There is no cause for alarm among dog owners and their neighbors. On the other hand, if you're asking if it's possible for dogs to kill without being rabid or insane, the answer is yes. That's obvious, isn't it? But it's a freakish occurrence. You're much more likely to be struck by lightning than seriously injured by a dog. Last year 24,000 people were murdered by their fellow citizens in this country-and eighteen were killed by dogs. Most of those eighteen were small children who were bitten once or twice by a large dog-bites that would have required only a couple of stitches if they'd happened to adults."
"Would wild dogs hunt human beings as prey?"
Elizabeth was annoyed. "Never. We don't taste good to most predators.
Some fish and reptiles will eat humans, and occasionally a tiger develops a taste for us, but we are definitely not prey to dogs."
"Why, then, do you think this pack has attacked people?
"Most likely in self-defense. Homer McPhee stated that he attempted to drive them off the calf they'd killed. He used rocks and a club. Only then did they attack. As the media have reported, Buddy Stokes did trap one of the pack, but no one has mentioned the additional fact that, according to the evidence, he then proceeded to butcher this trapped animal with a chain saw. That was the catalyst, in all probability, for the pack's violence.
Like most wild animals, feral dogs will not attack a human being without provocation-which means you have to corner them, assault them, or threaten their young. They'd much prefer to flee."
"They had every chance to run from the McPhee boy. Why didn't they?"
"They were defending their kill, their food, which is vital to any living creature. Also, and here I can only speculate, we have no concrete evidence, this pack's Alpha dog-" She paused. "In wolf or dog packs," she explained, "there is always an Alpha animal. That's the dominant member of the pack, its leader. This pack's Alpha dog is probably very bold and aggressive. It'd likely he was a pet at some time in his life. He would be wary of human beings and wish to avoid them whenever possible, but far less afraid of them than a dog who had been born in the wild, if indeed he is afraid of them at all."
"Then you would say that this pack is quite dangerous, and liable to attack again."
"They will not actively seek an encounter with humans, but yes, they are still very dangerous."
"Why do you think they let the McPhee boy live but killed Buddy Stokes?"
"Even a totally berserk dog will stop its attack moments after its victim stops moving, which usually occurs when the victim loses consciousness through shock, as was the case with McPhee, or loss of blood.
Unfortunately, Stokes was a strong man, he fought hard, and he sustained mortal injuries before his body could go comatose."
"One final question, Dr. Collier. What is the best course of action for a person confronted by this pack, or any other hostile dog?"
"First, don't run. This triggers a powerful predator's instinct, which causes the animal to give pursuit. Second, do not attempt to frighten it off by menacing it or throwing things at it, which might cause it to counter react with aggression of its own. Third, avoid direct eye contact.
Among canines, eye locking is a challenge and there are only two possible responses-one animal offers submission by breaking the contact, or they fight. Last, if you're bitten, no matter how painfully, freeze, remain perfectly still. If you're not moving, the dog will release you. He might try another bite to see what will happen, but he won't continue an attack on a motionless person."
Colonel Edwin Mulcahey of the state police appeared next. He was stiff and uncomfortable before the camera. Delivering a prepared statement, he said that three spotter planes would take to the air at dawn; a combined force of state police, sheriff's deputies, and conservation officers would set out to comb Heerman's, Claypipe and the neighboring mountains; a squad of professional hunting guides was being assembled, and two teams of bloodhounds would arrive tomorrow afternoon. Citizens were requested to report sightings of unfamiliar dogs, but Mulcahey warned against civilians taking to the woods with guns. He did not want an armed horde loose on the mountains, which would only invite tragedy.
A nervous conservation department spokesman tried to justify the failure of the first hunt, explaining the difficulty of locating animals as clever and chary as feral dogs, but pledged his department's unflagging efforts until the menace had been eliminated. The governor followed with a short statement of sympathy and reassurance. He vowed full support and promised speedy resolution. Harry Wilson flailed against a variety of officials and demanded passage of his proposed dog code not only by the city of Covington but the state legislature as well. The commentator concluded with an invitation to stay tuned for a special report on the grave problem of wild dogs across the nation.
Bauer walked out of the cabin. He looked up at the dark bulk of the mountains.
It is you, Orph.
And I spun you out of the wool of my own circumvention.
It is me.
There was no place Orph wanted to be, only the need to go far from where the killing happened. He drove them at a hard pace, and he maintained it past his strength and theirs, until his body tore free of his will, and then he would collapse, shaking, while the others dropped down around him.
He wouldn't let them rest much, only long enough for the worst of the exhaustion to leach away, and then he forced them up and moving again.
They neither questioned nor rebelled: he was the leader, their mind and direction. In alternation, there was climb and descent, but always motion, and mountains gave way beneath them. Their pads became swollen and bloody.
The dun bitch grew nervous and restless. She hadn't eaten in several hours, though they'd made a small kill and there had been food. She began dropping behind, sometimes she went angling away from them. Orph bullied her back, shouldering and nipping her.
He smelled the strange odor from her loosening vagina. It made him anxious.
A sentiment of profound gravity unfolded in his viscera, and with it, the inexplicable knowledge that they would not go on much longer, that somehow the dun was becoming their center. It simply was, as his heartbeat. But he set himself against it to squeeze whatever hours he could from her, then finally whatever minutes, and by midafternoon he could wrest nothing further, and the tide surged forth and propelled her into primacy.
She stopped. He went back to her. She growled. He nipped at her flank. She attacked him. He drew back rapidly, blood pear ling on his ear where she had pierced it.
She stood panting, her head low. She whined. She turned down the side of the mountain.
Orph followed. Behind him came the spotted and the black. They remained some distance behind her; she snarled wildly whenever they came too near.
Orph did not like this direction. But to follow the bitch was what was to be done.
Her path down the mountain was erratic. She changed directions frequently.
She doubled back. She circled. She stuck her snout into rock crevices. She pawed the stoney soil.
Toward evening she stopped, low on the flank of the mountain, and reconnoitered around a stream with unhappy whines. Finally, at the base of a tall stone escarpment, she began to dig.
Orph advanced, but stopped when she turned and barked at him. This, then, was the boundary. He lay down and rested his head on his paws and watched her. Unhappy.
They would be here for some time. It smelled and felt not alarming, but not satisfying either. He was disturbed by a light thread of human scent. A fair distance off, but there nonetheless. It was a limp odor, empty of hardness or danger, but he didn't trust it and wished to be gone from it, gone from human scent of any kind.