Running with the Pack

MONGREL MARIA V. SNYDER

They call me Mongrel. I don’t mind. It’s true. My blood is mixed like vegetables in a soup. I’ve lived in so many different places, and I never belonged to any of them. But the other homeless don’t know that when they tease me. Say I waste food on my mutts. That I reek of dog.

So what? I like the smell of dog. Better than people. Better than the others I hang with. Not that I enjoy their company, but they’re useful at times. Warned me about the police raid a few months back, let me know when the soup kitchen opened and the women’s shelter—not that I would live there without my pups, but a hot shower is a hot shower.

As long as no one messes with my stuff, I don’t care what they say. It’s mid-January and I need everything I’ve scrounged to survive. My spot is near perfect. I sleep under the railroad bridge and I share my blanket with five dogs. The term hot dog has a whole new meaning for me.

The others huddle around a campfire on the broken concrete slabs of the abandoned parking lot. We’re all trespassing on railroad property, but the owners only send the police about once a year to chase us away. So far, never in the winter. Nice of them. (Yeah, I’m being sarcastic).

That night, snarls and growls wake me. Animals are up on the bridge fighting. My lot is awake with their tails tucked under and their bodies hunched low. A yelp stabs me in the chest and I’m running toward the sound. Something rolls down the side of bridge, crashes into the brush, and lays still. Something large.

A wounded animal can be dangerous, but I’m next to him before my brain can catch up with my body. It’s the biggest damn dog I’ve ever seen. He lifts his head, but the fight is gone. He’s panting and bleeding from lots of cuts. I yank off my gloves and run my hands along his legs, searching for broken bones.

He’s all black except for the tips of his hair. They shine with silver like he’d been brushed with liquid moonlight. No broken bones, but a knife is buried in his shoulder. Up to the hilt.

I spin around and scan the bridge. Sure enough a figure is standing there, looking down at me. My pups catch the stranger’s scent and start barking and baying. I don’t hush them, and soon the person leaves.

The noise brings the others. They tsk over the injured dog, but will only help me drag him to my spot after I give them cigarettes and booze as payment. They laugh and lay odds on how long the dog will live. People disgust me.

When the others go back to the fire, I open up the good stuff—eighty proof. By now the big brute is shaking and I grab the handle of the knife. He’s either going to live or die quicker without it in him. I tug it out, scraping bone. The dog shudders once then stills as blood pours.

Staunching the wound, I use the eighty proof to clean it before stitching him up. He doesn’t make a sound as the needle pierces his skin. I count them as I tie the string. Fifteen stitches in all. When I’m done, I lay beside him with the pups nestled around us and cover us all with the blanket.

He’s still alive in the morning so I make my daily rounds, searching for food, checking Dumpsters, and my usual haunts. Wearing layers of grimy clothes, I’m invisible to the normals. Slush covers the city’s sidewalks and cars zip by, spraying water without care.

A couple businesses are aware of me, and once in a while, they’ll add a few extra leftovers to their trash cans. I chuckle as I score a dozen hamburgers still wrapped up like presents in the Dumpster behind Vinny’s Burger Joint.

Vinny doesn’t like me, wouldn’t help me if I was starving to death on his sidewalk, but he’s got a soft spot for dogs. People are funny like that.

I don’t linger long—Vinny doesn’t like that, but I spy a small terrier crouched next to the dumpster. Almost missed the little rat. She is trembling and wet. Dirt stains her white coat gray. I lure her with a bit of burger and have her in my arms in no time.

Back at my spot, I’m greeted with wagging tails and excited mutts that are all happy to see me. Can’t get that from people. Not for long. Eventually they ignore you or abuse you, then leave you.

I spilt the burgers among my pups, counting heads. I got to be careful not to keep too many and the ones I keep are the littles who have no homes. The big brute eats half a burger—a good sign. I think he’s one of those Irish wolfhounds or Scottish deerhounds I’ve read about.

The new pup isn’t sure what to make of the pack. Doesn’t matter. She’s wearing a collar and won’t be here long. I inspect my trash bags, arranged just so. Funny that foster kids use garbage bags to carry their stuff, too. I don’t have much—a few clothes, some toiletries, a propane stove that’s a life saver, and cigarettes and booze for paying for favors. Nothing’s missing.

Most of the others won’t leave anything behind, pushing their belongings around in stolen shopping carts instead. We’re not a trust-worthy bunch. But no one’s stole from me since I’ve been sharing my spot with the mutts. I just smile when I sees one of the others limping around with bite marks on his ankles. Serves him right.

However, if the hound recovers, I’m gonna need more food than I can scrounge. So I grab my nicest clothes and head to the women’s shelter for a shower.

The lady who answers the door is nervous. She keeps the chain on and looks at me like she wants to call the police.

I hold up the white dog. “Found your dog, ma’am.”

And there it is. The woman’s face changes as if a button is pressed inside her head. Joy beams from her and I soak in it.

She flings the door wide and presses the pup to her chest, kissing and hugging the little squirming rat. “Thank you so much! We’ve been so worried. My kids will be thrilled.”

She goes on, but I don’t listen. It’s always the same. What’s not the same is what happens next. I’m polite and not demanding as I ask about the reward money. Just a gentle reminder. “Your flyer at the grocery store offered fifty bucks?”

The joy dies and she eyes my best clothes with scorn and suspicion. I smooth my pink sweater and tuck a strand of long brown hair behind an ear.

“Where did you find Sugar?” she asks.

“Behind Vinny’s on Sixth Street.”

“That’s over two miles away. Sugar would never go that far. You took her from our back yard, hoping for reward money. That’s why the gate was still locked.”

“No, ma’am. I—”

She slams the door in my face. No surprise just disappointment. Sometimes I’ll get the money. Not often.

I hurry away before the cops arrive. Since I wore my best clothes, the library staff won’t bother me. Pulling my favorite book, The Complete Dog Encyclopedia from the shelf, I flip through the pages until I reach the hounds. The big brute is thick in the body and tall legged like the Irish wolfhound, but his long face doesn’t match. I scan the various breeds. The Siberian husky has similar eyes and muzzle, but not quite. I guess he’s a mongrel like me.

On my way home, I do a sweep of the flyers hanging in the vet’s waiting rooms, grocery stores, and churches. Looking at the pictures of lost dogs, I think they’re easier to find than missing children.

Halfway home, I remember the knife and rush to get it. The dogs press near me, hoping for supper. I shoo them away, explaining about the ungrateful woman. Yes, I know they don’t understand me. I’m not stupid nor am I crazy. It’s just nice to talk sometimes. And the big wolfhound (better than calling him a brute) peers at me with his intelligent gray eyes as if he does understand. He’s sitting up—another good sign he’ll be on his feet soon.

I find the knife, clean the blood off and hurry to the pawn shop before it closes.

“Stolen?” Max asks, examining the weapon. The silver blade gleams in the fluorescent light. The pawn shop smells of engine oil and mold.

“Found it,” I say.

“Uh-huh.” Max sucks his teeth while he thinks, making slurping sounds that crawl over my skin like lice. “Cheap metal, imitation leather handle . . . I’ll give you ten for it.”

Never accept the first offer. It’s crap.

“It does have a nice design . . . how about fifteen,” Max says.

“That blade’s got silver in it. A hundred bucks at least.”

He gasps and pretends to be horrified. It’s all an act and all I want is to go back to my pups. In the end, Max gives me sixty dollars. Enough for a fifty-pound bag of Science Diet and a couple packs of ground beef. I carry the bag over my shoulder. It’s getting dark and I’m almost home when I figure I’ve been followed.

A quick check confirms a man is trailing me, but I keep going. Not that the others will help me. They’ll disappear as fast as the ground beef in my bag. Not like this hasn’t happened before. I might be invisible to most people. And despite the smell of dog and layers of grim, the strays of society still find me. At eighteen, I’m young for a street person, and high school boys, college boys, and even foster fathers can’t resist. My scent attracts them just like a bitch in heat.

The curse of developing early and curvy. My foster father called me beautiful. He named the dog Beauty, but never bothered her the way he did me. Lucky bitch.

I reach my spot and my pups. Too bad the big wolfhound is too weak to stand. Dropping the bag, I grab the metal baseball bat a kid left at the park and wait for the stranger. As long as the guy isn’t armed, me and my lot’ll do just fine.

Wearing khaki pants, brown loafers, and a long wool coat, the guy resembles a lost professor. As he nears, the wolfhound pokes his head out from under the blanket and growls deep in his chest.

The man takes his hands from his pockets. “Hello?” he calls all friendly like.

But my pups’ hackles are up.

“I was hoping you could help me,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m looking for my dog. Someone reported seeing him in this area.”

Bullshit. I wait as his gaze scans the mutts and lingers on the baseball bat in my hands.

He tries a smile. “He’s quite large.”

“Haven’t seen him,” I say. “Go away.”

“Are you sure?” He keeps coming.

I raise the bat. “Yep.” By now all the dogs are growling.

He is unconcerned. “Settle your dogs.”

“No.”

He is close enough to see the wolfhound. They exchange a glance and it reminds me of two competitors acting nice until the game starts.

“Settle them or I will.” His right hand pulls out a gun. He aims it at me.

A bone chilling cold seizes my heart. “Quiet,” I order. They’re familiar with this command. It’s the first thing I teach a new pup. They sit down on all fours and wait without making a sound.

“Drop the bat,” he says.

I let it clang to the ground.

The man tries to comfort me. “I’m just here for my dog.”

Yet the wolfhound doesn’t seem happy to see him. Go figure. Now the guy is under the bridge and the hound lurches to his feet. The dog’s massive jaws are level with my chest. The blanket remains on his back like a superhero’s cloak.

The man shakes his head as if he’s amazed. “How many near misses, Logan? Four? Five? Only you would find some homeless person to nurse you back to health. Too bad I found you first.”

And people call me the crazy dog lady.

He turns to me and says, “His injuries are too extensive, I’ll have to put him down.” He aims the gun at the wolfhound.

The urge to protect one of mine is instant and hot. “Wait,” I say. “Can you take the blanket off him? It’s my only one and I don’t want it full of holes and blood.”

The man laughs. “I see your charm with the ladies remains the same,” he says to the wolfhound. He’s careful to keep the gun out of the dog’s reach as he pulls the cover off.

My pups are well trained. And while being quiet is important, I’ve taught them protecting my stuff is essential. They hop to their feet and attack his ankles and calves with their pointy little teeth. He yells. I scoop up my bat and slam it down on the man’s arms. The gun fires, but no yelps so I swing again and again until he drops the gun. Until he rolls on the ground, shielding his body from my bat.

I taste the desire to pound him until he’s a pile of broken bones and bloody meat. Coming here and thinking he can just take what he wants. Just like my foster father sneaking into my bedroom. But this stranger isn’t him, so I pull myself together and call my dogs off.

“Go away,” I say to the man.

The man staggers to his feet, but his gaze is on the wolfhound. Odd, considering I’m the one holding the bat.

“Next time I won’t come alone,” he says to the wolfhound before limping away.

That’s bad. I look at the wolfhound. “Does he mean it?”

I swear the dog nods a yes. Okay so maybe I am the crazy dog lady. I pick up the gun and unload it as I think. If I hock it, I’d have money, but no weapon. The bullets are shiny silver. Living on the street, I’ve seen my fair share of guns and bullets, but these are special. Expensive, too.

We could move before he comes back. But that rankles. Nobody’s gonna run me off my spot.

“How many will come with him?” I ask the hound. “Two?”

A shake—no.

“Three? . . . Four? . . . Five?”

Five. Shit. “When? Tomorrow morning? . . . Afternoon? . . . Night?” Yes to the night. I’ve a day to plan, but the wolfhound gives me a decisive nod (yep, this confirms the crazy), and he takes off. Well, he tries. Poor boy stumbles after two strides. The knife damaged his muscles and he’s still weak. He also ripped his stitches.

Half carrying him, I bring him back and fix him.

“Look,” I say. “I didn’t spend all that time and energy on you to see you throw it away, trying to be noble. You’re part of mine now and I protect mine.”

A day isn’t much time so I’m at the Humane Shelter’s door as soon as it opens.

“Hey, Mongrel.” Lily greets me with a smile. “Find another pup?”

She’s filling bowls with generic dog food (such a shame!). I help her feed her charges. Excited barks and yips ring through the metal cages. Lily’s the only normal person I talk to on a regular basis.

“Not today.”

“Take a look at the flyers. There’s a black Lab missing. Owner’s are offering a hundred dollar reward.”

Lily saw my face. “I can be your go between and make sure you get the money,” she says.

“How did you know?”

“Police came yesterday asking questions about you. They thought you have a dognapping scheme going on.”

So much for earning money that way. “What did you tell them?”

“The truth. You’re better at finding lost dogs than anybody in town. That you’re providing a service to this city and should be paid.”

Lily is good people. “Thanks. Now I really hate to ask you for a favor.”

She straightens and looks at me as if I just told her the sky is orange. “In the two years I’ve known you, you’ve never asked for anything. If I can, I will. Ask away.”

I blink at her a moment. Didn’t she want anything in exchange? She insists not and I make an unusual request which she grants. Did I tell you Lily’s good people? Well she is.

After a stop at the pawn shop, I take my littles to Pennypack Park—a tiny snake of green in the middle of the city. I find a nice safe place for them, ordering them to stay quiet. They’re handy against one intruder, but against five, one of them is bound to get hurt.

I return to the wolfhound about an hour after sunset. He’s alert with his nose sniffing the cold breeze. Somehow, I know the professor and his goons aren’t going to arrive with the wind, so I sit close to Logan and keep watch downwind. The others are nowhere in sight. That homeless sixth sense accurate once again.

As I wait, my heart is chasing its tail, running fast and going nowhere. It’s not too long before five black shapes break from the shadows and approach. They’re easy to see in the bright moonlight.

My insides turn gooey, but I draw in a breath. Nobody messes with mine. Not anymore. I stand as they slink toward me. No, I’m not being dramatic. Slink is the perfect word. Five big brutes just like Logan. Massive jaws and shaggy hair. The professor isn’t in sight, but a tawny wolfhound leads the group (give him two pairs of loafer’s and he’d fit the part of the professor).

Now you’re gonna to tell me something like this just doesn’t happen, and I’d agree with you every other night. But not tonight.

The pack fans out, and I’ve seen enough street fights to know if they surround me I’m dead. I raise the gun, aim, and fire. I’m a pretty good shot. Thanks in part to my foster father. Unlike all the others before him, he’d taught me a few life skills and I’d loved him until . . . well, you know.

The tranquillizer dart hits the shoulder of the far left hound. (If you thought I’d shoot them with bullets, then you haven’t been paying attention).

I squeeze off a couple more darts, picking off two more wide receivers before the remaining two catch on and rush me. Dropping the gun, I palm a dart in one hand and pull the silver knife I reclaimed from the pawn shop, exchanging it for the lost professor’s gun.

Then it’s all hair, claws, and teeth. The wolfhounds are fast and it’s like fighting a giant yet silent dust devil. I jab the dart into dog flesh and strike, stab, and slash at anything I can reach with the knife. The tawny grabs my wrist with his teeth while his last goon is overcome by the tranquilizer.

Tawny bites through my skin like it’s paper. I yell and drop the weapon. He pushes me over and stands on my chest. Breathing with his weight on me is an effort, and my heart lodges in my throat. He stares at me for a second with regret in his gaze, giving me just enough time to thrust my arm between his sharp teeth and my exposed neck.

A bit of surprise flashes in his black eyes as he latches on. I’d coated my sleeves and pants with Tabasco sauce. Useful for keeping pups from chewing things. In this case, not so smart as the burn makes Tawny angrier. The pressure increases in my forearm and I’m convinced my bone’s about to snap in two when the brute is knocked off.

Logan and Tawny roll together. And the fight’s no longer silent as they growl and snarl. I worry about Logan’s shoulder as I dive for the tranquilizer gun. Lily showed me how to wrap up his leg to support his weight, but it’s not much.

I’m outta darts. With Logan injured, the fight isn’t fair. Most things aren’t. And I guess that’s the only way Tawny can win.

I spot a glint just when Tawny pins Logan. Sweeping up the knife, I lunge toward Tawny and bury the blade in his hindquarters. Up to the hilt.

He yelps and bucks. Logan presses his advantage and regains his feet. In a blur, Logan strikes and silences Tawny. Logan’s muzzle is dripping with blood. I meet his gaze and can tell by his expression that he’s sickened and sad. He’s not a killer, but Tawny forced him to be one. Why couldn’t he just leave Logan alone?

I’d asked my foster father the same thing. He said I was too irresistible so I ran away when I turned sixteen, removing the temptation. I’d thought I was smart, but no one knows about his inability to resist. It’s been two years. What if he has a new foster child? Staring at Tawny’s ripped throat, I realize a person has to stay and fight until there’s a clear winner and loser or else you’re problems don’t ever go away.

The burning pain in my arm snaps me back to my current problems. I inspect the damage. Ragged, bleeding flesh too mangled for eighty-proof and Band-Aids, but I don’t have another option. Once Logan’s cleaned up—his stitches have ripped again—and hidden under the blanket, I hurry to the Humane Shelter.

Lily’s working late and I suspect she’s there for me. She sends a couple volunteers to pick up the sleeping wolfhounds. I return the tranquilizer gun.

“A pack of wild dogs that are all the same breed is so unusual,” she says. “Usually they’re a bunch of mongrels.” She slaps her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

I smile. “I know. Nothing wrong with mongrels.”

Lily sees my arm and insists I go to the emergency room. I almost laugh. Invisible on the streets, I’m nonexistent in an ER. No money. No insurance. They’d fix a cockroach’s broken leg before attending to me. I lie and say I’ll go, but she sees right through me. Despite my protests, she escorts me to the ER and stays until I’m seen. The ER doctor gives me thirty-two stitches. Funny how the number of stitches is always reported like it’s a source of pride.

By the next day, my life returns to, well, not normal, but back to the same—taking care of the pups. Logan is healing faster than me and eating like a horse. I feed him my share most days. Don’t matter to me, my stomach’s upset anyways. Tomorrow—one week after I found Logan—I’m gonna tell the authorities about my foster father.

I’d rather face a pack of wild dogs, but I’m determined to grab the man by the throat and not let go, finally doing what I should have done two years ago.

Five days later, Logan takes off and doesn’t return. The hurt cuts deep and reminds me of how I’d felt moving from one foster home to another. Crazy lady that I am, I’d been talking to him about the police and the lawyers and the questions. No one is quick to believe me, and I don’t have much proof so it’s been rougher than I thought. Somehow telling my problems to Logan made the whole ordeal bearable.

But he’s gone, and my resolve to go after my foster father wavers. But there is also a tiny bit of relief inside me. Keeping the wolfhound fed was hard. And with one of life’s little twists of fate and timing, I find the missing black Lab after Logan left. Lily handles the reward money. Without Logan to feed, there’s plenty of money to keep my pups in Science Diet.

Three—maybe four weeks after the night I helped Logan, a stranger enters the parking lot. Wearing blue jeans and a leather motorcycle jacket, he doesn’t hesitate, heading right for my bridge. His black hair hangs in layers to his shoulders, and his stride is familiar.

I’m searching my memories to place him when my pups race toward him. Good. Except they don’t bite him. They dance around, tails wagging and yipping in excitement. He crouches down and pets them! I grab my bat.

He glances up as I swing and dodges the bat with ease. Strike one. I pull back for another.

“Mongrel, stop,” he says. “It’s me.”

I freeze and study him. He’s a few years older than I am, about six feet tall and lean. Good looking enough to attract the girls. His gray eyes don’t belong in the face of a man though.

He opens his jacket, and pulls his collar down, showing me an almost healed scar on his right shoulder. “Fifteen stitches.”

I lower the bat. “Logan.”

“Yep.”

He moves closer and I back up. Logan pauses. “You weren’t afraid of five werewolves, but you’re scared of me?”

Werewolves. Saying the word out loud made it real. Before I could explain them away as really smart mixed breeds.

“Guess I’m better at trusting . . . werewolves than men,” I say.

“One man dooms the whole species?”

“What about the guy . . . wolf after you?”

“He wanted to be in charge.”

“And that’s my point. Dogs . . . or wolves’ll fight it out. One dominates and the other slinks away. The human side of him tried to cheat. Right?”

Logan says nothing.

“He used a knife and then returned with a gun. Very un-wolf like behavior.”

“Let me prove to you we’re not all bastards.”

“Why?”

“You saved my life three times.”

I tap the bat against my leg. “So buy me a couple bags of Science Diet and we’ll call it even.”

“No. I owe you much more than that.”

He’s serious and I suspect stubborn as well. “Go away, Logan. You don’t belong here,” I say.

“Neither do you.”

I huff and squash the sudden desire to take another swing at his head. He thinks my silence is an agreement ’cause he’s now standing a foot away. And my heart’s acting like it’s scared. I expect him to crinkle his nose at the smell of dog on my clothes or for him to try to hide his disgust at my unkempt appearance.

Instead he takes my hand in his and pushes my right sleeve up with his other one, exposing the jagged purple scars on my wrist and forearm. I didn’t heal as fast or as well as his did. Logan traces them with a finger.

A strange teeter-totter of emotions fills me. My first impulse is to flinch away from his touch, but his familiar scent triggers fond memories of the big wolfhound I cared for.

Logan taps his thumb on my arm. “You’ve been bitten by a werewolf deep enough for his saliva to mix with your blood.”

“So?”

He quirks a smile. “You accepted our existence with ease, yet you don’t know the legends.”

I gesture to his shoulder. “I believe what I see.”

“You’ve been infected, but one bite isn’t enough to change you into a werewolf.” All humor is gone as he stares at me with a sharp intensity. “For you to become one of us, a bite from two different werewolves within a month is required.”

He turns my arm over, revealing the light underside. His canines elongate. “I’ve never offered this to anyone, and it’s a hell of a way to repay your kindness, but it seemed . . . right. Interested?”

My mind races. He’s giving me a choice. “What about my pups?”

Another smile. “Only you would think of them first. They can stay with you.”

“Here?”

“No. My pack has a network of places. We try and keep a low profile, but we’ll support you in going after your foster father.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll be part of mine and I protect mine.”

I grin at the familiar words.

Logan adds, “It’s not an easy life, and there is no cure. No going back. We don’t belong to the human world or the wolf world.”

“So you’re a bunch of mongrels?”

“Yep.”

“Then I’ll fit right in.” I raise my arm to his mouth, and he sinks his teeth into my flesh.