddenly a different voice—a dog’s voice—cut through the roar, as if someone had turned the crowd’s volume control down: “ ’ Ere, lad! Over ’ere!”
    “Hey! What? Who was that?”
    He heard it again.
    “Over ’ere, doggy doggy!”
    Sam couldn’t see the caller, but he leapt across more heads toward the voice, trusting its urgency. There was no other option.
    “The tunnel! Go for the bloody tunnel!” said the stranger with a metallic echo. “Follow me melodious voice!”
    Sam spied a small opening at the base of the filthy wall at the back of the room—a heating duct from where the voice emerged. Sam went for it. He shot into the dark hole, but a large red-faced man with a stinking, fuming cigar clenched in angry teeth grabbed the weakest link in any dog chase: Sam’s tail.
    Sam came to a sudden stop in the duct. Then he was dragged backward toward the man’s huge, red bald head, which was now wholly inserted into the aluminum tunnel. Sam had little choice but to push the nuclear button in a dog’s world of survival:
    He peed.
    This,