The Wicked Flea by Susan Conant Read Free Book Online Page B

was shrieking a high-pitched, “No, no! Stop! Stop it!”
    I had no excuse. In the eyes of other dogs, the stand-up ears, stand-off coat, and high tail carriage of the Alaskan malamute look aggressive. Even peaceful malamutes get attacked. And Rowdy wasn’t exactly Gandhi. Bad enough to have a fight. But a fight between two big dogs when all those other dogs were running around loose and might join the fray? Or start battles of their own? Rowdy was my responsibility. I should have been vigilant. After all, Ceci had warned me about Zsa Zsa. The second the notorious golden appeared, I should have done what I did now. With one hand gripping Rowdy’s leash, I stuck the other into one of the big pockets of my jacket and pulled out a small aerosol can with one visibly unusual feature. In place of a nozzle, it had a red plastic cone-shaped device. Brandishing the spray can, I reached outward and downward to position it as near as possible to one of Zsa Zsa’s ears. Then I pressed the button. The resulting clamor was almost unbelievable: WWAAAMMAAA! Imagine the wailing of a police cruiser combined with the greatly amplified mooing of an enraged cow. MMAAWWWWAAA!
    The dogs sprang apart. To the relief of everyone within a mile, I suspect, I released the button, thus silencing the aerosol horn. Clasping Rowdy’s leash tightly, I called to him and bolted. If he hadn’t followed, I’d have dragged him, but he now had eyes only for me. I’d bought the aerosol alarm at a marine supply shop on the coast of Maine and carried it in case the need for it ever arose. Rowdy had never heard it before. Not that he’d previously underestimated my prowess as a mighty hunter and master of the universe! For years, he’d seen me leave on courageously lone pursuits of wild game and, in no time at all, return bearing slaughtered beasts all ground up and packed into forty-pound bags. Impenetrable obstacles gave way when I poked them with bits of metal. But never, ever had Rowdy even dreamed me capable of this monstrous roar!
    Still clutching the horn in one hand, I used the other to check Rowdy for injuries, especially puncture wounds. No blood was visible, and my fingertips found no damage. As I went over him, I congratulated myself on having decided to bring Rowdy instead of Kimi. Rowdy had defended himself. He’d been ready to have the fight end. If Zsa Zsa had gone after Kimi, Kimi might have ignored the horn in favor of pursuing the famous best defense. The expression bitch fight sounds pornographic, but it’s the common term in the dog world for a fight between females. It connotes menace and fear, because at least one of the combatants often tries to go for the kill. Sexism? No, realism. Anyway, surveying the scene, I saw that Zsa Zsa had retreated to the periphery of the woods and that Sylvia had followed her there. Every other dog, however, and every other person was staring at me in amazement. Slowly and cautiously, I led Rowdy back to the group. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”
    Far from blaming me, everyone deluged me with questions about the means I’d used to perform the miracle. What was it? People were fascinated. By comparison, the Greek armies at Troy gave only a cursory glance at Achilles’ sword and shield. What’s more, so far as I could remember, Achilles’ comrades hadn’t flooded him with inquiries about where he’d bought his weapons and where they could get the same kind for themselves.
    “It’s no magic bullet,” I kept warning. “It won’t break up every fight. It won’t even scare off some dogs.” I went on to suggest spray bottles or squirt guns filled with vinegar and water, even though I avoided them myself because they were a nuisance to carry in my hand and a worse nuisance in my pockets, where they always leaked. I’d never tried pepper spray and didn’t suggest it.
    “What about those, uh, what do you call them?” someone asked. “Personal