Halloween After-Action Report

I meant nearly posted this last week, but events got in the way.  Read this and you will find out why.

The night started out well.  Sherry bought a giant tray of sushi at Costco.  She thought some friends were coming over.  1 friend came.  Jack and Sherry like sushi, but not enough to eat all that was loaded on that cheap, plastic tray.  Jack ended up feeding us dogs all the sushi leftovers, about a third of the tray.  I don't know who polished off more raw fish, Jack or Flecka.  That girl can eat.

I helped hand out candy.  Jack and Sherry took turns going to the door.  Bella and I did not take turns.  We agreed to hold back on the barking for the younger kids, and to cut loose for the older kids, especially teens.  Flecka is by far the scariest Halloween dog, big and black as she is.  And to be honest, I always like being by the door for security support, just in case, even on Halloween.  One never knows.  

Sven came home with a big haul of candy. His pillow case looked like Pamela Sue Anderson after a hard rain.  Flecka and I were watching intently, waiting, hoping.  I kept telling myself I had to hold back.  Night patrol on a full stomach of candy does not do a dog good.

Rick was not home by 11:30, an hour after his curfew.  And he was not answering his phone.  Jack and Sherry got worried.  They left in their vehicles to look for Rick.  Soon as they were gone I slipped out on paw.  Sven was awake, but watching TV, so he never even missed me.

I called Warin and we linked up at Trolley's, four hours two hours earlier than planned. 

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Just me trying to get lucky with a woman named Desire."

"Desiree?"

"Whatever."

"We need to find Rick."

"He's missing?"

"No. Just can't find him."

"It's Halloween."

"I know."

"Can I finish this?" he said, raising his beer.

"No. Let's go."

I made calls, sniffed the wind, asked around, and picked up his trail in the creek-side woods just south of The Palazzo Theatre, 135th and Antioch.  We saw the firelight, parked Warin's Genesis, and made our way, carefully, through the brush and tall dying grass, toward the light.

Rick was one of about 2 dozen kids, all middle schoolers, who were hanging out around the fire. Some danced.  The bonfire crackled and swayed.  I was surprised it had not attracted cops.  There was metal music and everyone was eating.  What, I could not tell.  Candy wrappers were everywhere, but there was something else they were eating.  I smelled meat.

We walked into the small, firelit clearing, made my way toward Rick.  Just as he saw me, and to cock his head, like he knew me, which he did not, at least in that form, human, my hackles went up like steak knives.

There were others, dark forms, lurking in the deep shadows of the trees. I raised my hand. Warin growled.  The kids all froze.  Then nothing.

I woke up in a cage.  My head was beating like one of Brendan or Sven's drums.  Someone had hit me hard on the back of the head.  Still, I was able to awaken immediately, and arise to all fours.  I was in dog form.  I did not recall taking dog form.  It was mid afternoon.  I had no idea what day. 

I knew it was a waste, but I tried the door. Locked. I looked around.  There were other cages and animals around and near me, dogs and cats.  I started noticing my other injuries, various lacerations and avulsions, none bleeding.  Someone had kicked the crap out of me while I was out.  

There was nothing I could do but sit and wait.  An opportunity would present itself.  I hoped.  The cage was two by three feet.  I was cramped, could barely move.  The padlock on the door was not even worth trying.  It would take a fifty cal to blow that thing off.  

Opportunity presented itself about 4 hours after nightfall in the form of a dirt bag named Rupert.  I know his name because he talked to himself.  And he was in the midst of werewolf transformation.  I knew that because he had wolf scent all over him like cheap cologne.

He came to the cages to feed us, those caged not so few.  When he came to my cage he said, "And here is out bad ass weredog."  He laughed.  "Not so tough now, are you, doggy?"  I said nothing, just kept laying down and whined louder.  "Hey, you hear me?" he said.  I stayed curled up with my back to him, whimpering.  He kept trying to taunt me with tired cliches, getting more cocky with my whimpers, more angry with my indifference.  

"You can't be a weredog," he said. I heard keys jingling. "Someone must have made a mistake," said said, swinging open the door.  In less time it takes to piss on a post, I was out the door, he was on the ground, writhing, and I was standing over him, the remnants of his throat in my teeth, watching. 

Rupert the Dirt Bag was taking too long to die.  So, I helped him, but twisting his neck 270 degrees.  I always marvel at but love that sound, like the sound of a magazine or clip being slapped home.  There is just something about it.  Then I went to human form, got his key and went to all the other cages and released all the other animals.  The whole time I was scenting and listening, sure that other wolves or their lackeys would show up.  I relieved Dirt Bag of a revolver.  Could come in handy, I thought.

But, no one did.  I changed to weredog form, for better communication, called all the animals to me, and told them the situation.  It was mostly dogs around me, but also 2 ferrets, and a black and white bunny named Hazel.  The cats held their own meeting and evaporated into the woods before we were done.  I told the animals around me to take off and head north.  Did everyone know north? I asked.  Everyone did, except for Hazel.  

Everyone barked or yipped "Good luck" and we all took off.  Most of us could hear and smell population to the north of our position - cars, lights, noise, pollution, voices, you name it.  I intended travel on my own, make good time, but before I could say, "Beat it," I had a young female beagle, named Sparkle, trotting along beside me.  Also, a cat named Rooster, and Hazel.  They would not be run off.  "Alright, then," I said.  "Come one and keep up."

Rooster was around 4 years old and tough.  I asked him if he was active in the Cat Net in the area.  He was coy in his answer. I let it go. Hazel was surprisingly agile and had no problem keeping up.  I have never known a fit hutch rabbit, who could keep up with a weredog in movement.  Even a cottontail, a wild rabbit, cannot keep up the pace for long distances.  But, Hazel did OK.  It was Sparkle who was the problem.  

Hazel was too young to be fit, to keep the pace.  We only stopped when she dropped, which became more frequent.  I would have carried her, but had no means to do that.  During one break I asked her where her family was.  She said she did not have one, that she was taken from a shelter.  That surprised me.  She did not seem like a shelter puppy, she was to happy and bouncy. Rooster and Hazel had no idea where to return to, and seemed in no hurry to do so.  

We made good time and crossed 151st Street on the west side of Olathe.  I smelled the Olathe Medical Center and knew where we were.  I changed to human form and hot wired an old F-250.  We drive to Overland Park.  Hazel and Rooster rode in front.  Sparkle rode in back, barking, "This great!  Yippeeeee!" the whole time.  I parked the truck in the lot in front of the Hy-Vee at 135th and Antioch.  I left the pistol in the tool box in the bed. It was the only form of payment I had right then.

I changed to dog form.  "OK, this is it," I told them.  "I'm heading home. Good luck."

"What do you expect us to do?" said Hazel.

"Go find a home," I said.

"I'll be hawk chow," said Hazel.

"Forget it," said Rooster.  "He's just like all the rest.  Stick with me."

"You'll probably eat me," said Hazel.  Rooster just smiled.

"Come on," I said. 

I went by a house in our subdivision and lifted Hazel into the backyard.  "The dog's name who lives here is Bullet.  Tell bullet you know me.  He'll be cool.  I know through him, and our pack-net, that the little girl who lives here wants a bunny, and her mom is wavering.  This is a good bet.  Good luck."

 

We slipped into my backyard at about 4:26 am, on Monday, Oct. 3rd.  Jack found us on the deck, hurdled together for warmth, at 6:03 am the next morning when he let Bella and Flecka out.  Rooster split.  Bella and Flecka went right to Sparkle to check her out.

"Where did you find this little gal, Chester?" said Jack.

"This one needs to eat. Now," said Flecka. "Me too, for that matter."

"Chester, what the hell happened to you?" said Jack.  "You are a mess."  He gave me a looking over.  All my wounds were healing.  But, my coat was covered with dried blood and mud. 

Rick was home.  Warin got him and some other kids home.  I found out what details I could from the text messages on his phone. Bella and Flecka were full of questions, mostly about my wounds and about Sparkle. Jack took me to the vet in the early afternoon. They gave me a shot and some dressings, just 12  stitches in 3 different lacerations.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I slept.  I didn't even get up for 2 meals.  I had to drag myself outside for nature call.  It was getting cold.  I was too tired and sore for cold. Thursday night, while everyone was asleep, I checked some messages and financials.  I am going to be one broke weredog.  But, that's another story.  

Friday morning I was starting to feel good again.  I pulled off all my dressings.  They were getting nasty anyway.  Then Jack came home and announced that the next morning, "We're going to the ranch."  And thus launched my second deadly weekend adventure, two weeks in a row.