Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Charles Trent Alling

K2

Jerry Sikes hated dogs. A hatred that came on his eleventh birthday while he was delivering newspapers and a diseased dog nearly chewed off his leg below the knee. The horrifying episode left him with a painful limp and on occasion, even throughout his twelve-year marriage to Cora, he experienced nightmares that jerked him awake, wide-eyed and shaking.

Then one day his son Matthew brought home a stray dog. The black mongrel sat on the porch, ears pricked, while looking at each of them as they spoke. Its eyes were alert and it appeared not to be shy. A sense of strength exuded from the solid-looking male body, legs, and massive chest. His short, stocky tail flipped from side to side.

Jerry's injured leg started to tremble. "Where'd you find this thing? "Ten-year-old Matthew looked up at his father. "He found me, Dad, on my way home from practice. Can I keep him?"

"What did I tell you about pets?"

Matthew bowed his head and mumbled in a monotone, "No pets of any kind--especially dogs." Then he perked up and looked boldly into his father's eyes. "But K2 is a special dog."

"No dog is special. They're a threat to the neighborhood, attacking little children. There's no end to their brutality."

"He saved my life, Dad."

Something turned upside down in Jerry's stomach. He didn't believe any dog could be naturally heroic. "How's that, son?"

"Coming home he barked until I turned around. This runaway car had jumped over the curb and was coming straight at me. I leaped out of the way. He warned me real good, dad."

Jerry didn't know what to say. Matthew petted K2's head. "The car crashed into a fireplug. There was water everywhere. The man behind the wheel didn't move, but the man sitting next to him jumped out of the car and told me to wait until the police came."

"This is why you're late?"

"I just had to wait, dad." Matthew hunkered down and stroked K2's back and looked up at his father as he continued. "The policeman told me that the driver had a stroke and died at the wheel. The passenger, a Mr. Brown, couldn't reach the brake. I told the policeman everything I saw. He wrote it all down in his notebook, then told me to go home."

Jerry studied the dog and then his son. "He may be special to you, but my rule still stands. No pets. So get rid of him. Don't come in the house until he's gone." He left his son and the dog on the porch and limped into the house.

Later in the afternoon, after Jerry finished the necessary paperwork for his accounting business in his home office, he dropped into Matthew's room to see if his order had been accomplished.

When he opened the door the dog smell was overwhelming. K2, sprawled on the bedspread next to Matthew, lifted his head, pink tongue hanging out, and stared at the open doorway.

"Why is that thing still here?" Jerry didn't care if his voice sounded harsh, icy.

Matthew, eyes filling with fear, hugged K2 close. "Mom said I could keep him until she talked to you."

Jerry felt as if someone just kicked him in the gut. "She did, did she? Guess I'll have to do this myself." He closed the door and limped down the stairs to the basement. There was no reason to speak to Cora concerning the dog. She said "yes" too often to Matthew's desires.

In the basement he searched along the back wall until he found a ten-foot piece of rope. After pushing the "open" button for the garage door, he took down his hunting rifle and placed it on the gun rack behind the seat in his Ford pickup truck. He slammed the door shut and went back upstairs to Matthew's room.

The rope tied around its neck, the dog remained in place until Jerry pulled him off the bed. Jerry closed his ears as Matthew wailed objections. When he reached the truck he lifted the dog and dumped it on the truck bed, throwing the end of the rope in after it.

Behind the wheel Jerry started the engine, drove out of the garage, leaving the door up, and headed for a spot in the woods he knew would be a good place to kill the dog. While he drove he could feel the dog close, tongue out, peering at him through the back window.

The truck lurched off the paved highway when he turned off at a dirt road, some ten miles outside of Truckee. Reaching the familiar spot, he exited the truck, pulled the rifle from the rack, and loaded it with two shells. Then, he yanked the rope so the dog was forced to leap out over the left side panel.

At the spot, surrounded by thick underbrush and trees a few feet away from the truck, he untied the rope, picked up a rock and threw it at the dog. It yelped and trotted off a few steps, then stopped to peer back at Jerry. The woods were silent as Jerry said to the dog, "You won't be coming back." He pushed off the safety button and shouldered the rifle.

At the same moment he threaded his finger through the trigger guard the dog's ears perked up as it growled and dropped flat to the ground. Then the dog rose quickly, barked, snarled, and barked at something behind Jerry.

Wondering what the hell the dog was excited about, Jerry lowered the rifle and got his answer when he turned around. He froze when his gaze riveted on a black bear not more than twenty feet away lifting up on its hind legs in a stance of attack.

Before Jerry's mind could react and order his arms to bring the rifle to his shoulder he saw a boiling black mass streak by his legs. He didn't have time until later to admire the courage of the dog as it attacked by jumping up and biting the bear's nose. Then it seemed to be everywhere, snapping, snarling, behind the bear, in front of the bear. Jerry began to marvel at the dog's strength and tenacity.

Finally, the bear lowered its front paws to the ground, turned tail and loped off. The dog continued to bark until it disappeared into the trees. Back to normal, tongue out, the dog trotted to Jerry's feet and sat down waiting for the next adventure.

Somehow the rifle in Jerry's hand became an embarrassment. He squatted down and looked into the dog's sparkling eyes. "Where the hell did you come from? You saved my bacon, boy." It shocked him to be talking to a dog. He stood, wondering what should be done next, but not missing the point about the dog's bravery.

Jerry limped back to the truck, opened the passenger door and called for the dog to jump into the front seat. The dog complied and sat like a king, with its head out the open window. Jerry unloaded the rifle before replacing it back on the gun-rack. Then he slid onto the driver's cushioned seat.

The door shut, the engine purring, Jerry pushed the gearshift into first and looked at the dog as the truck bounced back up onto the highway. "You're going home, boy--I mean, K2." He thought the name wasn't bad for a dog.

K2 happily barked at a jackrabbit, which hopped across the highway in front of them.

© Copyright 2003 Charles Trent Alling

About the Author:

Charles Trent Alling lives in Tampa, Florida with his wife, Jeannette, and writes novels. Several of his book reviews have been published in The Tampa Tribune. He is currently trying to find an agent for a thriller which takes place in Puerto Rico, 1947.