Chapter Sixteen

Pax is off leash, his flat leather working collar is fastened on, and his attention is riveted to the woods opposite. He is telling them in no uncertain terms that the enemy is there. Keller flags his squad and they take cover behind pines and oaks. There is no sound, and Pax understands that this means the enemy is aware of them, too. Everyone is keeping deathly still.

At Keller’s signal, Pax has flattened himself against the ground and is about ten feet in front of Keller and the platoon. His ears are pricked and his nose works the air. He hears what the men cannot, the susurration of living breath in nervous men. He can smell what they cannot, the sweat of unwashed and exhausted men. Pax can tell, too, just how many of the enemy lie behind the trees on the opposite side of the rough circle of woodlot. If he could, he’d tell them there are only five to your seven, and one of those is wounded. But he’s capable only of warning his platoon, not comforting them.

Their platoon leader signals for his six men to split up, half to circle to the left, the other three, Keller included, to move to the right of the woodlot. Keller nods and then signals to Pax to slowly move back to his side. Like his feral ancestors, Pax understands the exercise. To him, this is his pack. They are hunting. Race memory excites the dog, but his human training keeps him in complete focus on his man, his pack leader, just as, in the wild, he’d be focused on the alpha dog, unquestioning of his leader’s orders. They are circling their prey, trapping it within the confines of their numbers. Pax becomes rigid, his very skin tense with the need for soundless movement, his muscles hardened with the exertion of moving like liquid. In moments, he is back at Keller’s side; only the slight touch of his nose against Keller’s hand breaks the discipline of the hunt.

*   *   *

Pax has become a dog with purpose. As much as living with Rick and Francesca had been rewarding, and comfortable, this life with Keller has hardened him into what his nature meant for him to be. A hunter. A guardian. A pack member with a job. Even when his feet are sore from the miles of hard terrain, his belly growling in anticipation of a battle-delayed dinner, his thirst barely slaked with the shared contents of Keller’s canteen lapped out of his helmet, Pax is happy. Bivouacked in bombed-out cellars, or in the field, or against the crumbled walls of a village, Pax presses his long body against Keller’s, settling his muzzle against his partner’s neck, keeping them both warm. Like littermates, they play and eat and sleep and work in constant companionship, excluding all others. Their exclusivity suits Pax; he has only Keller to worry about. The others may surround them, and Keller interacts with them in their human language, but touch and comfort and food and grooming come only from Keller.

Pax loves his work, his purpose, and he has come to love Keller for giving it to him.

*   *   *

Now Pax alerts his pack to the presence of the enemy. The game is on.