WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

inside to the bathroom, then changed into an older pair of jeans and a T-shirt

for the sloppy job ahead.

When Travis came outside again, the retriever was standing beside the steaming

washtub, the hose in its teeth. Somehow, it had managed to turn the faucet.

Water gushed out of the hose, into the tub.

For a dog, successfully manipulating a water faucet would be very difficult if

not impossible. Travis figured that an equivalent test of his own ingenuity and

dexterity would be trying to open a child-proof safety cap on an aspirin bottle

with one hand behind his back.

Astonished, he said, “Water’s too hot for you?”

The retriever dropped the hose, letting water pour across the patio, and stepped

almost daintily into the tub. It sat and looked at him, as if to say, Let’s get

on with it, you dink.

He went to the tub and squatted beside it. “Show me how you can turn off the

water.”

The dog looked at him stupidly.

“Show me,” Travis said.

The dog snorted and shifted its position in the warm water.

“If you could turn it on, you can turn it off. How did you do it? With your

teeth? Had to be with your teeth. Couldn’t do it with a paw, for God’s sake. But

that twisting motion would be tricky. You could’ve broken a tooth on the

cast-iron handle.”

The dog leaned slightly out of the tub, just far enough to bite at the neck of

the bag that held the shampoo.

“You won’t turn off the faucet?” Travis asked.

The dog just blinked at him, inscrutable.

He sighed and turned off the water. “All right. Okay. Be a wiseass.” He took the

brush and shampoo out of the bag and held them toward the retriever. “Here. You

probably don’t even need me. You can scrub yourself, I’m sure.”

The dog issued a long, drawn-out woooooof that started deep in its throat, and

Travis had the feeling it was calling him a wiseass.

Careful now, he told himself. You’re in danger of leaping off the deep end,

Travis. This is a damn smart dog you’ve got here, but he can’t really understand

what you’re saying, and he can’t talk back.

The retriever submitted to its bath without protest, enjoying itself. After

ordering the dog out of the tub and rinsing off the shampoo, Travis spent an

hour brushing its damp coat. He pulled out burrs, bits of weeds that hadn’t

flushed away, unsnarled the tangles. The dog never grew impatient, and by Six

o’clock it was transformed.

Groomed, it was a handsome animal. Its coat was predominantly medium gold with

feathering of a lighter shade on the backs of its legs, on its belly and

buttocks, and on the underside of the tail. The undercoat was thick and soft to

provide warmth and repel water. The outer coat was also soft but not as thick,

and in some places these longer hairs were wavy. The tail had a

slight upward curve, giving the retriever a happy, jaunty look, which was

emphasized by its tendency to wag continuously.

The dried blood on the ear was from a small tear already healing. The blood on

the paws resulted not from serious injury but from a lot of running over

difficult ground. Travis did nothing except pour boric-acid solution, a mild

antiseptic, on these minor wounds. He was confident that the dog would

experience only slight discomfort—or maybe none at all, for it was not

limping—and that it would be completely well in a few days.

The retriever looked splendid now, but Travis was damp, sweaty, and stank of dog

shampoo. He was eager to shower and change. He had also worked up an appetite.

The only task remaining was to collar the dog. But when he attempted to buckle

the new collar in place, the retriever growled softly and backstepped out of his

reach.

“Whoa now. It’s only a collar, boy.”

The dog stared at the loop of red leather in Travis’s hand and continued to

growl.

“You had a bad experience with a collar, huh?”

The dog stopped growling, but it did not take a step toward him.

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