“Hi, fella.”
His eyes were light brown and unmoving. I thought I detected a softness that contradicted the fighter’s stance.
Another yawn. Purple maw. He panted faster and remained rooted in place.
Some kind of bulldog or mini-mastiff. From the crust around his eyes and the heaving of his chest, the early autumn heat wasn’t doing him any good. Not a pug-considerably bigger than a pug, and the ears stood upright, like those of a Boston terrier-in fact, he looked a bit like a Boston. But shorter and a lot heavier-a Boston on steroids.
An exotic dwarf fighter bred to go for the kneecaps, or a pup that would turn massive?
He yawned again and snorted harshly.
We continued to face off.
A bird chirped.
The dog cocked his head toward the sound for half a second, then peered back at me. His eyes were preternaturally alert, almost human.
He licked his lips. The drool strand stretched, broke, and fell to the pavement.
Pant, pant, pant.
“Thirsty?”
No movement.
“Friend or foe?”
Another display of teeth that seemed more smile than snarl, but who knew?
Another moment of standoff, then I decided letting something this pintsized obstruct me was ridiculous. Even with the bulk, he couldn’t weigh more than twenty or twenty-five pounds. If he did attack, I could probably puntkick him onto the Glen.
I took a step forward, then another.
The dog came toward me deliberately, head lowered, muscles meshing, in a rolling, pantherish gait. Wheezing.
I stopped. He kept going.
I lifted my hands out of mouth range, suddenly aware of my exposed legs.
He came up to me. Up to my legs. Rubbed his head against my shin.
His face felt like hot suede. Too hot and dry for canine health.
I reached down and touched his head. He snorted and panted faster, letting his tongue loll. I lowered my hand slowly and dangled it, receiving a long lick on the palm. But my skin remained bone dry.
The pants had turned into unhealthy-sounding clicks.
He tremored for a second, then worked his tongue over his arid face.
I kneeled and patted his head again, feeling a flat plate of thick, ridged bone beneath the glossy coat. He looked up at me with a bulldog’s sad-clown dignity. The crust around his eyes looked calcified. The folds of his face were encrusted, too.
The nearest water source was the garden-hose outlet near the pond. I stood and gestured toward it.
“Come on, buster-hydration.”
The dog strained but stayed in place, head cocked, letting out raspy breaths that grew faster and faster and began to sound labored. I thought I saw his front legs quaver.
I began walking to the garden. Heard soft pads and looked behind me to see him following a few paces behind. Keeping to the left-a trained heeler?
But as I opened the gate to the pond, he hung back, remaining well outside the fence.
I went in. The pond water was greening due to the heat, but still clear.
The koi were circling lazily. A couple of them saw me and approached the rim for feeding-babies who’d survived the surprise spawn of two summers ago. Most were over a foot long now. A few were colored brilliantly.
The dog just stood there, nose pointed at the water, suffering.
“Come on, pal.” I picked up the hose.
Nothing.
Uncoiling a couple of feet, I opened the valve. The rubber hummed between my fingers.
“C’mere. H20-” The dog stared through the gateway, panting, gasping, legs bowed with fatigue. But he didn’t budge.
“C’mon, what’s the problem, sport? Some kind of phobia, or don’t you like seafood?”
Blink. He stayed in place. Swayed a bit.
The hose began to dribble. I dragged it out the gate, sprinkling plants as I walked.
The dog stood his ground until the water was an inch from his fleshy mouth. Then he craned his neck and began lapping. Then gulping. Then bathing in it, shaking his head and showering me before opening his maw and heading in for more.
Long time since the last tipple.
He shook and sprayed me again, turned his head away from the water, and sat.
When I returned from replacing the hose, he was still there, settled on his ample haunches.