used that forbidden word in front of their mother, he would be toast.
I had expected tears, but these weeds had cried all they were going to
cry, at least over this weird experience. There’s a natural toughness in
most kids that we seldom acknowledge, because we usually view childhood
through glasses of nostalgia and sentimentality.
Wendy Dulcinea was, at seven, a glorious reflection of her mother, Mary,
from whom I’d been unable to learn the piano but with whom I’d once been
in deep puppy love. She wanted to give me a kiss, and I was happy to
receive it, and then she said, “The doggie is really thirstyyou should
give him a drink. They let us drink, but they wouldn’t give him
anything.” The corners of Orson’s eyes were crusted with white matter.
He looked sick and weak, because with his mouth wired shut, he had not
been able to perspire properly. Dogs sweat not through pores in their
skin but largely through their tongues.
“Gonna be okay, bro, ” I promised him. “Gonna get out of here.
Hold on. Going home. We’re going home. You and me. Out of here.”
Returning from a search of the killers’ gear, Doogie stooped by my |
side and, using lineman’s pliers with sharp side cutters, snipped the I
bonds between my brother’s paws, pulled them off, and threw them aside.
Cutting the wires around Orson’s jaws required more care and time,
during which I continued to babble that everything was going to be cool,
primo, sweet, stylin’, and in less than a minute, the hateful muzzle was
gone.
Doogie moved to the kids, and though Orson made no effort to sit up, he
licked my hand. His tongue was rough and dry.
Empty assurances had poured glibly from me. Now I wasn’t able to speak,
because everything I had to say was important and so deeply felt that if
I started to let it out, I would be laid low by my own words,
emotionally wrecked, and with all the obstacles that remained in the way
of our escape and survival, I couldn’t afford tears now, maybe not even
later, maybe not ever.
Instead of saying anything, I pressed my hand against his flank, feeling
the too-fast but steady beat of his great, good heart, and I kissed his
brow.
Wendy had said that Orson was thirsty. His tongue had felt dry and
swollen against my hands. Now I saw that his flews, scored from the
pressure lines left by the muzzling wire, appeared to be chapped.
His dark eyes were slightly filmy, and I saw a weariness in them that
scared me, something close to resignation.
Although reluctant to leave Orson’s side, I went to the large Styrofoam
cooler beside the card table. It was half full of cold water in which
floated a few chips of ice. The killers appeared to be health conscious,
because the only drinks they had brought with them were bottles of V8
vegetable juice and Evian water.
I took one bottle of water to Orson. In my absence, he had struggled off
his side and was lying on his belly, though he seemed not to have the
strength to raise his head.
Cupping my left hand, I poured some Evian into it. Orson lifted his head
barely enough to be able to lap the water from my palm, at first
listlessly but soon with enthusiasm.
As I repeatedly replenished the water, I reviewed the physical damage he
had endured, and my increasing anger ensured that I’d be able to hold
back my tears. The cartilage of his left ear appeared to be crushed, and
the fur was matted with a lot of dried blood, as though he had sustained
a blow to the head with a club or a length of pipe.
Blunt instruments were one of Mr. John Joseph Randolph’s specialties.
In his left cushion, half an inch from his nose, was a blood-caked cut.
A couple of the nails in his right forepaw were broken off, and his toes
were sheathe in hardened blood. He had put up a good fight. The pasterns
on all four legs were chafed from the wire, and two were bleeding,