"The Spitz, Part One" by Toni J Kaukinen

This might be a little awkward as far as text goes, but I have a fairly reliable secretary.
        She just glared at me.
        Hi, I’m Nick. I’m a dog. I live in Minnesota with some other dogs, plenty of cats, a whole herd of cattle and my owners. It’s Christmas, and though my owners and their family aren’t really all into this "religion" I keep hearing about, they like their traditions.
        I can remember that I was born on a puppy farm in Texas, one of the few Japanese Spitz puppy farms in the US, but that’s about it. My more lucid memories of my youth are from Wildspring, Minnesota: that’s where I still live.
        Let us talk about my family. Humans first: Eileen, my mistress, Eric, my master. They’re the folks who bought me to replace another Japanese Spitz who had died about a year earlier before these dreadful events I’m about to tell you about. They feed me darned well. Too much, our other human family says. There’s Peter and Heidi, who think they own a senile English Cocker spaniel called Wilhelmine, and of course my favorites: Thea and Andy, of whom Thea is my absolute favorite person in the whole world. They"ve got some wily rats, who tend to make fun of me and laugh at me – that’s all the same, since it’s all fun. Even if they’re completely and utterly insane, which I suppose is just how rats are.
        Dogs, then: there’s old Bess, a Golden Retriever, Tina, another of Bess" kind, and the old, hyperactive Giselle, a Maltese.
        It would be wrong to not mention Old Lace, the Persian cat who lives with us. She’s ancient, and she and Bess have some sort of agreement that flies out the... uh... window the moment they’re outside. They like to cuddle when inside, though. Go figure, huh?
        As for the rats Andy and Dorothea owned at the time: two of them seemed to be somehow Russian, one Japanese (we shouted insulting haikus at each other) and one seemed to be pretty well just... insane. I would have thought her name was Guevara (blame Thea and Andy for that), but her name was apparently rather innocent: Sara.
        In any case, I’ve a story to tell. Bear with me, all right?

        "Hello, Eric, hello, Eileen," I said, one wintry morning. Of course, they didn’t understand in the strictest sense of dog-to-human communication, but they saw my eagerness as a sign that I had to go potty. Outside, of course.
        Just for the hell of it, we chased Peter and Heidi’s other cat (Old Lace seems to dislike them, so we do too, more than usual) up a tree and did our sentry-go around our perimeter. Wilhelmine and Bess were happier panting and staring at the tree, the old lunatics: Tina was busy looking as sour as a dog with a spray bark collar could possibly look, and Giselle kept busy by accompanying Eric to the homestead. For some odd reason we others aren’t sure of, Giselle adores Eric. The rest of us, we prefer being fed until our tummies burst.
        The previous day Andy and Thea showed up with their rats -- Thea, in love with me as she is, took me for a walk. Not many humans can walk me around the fields and side roads without (or with) a leash, but Thea, well, I’m ashamed to say it’s because she’s allergic. I’m about the best breed of dog to have around if you have allergies, since my coat is less invasive to the human nose. She adores me anyway, and I figure it is best if she gets some of the attention and consideration Andy sometimes forgets to give her.
        After the walk, the rats and me had a quiet palaver, the Russian twins being as nutty as always (for some reason, I don’t know why, they keep muttering about the Kuril Islands and then suddenly shooting off as they realize Andy’s beard needs to be cleaned), the lazy Japanese rat trading haikus with me and the Che Guevara type basically going ballistic. Old Lace showed up, got kicked out (not that the rats had any fear toward her), and we talked and talked. Occasionally, just to show whose place it was, Sara bit me on the nose. Taking the hint as the advice it was meant, I went and bothered Thea instead.
        It was a pretty day. My first Christmas, too.
        Had I owned pants, I would have pooped them by the end of the day.

        By the end of the evening, Andy was sat behind the house in the gazebo located on a hill overlooking the fields. He was smoking hard, reading a book as always, tending to his nerves and volatile emotions which sometimes flared despite his cynical, stoic personality.
        As always, I was eager to please. "Hey, Andy."
        He smothered his cigarette and grinned at me. "Nick, damn you," he said, not that he seemed to understand the wiggle of my tail properly. "You cold, boy?"
        Not really. I"ve a fantastic coat. I would have said so, but he wouldn’t have understood. Still, I was a bit peckish. He let me have a bit of his bagel, which he’d apparently forgotten about. Cold, but nice.
        He watched me eat while he went through another cigarette. I lost interest and snuffled through the gazebo, all the while aware that Andy was watching me, somehow amused. Sometimes I thought he understood more than he let on, but he only showed up four or maybe six times a year, if even that, according to Bess. Not my problem. Nope. Thea, though...
        "All right," Andy finally said, young joints already creaking with rheumatism and burdened by the hazards of a life spent in front of a screen, "let’s get you inside, yeah?"
        I didn’t mind, obviously.
        We went ‘round the house, as the backdoor that led through to the house past the swimming pool and sauna was frozen shut. I’d once tried to lick the ice. I was sick for some hours. The cigarette smoke that follows Eileen (and Andy) around somehow mixed with the air and then the water in the ice. It was worse than what my food contained. Eileen smokes about three packs a day -- inside the house; Andy about a half, unless he’s visiting. So much I’ve gathered from senile old Wilhelmine and docile old Bess. Old Lace doesn’t seem to have an opinion, being more like a pensioner in a bingo club.
        Round the corner, down the slope toward the garage. That was when we both saw it, for the first time. Keep in mind that dogs don’t see colors, but black and white in winter is easy enough. It was gruesomely human, but with arms too long to consider such. I’m told some human forebears have such features, but what I saw did not match anything Thea and Andy had ever shown me. I whimpered. Andy, occasionally a rational human, tried to make sense of what he saw -- and grabbed my collar. I can’t remember why I had it on, but I suspect Thea was behind it.
        "Easy, boy," he whispered. That was easy for him to say! I may be a dog, but I have instincts and, uh, according to La Guevara (you know, _that_ rat) a rudimentary concept of rational thinking.
        Both rationale and instinct were telling me to get the hell out of Dodge. Y’know. Git on, lil’ dogies?
        I whimpered. Me and the others scarcely ever do that. None of the dogs here at the farm do that, and Andy, having lived with animals for about as long as he’d been alive, picked up on that.
        I could smell his fear, I could sense that he was looking through his options. I knew my plan. I would have told him what to do, too.
        The dark figure walked across the barn yard, where, as far as I was aware, a sensor should have lit up the lights.
        But it was dark. Stayed dark. And the figure suddenly rushed toward us, all impossible lack of color suddenly swooping through the snow, leaving no footprints or tracks at all-
        "Nick. Come," Andy said, grabbing my collar even tighter. We ran about fifty yards, back past the frozen back door and the gazebo, past frozen bushes that sprouted berries each summer, down a short slope and to the entrance to the root cellar. He was terrified, and choking me.
        Again, I whimpered. I disliked the place, but Andy nearly shoved me in and shut the door behind him, blocking the handle with a box of potatoes. By his smell, I knew he was afraid and annoyed: maybe annoyed that he had to explain all this to Eileen and Eric. Maybe even Thea. I felt sympathy for the dumbass; superstition was not for him, and his entire extended family was alike. And, of course, the fact that it took a human so much time to decide what to do -- but that was pity, not sympathy.
        I didn’t see him. It was dark, aside from a small window on the very edge of my house’s foundations. He was busy hyperventilating. Me? I was primed to go and explode. Fear does that to a Spitz -- or any dog, for that matter. I’d seen Giselle foam at her mouth when she chased a fox off the farm. I’d even seen docile old Bess stare down a visiting dog who thought she was the queen bitch. Tina? Thea says Tina’s the canine equivalent of the 101st Airborne. I’ve no idea what that means.
        I liked to be smart. Tried to calm down. Staying rational isn’t easy, you know. Not for a kid with instincts.
        Then a message through the dark: "What... are you doing?"
        I froze. It wasn’t Andy. It was Old Lace. The arrogance inherent in the voice was too feline to be mistaken.
        "Dog botherer!" I swore. It might not make sense to you, but I dislike vets. I don’t like stuff... stuffed up... you know.
        Old Lace, sitting all calm and dignified on a sack of potatoes, repeated her question without words. It was all body language.
        "Look," I began urgently, "there’s something out there." My whimpering must have caught Andy’s attention, seeing as he scratched behind my ear.
        Old Lace said nothing at first.
        Neither did I.
        "Dogs," she sighed, jumped down to stare me more or less eye-to-eye. I was bigger, sure, but cats are deadly in any position and lighting. Me? Not like that.
        I said nothing. Looked at Andy.
        "It has been here ever since they arrived," Old Lace said, oozing vitriol. "And you, you little pup, you noticed first?"
        "Well, yeah? Trust Bess to see anything? Tina to stop hearing stuff that isn’t going on? Giselle and Willy to..."
        "Point taken," came the frosty response to my panicked tone. Old Lace groomed her paw and sniffed out -- Andy didn’t flinch, so I guess he thought it was me making the noise. "Dogs," she mrr’d again. "Even the rats have noticed."
        That had me agog for a while. Those nutjobs? "Whu?"
        She batted my nose. It suppose it was a reprimand. "You -- are local, and you are a dog. You strut outside and make a big show of being sentries. Along come rats who barely know this farm, and they know more than you do."
        "They didn’t really tell me," I complained. The hadn’t, either, and I saw them often.
        "Because they live fast," Old Lace said. "Ah. And die faster." I had the impression that she knew that firstpaw. Or firstclaw. The looks she sometimes gave the rats...
        "You mean they’re stupid?" I hazarded a guess.
        "No."
        "What then?"
        "They forget."
        "Oh." This made for some thinking. No wonder they didn’t remember I was being nice the previous day. Or if they did, they were just bored of being nice to me. "How and what do you know about this... thing, anyway?"
        For once, Old Lace was not as arrogant as before. "I only know I have no wish to face it. No. Never." A sniff. Andy grabbed my coat again, for a sense of security, I hoped. I wagged my tail. Said nothing.
        Silence works okay. Humans talk to you when you just stare at them. Cats? They wait until they can feel superior, especially when the listener has a vacant look on their face. Believe me, I have a pretty good vacant look, but only because I’m not all that smart.
        But not dumb, either.
        Old Lace said: "The rats, have you seen them? They are anxious, annoyed, aggravated..." she hesitated. "Apoplectic."
        "Um." I didn’t know what that last a-word meant. I guessed it wasn’t too good. "You mean, that ratty terrorist is about to make the fox we killed look like a chew toy?"
        Old Lace meowed, causing Andy to curse. I took it as laughter, and was quite surprised by it. Old Lace never laughed, never smiled, only maintained regal airs. "Ah, the humor you dogs cultivate," she purred, jumping on Andy’s lap. Andy was as silent and still as he could be, and now doubly nervous that a cat was purring in his lap, kneading and kneading. He was probably listening for any sounds from the outside – I would have told him stop worrying. Old Lace wouldn’t have. Too bad we couldn’t.
        "So?" I asked.
        "Basically," Old Lace replied, "yes." Ask a cat a question, and you get nothing, they say. I got something, almost. A bowel movement, out of worry.
        I hate cats. At the same time, I was scared of the rats.
        A cat? Saying tamed rats will go bonkers? For a moment I wondered if eating Old Lace’s catnip earlier during the day was such a smart idea, after all. And if that was behind my sudden need to go in the little doggies" bush.
        "That’s not possible," I said, only to be yanked away through the corridor, deeper into the cellar. There was a staircase leading up to the house itself, and Andy had finally remembered this through his panic. Fine with me. The sooner I got to the pack, the better. Even better, the sooner I got to Thea, the sooner someone human would understand.
        I had not forgotten about the rats. For the first time, I was scared of them. Wouldn’t you be, when a cat, a critter certifiably arrogant and self-serving, says to be worried about tame rats -- ones with delusions of grandeur?
        If the answer were to be no, I’ll come over and use you as a fire hydrant.