My dog is a man-eater

When I was a teenager, back in Labrador, my Uncle Russ gave me my very first dog. Our family had a team of sled dogs we kept on an island in the offseason, and he joined their numbers. Since the weather was warm and the dogs were not exactly friendly or housebroken, it was a way to let them run free for a while during the months when there was no snow. We’d go out there and feed them every so often and they would also hunt and catch food for themselves. There were plenty of rabbits and other small game for them to go after on their own private island. There was also a patch of blueberry bushes there that the dogs claimed as their own.

Those fucking blueberry bushes. If it hadn’t been for them, none of this would have happened.

All told there were seven dogs out there. My uncle’s four dogs, my Cousin Brandon’s dog, Slasher, my other Cousin Damien’s dog Flea, and my own friendly little mongrel who I had named Runner. He was fast as hell and could outrace the rest of them no problem. But he didn’t have the muscle to put up much of a fight like the others when there was a scrap.

My dog was by far the tamest one of the group. But Brandon and Damien had other plans for their pups. They wanted them to be attack dogs, it seemed. They would train them to attack old couch cushions and whatever they could find, teaching them to “bite, attack, kill!” And only reluctantly to “heel.”

Runner was a friendly mutt, though. I wasn’t supposed to get too attached to him, my uncle told me. The dogs were supposed to be workers, not pets. And their purpose in life was to take us around on our sleds during the cold months of the year. They seemed to enjoy it. It warmed their blood and got them moving, giving them a purpose and making the coldest months of winter pass by a little quicker for them. At least that’s how I pictured it when I imagined it from their perspective.

It was nearing the end of summer and it was just about time to go feed the dogs when I heard the news.

My uncle came in and told me what had happened, and I remembered thinking, no, that can’t be my dog he’s talking about. My dog would never do that.

I was told that a young couple, in their early twenties, had gone out to the island for a date – blueberry picking. They hadn’t known that was a private island just for our sled dogs. And that those were their fucking blueberries.

The pack of dogs had killed the pair of them, tearing them to pieces and feeding on the remains. I imagined the couple out there with a basket full of blueberries, and dropping it on the ground, spilling them everywhere, as they were surrounded by the pack of them. Their mouths watering, teeth bared. I could picture all of them like that except for Runner. There was no way he could have done such a thing.

My uncle told me what to do. I would have to go out there and take care of things. There was no animal control or anything like that out where we lived. It was a little bit like the Wild West – east coast style. And he was too busy that day to deal with it.

I took my rifle and got in my little aluminum boat. The air was cold and moist, making the outboard motor difficult to start. I was thinking to myself what a relief that would be, if I could only use that as an excuse, then gave it one more brisk pull and the old Mercury started up and began to hack black smoke and settled into a hoarse coughing idle. I pushed in the choke quickly and turned the throttle. The engine began to purr like a laryngitic old cat and salt water sprayed my face as I made my way out to the island. I knew what I had to do, but all I wanted was to go anywhere else but my set destination.

Dogs that killed people couldn’t be left to roam around on an island like that, where just anyone could wander ashore and be murdered by them again. I had to make things right, as difficult as that would be.

The cold ocean mist hit me in the face and woke me up from my half-slumber and I made my way ashore onto the island. I was alone. My cousins had decided not to come, and although part of me didn’t want them there, I would never forgive them for that. In my mind they had tainted my dog, made him evil, if he was actually capable of killing those people. If kids in school could be a bad influence, as my mom always touted, then I supposed dogs were capable of being that also. I couldn’t help but wonder what terrible traits I had unwittingly picked up from my asshole cousins as well.

I tied up my boat to a tree and slung the rifle over my shoulder, then walked into the tall brush of the island. The place was big enough that it wasn’t easy to find them right away. It seemed they were off napping somewhere. Or perhaps hunting.

That thought concerned me more than a little bit. I wondered if the dogs were getting hungry again, and if they had developed a taste for a different kind of meat. I had some jerky in my bag, though, which I hoped I could use to tame them a bit.

Suddenly I saw him coming towards me from the treeline. Runner. He was alone. At least it looked that way. My knees trembled thinking of the possibility that the other two were lurking somewhere in the treeline.

He came running up to me with his big blue eyes wide and hopeful. But as he got closer my own eyes widened as well, in horror, not hope.

His mouth was crusted in blood, and it covered the front of his chest as well. The fur of his coat had been stained crimson red with the vital fluids of his victims. I had to picture him, then, pulling out a young woman’s eyeball and it popping as he bit into it, biting off her fingers and nose as she screamed.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of jerky to give him. He sat down instinctively as I had trained him to do and my heart ached for what I was about to do. Tossing him the jerky, my hands trembled. While he ate it, I loaded my rifle, tears running down my face.

Those bastards, I thought, they had made my dog evil. And now I would have to kill it. My plan had been initially to give it away, or worst case scenario to set him free somewhere and hope that someone would take him in. I knew he wasn’t welcome back in our community, though. But I had no choice now. He was a man-eater. And man-eaters could not be allowed to live. They were too much of a threat to all of us in the cold of winter, when hunger set upon us all without mercy.

I raised the sight to my eye as he munched on the jerky, and he looked up at me with those familiar eyes. Then his pupils darted away to the left.

I heard the sound of animal feet racing towards me too late and felt the sting of many teeth in my flesh. Suddenly I was on the ground, being attacked by two dogs. Slasher and Flea, my cousins’ two psychotic canines.

Flea was trying to tear into my throat and I saw his mouth was stained the same crimson red with blood as Runner. I had my forearm up and tried to block his attacks with it. Screaming, I reached for my rifle but found it was on the ground a few feet away.

Slasher came at me next, biting my legs and tearing away pieces of flesh from them with vicious bites. I squirmed away and pulled my legs from his teeth, howling in pain and anger. Trying to reach for the jerky, the dogs went for my hands next and bit at them, ignoring the plastic bag full of their former favourite meat on the ground as if it were nothing to them.

The two of them were coming at me from different angles, wearing me out and making it impossible for me to get up to retreat. I regretted going out there alone suddenly, and was terrified I wouldn’t make it back home alive. I turned in circles as they nipped at me from both directions and walked around me menacingly. When I paid attention to one, the other would attack. Once I was focused on that one for a second, the other would come at me and take a fresh bite from my flesh.

Flea lunged at me and managed to get past my forearm and locked his teeth onto my cheek. He clamped down and dug his teeth in to the meat there, then released me and began to howl in pain and yip as he backed away.

It was Runner. He was attacking him from behind. He was trying to save my life.

The other two dogs suddenly turned and began to growl and snap their teeth at Runner, instead of at me. He began to whine and back away, looking frightened and defeated.

They lunged at him and gave chase as he ran away, bolting quickly into the forest, leading them away from me. I took the opportunity to grab my rifle and get the hell out of there as quickly as I could and didn’t look back. I knew they wouldn’t catch him. They never could.

A piece of flesh hung from my face and I held pressure to what appeared to be the deepest wound I had received on my forearm. That had received the brunt of the damage. I only hoped I wouldn’t run across any other wildlife while in such a bloodied state. Wolves or bears wouldn’t think twice to take down a person if they smelled blood on them.

My fear abated just a bit when I finally got back to the little aluminum boat and untied it. I ran it out into the water in my shoes, not caring if they got wet, and hopped in, my heart beating a fast and furious pace. I started up the motor with one manic pull and turned the throttle to full speed forward.

I knew the truth now, but I couldn’t bring myself to be angry at my dog. He had saved my life, even if he was a man eater. I still loved the little guy. And after all, those were his fucking blueberries. Damn berry-picking tourists.

JG