Chapter 3: Din of the Den

At an easy trot, I leave the demoralized feral dog pack behind as I take a short cut through their territory. Following the sparse trail in my nose map, I am not connecting the dots. The general direction of the line of dots is obvious to me. The car I rode in when I memorized or rather I was imprinted with this map of scents encountered, took the fastest route, the highway. The fastest foot path that I’m taking, cuts across city streets and rejoins the trail farther along. If my family is somewhere in between where I deviated and will rejoin, I will certainly pick up their scent. Downwind and no great distance from the track, I’m comfortable I won’t pass them by unknowingly.

A baying of hounds behind me informs me, my recent adversaries have recovered their nerve. An answering chorus in front of me clues me there are two allied groups in this warren of streets and alleys. Listening intently, the voices in front sound more juvenile. Okay, same pack. The seasoned fighter came to me first and now I approach their base or den. Surprise is always the best tactic.

Sprinting forward about forty miles per hour, I quickly close the distance with the younger dogs who turn and scatter in terror when they see me rushing them. Making a skidding turn, I reverse course, racing back towards my pursuers. They are caught completely unawares. Trampling the leader and two dogs behind him, I attack the rear guard, the old dad of them all. A wolfish slash of my teeth, across his throat drops him into a rapidly expanding pool of blood.