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Wyatt was waiting for things to settle into a rhythm, and they kind of had. He spent all his time either inside Hogg’s trailer cleaning, actively avoiding his family. Jerry Lee had been working doubles, and Wyatt only ever saw him when he was coming home from or on his way to work. Wyatt wished Hogg always worked doubles, because it left the man too tired to be really mean.
The days passed by and Wyatt’s least favorite task he did every day was take care of Hogg’s bear dogs. He fed the dogs first thing in the morning and in the evening and ignored them all the rest of the day. Wyatt hated having to interact with them, especially Ruger.
He was standing outside Ruger’s kennel holding the big five gallon bucket he’d filled from the spring. He hadn’t had to fill the dog’s water yet, but today it had been tipped over. Watering Ruger required that he go into the kennel. Wyatt didn’t care what Jerry Lee said about his best dog eating dirt, if Hogg wasn’t with him he flung the dog’s food over the chain link onto the ground.
Sometimes Wyatt thought about how long it would take a dog like Ruger to starve to death. He knew Jerry Lee hadn’t visited the dog since…
Since the first night Wyatt arrived and wondered how long it would take Jerry Lee to visit him again, now that Wyatt was in charge of the dogs. Probably at least three or four days. Could a dog die from starvation in three days? Would Hogg be able to tell what killed him?
Every time, Wyatt’s fear of Hogg—and compassion for animals—won out. He threw the kibble over the fence. But having to go in the pen to right and fill the water bucket terrified Wyatt. He’d been standing outside of Ruger’s kennel for about two minutes, and the dog hadn’t stopped wailing and barking, pacing the fence line. His whole pen smelled like dog shit.
“SHUT UP!” Wyatt yelled, kicking at the fence like he’d seen Jerry Lee do. Ruger barely flinched before he carried on with his baying. It made Wyatt mad.
“NO! BAD DOG!” The boy’s voice was harsh, pitched to cow the dog. Ruger kept barking, crowding the kennel door. Wyatt hated Ruger.
“GET BACK!” If Ruger didn’t step back, he’d overwhelm Wyatt as soon as the little boy opened the gate. If Ruger got loose, there’s no telling what Jerry Lee would do to Wyatt, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.
Wyatt took a few steps back into the woods and picked up a thick tree branch that was about the size of a baseball bat to use to keep the dog at arms length. It was heavy. He took a deep breath and approached the kennel, Ruger barking his head off on the other side.
“Get back!” Wyatt warned as he undid the chain that kept the gate closed. Ruger didn’t listen and rushed the opening. Wyatt reacted. He yelled and cracked the log right over the dog’s head, causing Ruger to yelp and skitter back. Wyatt stretched to get the water bucket he’d left outside the gate and when he turned back, Ruger was rushing toward the opening again.
“NO!” Wyatt kicked the dog in the face, terrified that if Ruger escaped Jerry Lee would kill him. The boy hurried in and shut the gate behind him, setting the water down. Ruger hadn’t gone far and came back up barking and jumping on Wyatt to the point Wyatt fell back on his butt in the dirt.
Ruger mobbed him, his long claws ripping through Wyatt’s shirt to scratch welts into his sides—right where Ruger’s claws had scratched him before. It triggered Wyatt’s memory and made him panic. Wyatt went ballistic as he struggled under the dog that had raped him again. He grabbed the stick and started hitting Ruger, over and over and over again, screaming at the dog.
Eventually, Wyatt realized that Ruger wasn’t moving anymore. That the entire woods was silent. That there was a lot of blood. Wyatt looked down at his red splattered hands and realized with horror—he had killed Jerry Lee’s best hunting dog.
Jerry Lee was going to skin him alive. Jerry Lee loved that dog, as much as he could love anything. He had to do something...he had to get rid of the body. His hands clamped over his ears and he rocked himself for a while, thinking.
Wyatt felt awful as he grabbed the dead dog’s back legs and drug him out of the pen and across the forest floor. Every few feet when he stopped to rest, he left Ruger’s warm body on the ground and went back to mess up the leaves and erase his trail. That was something his Daddy and Hogg had taught him how to do early on.
Wyatt didn’t think of anything other than trying to climb up the mountain and breathe. He climbed and breathed for a long time. He lugged Ruger’s battered corpse as far as he possibly could up the side of the mountain. About halfway up, long out of sight of the pen, Wyatt collapsed, heaving. He might as well stay here by Ruger and die. It would save Jerry Lee the hassle of trying to figure out what to do with his body. There was a pit in his stomach. Wyatt was certain that Hogg somehow already knew he’d killed Ruger.
Wyatt’s labored breathing eventually subsided, and he looked over at the tricolor hound. The white around his face was red with blood and brown with dirt. Wyatt carefully unbuckled the expensive radio collar Jerry Lee had outfitted him with, grimacing as he had to lift the dog’s limp head up off of the ground to get the collar off.
The dead body freaked Wyatt out—Ruger’s third eyelid was up, his tongue was dry where it was sticking out of his mouth and his eyes were glassy and open. He didn’t look anything like the proud hunting dog in his prime that he had been less than an hour ago.
Wyatt wiped his bloody hand off on Ruger’s dusty coat, then got busy covering the body with anything and everything he could find—leaves, rocks, sticks. By the time he was done, the sky was starting to suggest night. Wyatt went down the mountain as quickly as he could while being careful not to leave a trail. He was surprised how far back he had to walk—he hadn’t thought he was big enough to drag Ruger very far, but terror and adrenaline must have kicked in.
Stopping at a branch, Wyatt took off his shirt and bathed his upper half in the cold water to get rid of the blood spatter. He put his shirt back on—he’d have to change before anyone saw him—and carefully washed the blood off of Ruger’s collar, too.
As quickly as he could, Wyatt returned to the kennel and carefully placed Ruger’s collar on the top of the asphalt shingles of his dog house. He backed out, then ran to his room, taking off his ruined, bloody clothes and stuffing them into the furthest corner under his bed. He dressed again and then ran off to Uncle’s house, panicked. He didn’t have to fake how upset he was.
“Uncle Cy! Someone stole Ruger!”