Rufus was adamant about finding some kibble before any dog attempted to transform Zeus into a friendly dog. “We’ll all have starved to death before she gives up on this fuzz-headed plan,” he grumbled.

“No need to get growly,” Callie barked. “But I agree with Rufus. My tummy’s rumbling!”

Shep wagged his tail. “Who’s up for some hunting?” he woofed. He glanced at Callie and saw the excitement flash across her muzzle.

“First dog to catch a squirrel gets first choice of kibble!” Callie howled. She sprang into the brush and began snuffling through the leaves.

Shep dove after her. He took a deep breath, scented all possible prey, and dashed after a squirrel hidden in a tussock of grass. Pure joy pulsed through him like lifeblood. How could he give this up? Hunting felt as necessary to his life now as breathing. Callie was wrong — life on a leash could never make him this happy. He watched Callie tear after a fleeing bird and saw the smile on her jowls. He knew she felt that same spark running under her fur. Give her time, he thought. Maybe after a sun or two out of her cage, she’ll remember how great pack life can be.

Callie downed two squirrels, Dover nabbed a rat, and Shep caught a rabbit, which meant there was enough meat for all. Fuzz offered to share some of the grasshoppers he’d caught, but no dog accepted the invitation.

“No need to choke down bugs — snort — when there’s meat in the bowl!” Daisy yipped, licking her jowls.

Oscar stood near her, struggling to tear the leg off the rabbit. He jammed his little paws into the hide, tugged, and fell flat on his tail. Shep wondered if this was one of those let-the-pup-figure-it-out-himself situations. Before he came to a decision, Daisy strutted up to Oscar and shoved him aside.

“I can do it!” yipped Oscar as Daisy wrenched the bones apart.

“Just shut your snout,” Daisy growled. She spat the meat at his paws.

Oscar looked at the rabbit hock. “You didn’t have to help me.”

Daisy’s ears and tail relaxed, like she was going to maybe give the poor pup a lick, but then she reasserted her tough stance. “I couldn’t — snort — let you ruin the whole rabbit with your scratching.” She turned back to her meal.

“Thank you,” Oscar snuffled.

Daisy didn’t give him so much as a snort, but Shep smelled that she was straining every muscle in her rump to keep from wagging her tail.

 

After catching a slurp of water in the stream, the small pack assembled in the clearing for Pumpkin’s Lessons on Friendliness and Approachability, as Ginny had labeled them.

“It’s all about the tail,” Pumpkin began. She held hers straight up like a tree trunk.

“Some of us are tail deficient,” barked Zeus flatly. He nodded toward his rump, where his stub of a tail lay.

Pumpkin didn’t let his tone faze her. “It doesn’t matter how big your tail is, so long as it’s wagging!” She gave her tail a swish, and its long hairs waved behind it. “Any human is going to feel better about a dog if its tail is wagging, so the first rule is: See a human, wag your tail.”

“What-if-it’s-a-dog-catcher-human-should-I-still-wag-my-tail?” Snoop was paying unusually close attention to Pumpkin’s lecture.

“Yes!” she woofed.

“No,” barked Shep at the same time.

Pumpkin gave Shep a head tilt. “Aren’t I in charge of these lessons?” she yapped.

Shep barely controlled a growl. “You may be in charge of teaching this pack how to look cute, but I’m still in charge of every dog’s safety.” He scanned the dogs’ muzzles to make sure they understood, ending on Snoop’s narrow snout. Snoop licked his jowls, looked sheepishly at the dirt, then began to nibble an itch on his leg.

Shep continued, “You see a dog catcher, you run. Don’t waste time wiggling your rump.”

“I disagree,” yipped Callie. “How are we going to know who’s a dog catcher, anyway? All the people I saw at the kennel were dressed like regular people. As Pumpkin woofed, the team that invaded the boat was a special group. I say we treat all humans as friends until they show us different.”

The other dogs wagged their tails in agreement. Zeus snickered.

Shep straightened his stance, lifted his muzzle, and replied in his most important-sounding bark. “You’re not disagreeing with me, Callie,” he woofed. “I said the same thing — you can wag your tail at any regular human, but don’t waste time if you see a man in green. If the dog catcher is dressed like a regular human, they’re probably not going to shoot you with a dart.”

The pack seemed confused, like they weren’t quite sure why there was so much barking on this issue of tail wagging. But they didn’t think about things the way an alpha had to. They had the luxury of just living a regular life. Shep had to constantly be on his guard for any divisions in the ranks, for any cracks in his authority. As Callie had once warned him, the last thing the pack needed was a power struggle.

Callie cocked her head at Shep, as if about to argue, but then sat down. “You’re right, Shep,” she woofed. “I should have stated that differently. I just want to make sure there are no unfortunate mistakes, like what happened at the kennel.” She emphasized her last woofs.

“What happened at the kennel?” asked Boji, concerned.

“Noth —” Shep began, but Pumpkin was already barking.

“Shep attacked this nice lady who worked in the medical building.”

The other dogs looked at Shep as if he’d attacked their own families.

“You attacked a human?” snuffled Ginny with a tremulous bark.

Even Dover seemed flustered by this revelation. For the first time, he looked at Shep like he wasn’t sure of his character, like Shep was a bad dog.

“He didn’t ‘attack her,’ attack her,” barked Callie, interrupting the anxious silence. “He pushed her and she fell over a table. The woman was trying to catch him. Shep was only trying to help me escape.” She sat next to Shep and licked his snout. “He feels really bad about it,” she added.

Shep caught her scent. “Yes,” he woofed. Then he repeated it in a more assured bark. “Yes, I feel terrible about pushing the woman.” And he realized, in barking it, that all these heartbeats later, he still felt itchy under his fur. It was as if in pushing a human, he’d violated nature and his own body was delivering the punishment.

The dogs smelled a bit friendlier toward Shep, though Ginny still stuck her snout slightly in the air when she looked at him.

Pumpkin shook herself to regain the pack’s attention. “I think we can use this,” she yipped. “See, Shep thought that the only way to get away from the nice lady was to attack her, but he had loads of other options. For one, he could have wagged his tail, like I’ve been barking. If he had played along, like he was going to do whatever she wanted, the heartbeat her back was turned, he could have run. No one’s fur would have gotten ruffled! But this requires changing your whole view of things. It’s not just about wagging your tail, it’s about meaning it.

“Humans are kind of thick when it comes to dogs. They see a cute muzzle and big eyes and get all mushy about the brain and start cooing and sticking their hands out. All you need to do is answer this natural tendency to go mushy-brained by wagging your tail in a friendly, assertive manner — up high, big swishes from side to side.”

“What if you don’t have a cute muzzle?” grunted Zeus. “Or a tail?”

Pumpkin sighed and flicked her ears. “Well, you’re just going to have to work harder,” she woofed. “Admittedly, for cute dogs like Ginny and me, and puppies like Oscar, this is a piece of jerky. Heck, most humans even go gaga for wrinkled-up, crazy muzzles like Daisy’s.”

“I’m standing — snort — right here!” Daisy growled.

“What are you getting your tail in a knot about?” Pumpkin yipped. “I’m saying people think you’re cute!” She swatted a paw at Daisy with a little flourish of her head. Daisy was so bewildered she shut her jowls and smiled nervously.

Pumpkin strutted up to Zeus. “With you, I think the best tactic is to make yourself smaller.”

“I don’t get smaller.” Zeus met her gaze with a look of pure disgust.

“Oh, quit your growling, you big pile of hair! You can too get smaller. You could do a front-paw slap and poof!” Pumpkin flopped down onto her chest, front paws out in front of her. “You look shorter.”

“My front paw’s in a cast,” Zeus grunted.

Pumpkin sighed. “Dog, you really are a tail dragger!” she yipped. “Work with me, will you!” She leapt at his jowl and planted a lick on his snout. Zeus’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

Pumpkin wagged her tail and cocked her muzzle. “I think maybe a full lie-down with stub-tail wag and goo-goo eyes will be just the thing for you.”

“Goo-goo eyes?” Zeus grumbled incredulously.

“Like this,” yipped Pumpkin. She flounced onto her belly, then looked up at the treetops and sucked her jowls down. Her eyes bulged to gigantic beads of black. She fluttered her eyelids. “The fluttering says, ‘Don’t you love me?’ but I think you, Zeus, should go for ‘Play with me!’” She grinned with her jowls and panted slightly, straining her eyes open wide and whipping her tail back and forth. Then she gave a few light barks. Suddenly, as if a switch were turned off, she stood and shook her fur.

“Okay, let’s see you do it,” she yipped, sitting down and considering Zeus with a steady gaze.

Zeus looked nervously at Shep, but Shep wasn’t going to let Zeus out of this. You want to pretend to be a different, not-evil dog, pretend away….

“Just lie down?” Zeus woofed.

“Don’t forget the goo-goo eyes,” yapped Rufus in a snide bark.

Zeus growled at the squaredog, which shut Rufus’s snout, but lay down like Pumpkin had asked. He winced as he settled his hurt paw, then forced his jowls into a smile and panted. He wiggled his stumpy tail and bugged his eyes as far out of his skull as he could manage. The effect was too horrible to bear.

“He looks worse than a monster,” moaned Ginny.

“He is a monster,” growled Boji, who glared at Zeus from the shadows.

“Are-those-goo-goo-eyes-because-if-so-I-think-theyare-scary-and-maybe-also-terrifying-and-yes-please-make-him-stop,” Snoop yammered.

Pumpkin sniffed disapprovingly. “I do agree,” she yipped. “This isn’t working for you.” She cocked her head. “Really, you have to stop.”

Zeus let his eyelids drop and pushed himself back up to sitting. “So you’re going to leave me to the dog catchers?” he grumbled. “I’m too nasty even to fake out a human?”

“No, no,” yipped Pumpkin cheerfully. “I just had you doing the wrong thing. Let’s play up the limp.”

 

Pumpkin worked with each dog this way, helping them find the best paw to put forward if they ran into a human. She turned to Shep last.

“You,” she woofed, considering him like a kibble in a bowl. “You’re going to be the hardest to sell.”

“Me?” woofed Shep, tilting his head. “I’m a perfect gentleman when it comes to humans.”

Pumpkin grimaced. Rufus snorted. Even Callie looked less than convinced.

“Really,” Shep woofed. “Except for that one time, I have a perfectly good relationship with humans.” He couldn’t believe these dogs all thought he was going to be a tougher sell than Zeus.

“Look,” Pumpkin yipped, shrugging. “I’m not going to gravy-coat this for you — German shepherds are used by humans to attack other humans, so people are wary of your kind.”

“Wary? What are you saying, people don’t like me?” Shep had never had a problem with people liking him … well, that wasn’t exactly true. His boy liked him, and his family, but he’d never really concerned himself with how other people felt about him. Now that he thought about it, other people generally leaned away from him or crossed the street. It had never bothered him — what did he care about other people? — but Pumpkin had her nose on a scent: It might take some work to convince a stranger that he was friendly.

“Okay,” Shep woofed, sitting. “Maybe I do look a little … scary. What can I do?”

Oscar sat down beside Shep. “I don’t think you look scary,” he woofed, smiling up at Shep.

Shep panted gently. “Thanks,” he woofed. “But I’m trying to convince a nervous human that I’m not a threat, and I happen to know that I am a threat. Apparently, they know it, too.”

All the dogs, even Zeus, woofed ideas for how to make Shep more friendly looking. “Maybe he could pretend to have a limp?” “Maybe we could give him a real limp?” “Maybe he could slap the ground, like he wanted to play?” “Maybe have him carry a stick around?” “More tail wagging?” “Less panting?” “Friendlier eyes?” “Floppier ears?” But every posture or prop or muzzle tic was met with disapproval by the other dogs.

“Not even Lassie herself could help you look appealing, Shep,” Ginny yapped finally. She dropped into a sit in the moss by the stream.

Fuzz sat beside Shep. “Fuzz watch for person,” the cat hissed. “Keep Shep-dog from make scary-snout at wrong heartbeat.”

“What if Shep is just himself?” yipped Oscar. He hopped onto a rock and nodded his snout at Shep. “I mean, all dogs don’t have to be cute, right? Maybe Shep is just, well, Shep. I think he looks honorable and proud and like he’d face a whole pack of wild dogs to save you, and that’s good, too, right? Even if it’s not particularly cute.” Oscar waved his tail, and the pack wagged their tails in agreement.

Callie smiled. “I think, Oscar, that is exactly right.”