Free Doglands by Tim Willocks

you’ll never make it. Accept your fate. When it’s all over, you’ll be much happier here, I promise. You won’t feel so restless. You won’t want to roam. You’ll forget these foolish fantasies about freedom and the Doglands. Gerry and Harrietare good masters—it’s hard to find any better. In their way they love us dogs. And in our way we love them back.”
    “You’re right,” said Furgul. “Gerry saved my life. And Harriet, erm—” He tried to think of something nice to say. “Harriet did let Gerry go fishing that day.”
    “That’s the spirit. And tonight we’ll have a slap-up supper. Why, I’ll even give you half my Extra Meaty Dog Feed. Or maybe a quarter.”
    Furgul smiled. “You’ve been good to me, Kinnear. You’ve taught me a lot about this world—and about humans. I’m sorry I made fun of your belly.”
    “You’ve threatened to kill me a few times too.”
    “I didn’t mean it,” said Furgul. “I’m sorry for that too.”
    “I forgive you. Life’s been a lot more interesting since you’ve been around. But you’re not serious, are you? No one gets away from the Vet. It can’t be done. In any case, where would you go?”
    “To the Doglands.”
    “How many times do I have to tell you? The Doglands are a fairy tale. A myth.”
    “No, they’re not,” said Furgul. “I felt the wind. I heard a voice.”
    “A wind? A voice?”
    “It told me I was the dog who runs in darkness. I don’t know what it means, but I’m going to find out.”
    He saw a gleam in Kinnear’s clever black eyes—as if, just for a moment, Kinnear believed him. Beneath all his breedingand knowledge Kinnear was still a bulldog. Somewhere deep inside he still wondered what it would be like to be wild. And in the soul of every dog Furgul imagined there lingered the forgotten legend—the lost dream, the long-abandoned memory—of the Doglands.
    “Then take my advice,” said Kinnear. “Whatever it is you’ve got in mind, don’t give the Vet any warning. Be meek, be docile, be obedient. Then they won’t hold on to you so tight. Sometimes cunning works better than brute strength.”
    Furgul heard the jingle of the leash. He sniffed the air. Harriet was coming to take him for the chop. Furgul gave Kinnear a friendly shove.
    “Wish me luck, you big fat dog.”
    Kinnear did something he’d never done before.
    He licked Furgul’s face with his big fat slobbery tongue.
    “Good luck, old son,” said Kinnear.
    Harriet arrived, twittering in a way she obviously thought was comforting, but she only made Furgul feel worse. She clipped the leash to his collar. Furgul rubbed his neck against Harriet’s leg. Harriet was surprised at such affection. She smiled and twittered and patted Furgul’s head.
    Kinnear gave Furgul a wink. “That’s the way. Keep her sweet.”
    “Tell me, Kinnear,” said Furgul. “What’s your real name?”
    “My real name?” Kinnear’s eyes grew distant. He smiled. “My mother called me Crennig. It means ‘head like a rock.’ ”
    “Goodbye, Crennig,” said Furgul.
    “If I don’t see you at supper,” said Kinnear, “I’ll remember you in my dreams.”
    Then Furgul walked at Harriet’s heel to the garage.
    Harriet’s truck pulled into the parking lot. Furgul saw the Vet’s through the rear window. He’d panted with worry the whole way there. Now the worry became fear. The fact was, he didn’t have a real plan of escape. The leash hung from his neck like a hangman’s rope. If he couldn’t get rid of the leash before they took him to the room with the shiny table, he could say goodbye to his nuts and he’d have to spend the rest of his life with Harriet and Gerry. What frightened him the most was the thought that he wouldn’t even want to roam anymore—that he wouldn’t even want to be wild. And he’d never have the will to go and find Keeva and rescue her.
    What would Argal do?
    The truck door opened and Harriet gave him a stiff, fake smile. There was a second