He’d only heard a dog’s death-howl once before, a frothing mixture of terror, pain, and rage, biting, clawing, straining to get away from the murderous jaws of its predator—that shadowy phantom, forever stalking our dreams, just beyond the deceiving veil of consciousness.
Buddy twisted round, zeroing in on Harry and Mr. Beasley, who had just managed to shuffle as far as the park entrance.
“Stop!” he bellowed.
But the horror wouldn’t end: a glimpse of Mr. Beasley’s eyes, wild with fear; Avatar shaking him like a ragdoll; Harry ramming the attacker with his stroller, toppling sideways onto the ground; Andrea, up the street, running too, yelling frantically.
Buddy tackled Avi. No other strategy seemed feasible. Kicking would only drive him off with Mr. Beasley in his jaws; trying to grab his collar would be a futile gesture. So Buddy crouched low and lunged with all the force he could muster, slamming into Avi’s flank, clenching the dog’s neck with one arm, its belly with the other, and squeezing with all his might as they tumbled over.
He tucked his head down and turned away; Avatar squirmed violently on top of him, trying to fend off his attacker, snarling and snapping at the air. Then Andrea had his collar and pulled him off. “My god!” she cried. “Oh my god!” yanking him away, Avi still struggling to retaliate but finally submitting, allowing himself to be dragged home, still raging fiercely.
“I’m such a useless shit!” Harry wept, struggling to get up. “Useless! Pathetic…”
“No!” he commanded, pushing Buddy’s helping hand away. “I’m okay,” he panted. “Mr. Beasley! Help Mr. Beasley!”
Jesus! Buddy groaned, turning round. Mr. Beasley lay on his side, twitching convulsively. His paws scrabbled on the pavement, as if he was trying to run. He whimpered and panted heavily, his tongue lolling. Buddy laid his hand on the dog’s neck, felt the sticky warmth of blood mingled with matted fur.
“Get him to the vet!” Harry pleaded.
“Where?”
“Up Maple Lane, in the little mall.”
“I’ll show you,” a bystander offered when Buddy looked confused. “Come on!”
Buddy scooped Mr. Beasley up in his arms and ran, the Good Samaritan following. “Go straight on past Oak Street into the lane,” the man shouted after him. “There’s a passageway to your left, about halfway up. The vet’s office is in there.”
Even as he ran, Buddy could feel Mr. Beasley expiring. “Hang on, Mr. B,” he pleaded. “Please,” he implored. Let your best friend say goodbye. He needs to say goodbye.
It was only then Buddy sensed a form, trotting along beside him. Gypsy? The ghost matched their pace, silently accompanying Buddy and Mr. Beasley to the veterinarian’s office, a guiding presence.
Next: Goodbye, Mr. Beasley