Brandon left for work at seven o’clock Monday morning, hoping to start picking while the temperature was cool. He woke Tom before he left.
“You don’t need to go over to Dave’s until nine. Let him have a sleep in. But make sure you do go over, right?”
Tom said he would, before rolling over, expecting to fall asleep. But that didn’t happen and in the end he decided to go for a run. It would help him plan his day.
Tom had been only seven years old when he’d first started running . His parents were still living together then, although no longer happily. They argued endlessly. At first Tom would hide away, covering his ears trying to shut out the loud, bickering voices. Then one day it got so bad that he ran outside, crying. And he kept on running. After a few minutes the crying had stopped. After quarter of an hour he was feeling much better. When he did return home, half an hour later, he found the fighting had ended. In his absence, their anger had turned into concern, not for each other, but for him. From then on, he always went running.
Nowadays he ran because he was good at it. A couple of weeks before, he had cleaned up his age-group races for 800 metre and 1,500 metre at the Mid-North Athletics Champs. Coming up soon were the cross-country champs, which he also hoped to win. Later in the year he was planning to do the junior triathlon if he could get his cycling and swimming up to standard. That’s if he still lived in Kerikeri which couldn’t be guaranteed.
Living next to the forest had helped his running a lot. Within a minute of leaving the house he could be on a track surrounded by tall trees. Some of the tracks were logging roads, others were firebreaks. Most of the surfaces were good enough for running, so long as you kept an eye on where you were putting your feet.
On this day Tom was more aware of his surroundings than usual. He chose the smoother roads so he could keep a lookout for anything that might be nearby in the forest. He couldn’t get the idea of a killer dog out of his head. He’d always been scared of dogs, especially when running, as many would rush at him, barking and snarling. While he’d never been bitten, that could easily change if there was a killer on the loose.
Of course, in this state of raised awareness, his imagination took over. A fallen log became a huge pig; a dark shrub turned into a black dog; every shadow was a hiding place.
“Don’t be so stupid,” he told himself. “There’s nothing there.” Which did little other than making the shadows more threatening.
The middle point for this run was a big open space where logging trucks could turn around. Cut logs had been arranged in the centre to form a roundabout, a place where he could sit and catch his breath. Today it had an added advantage: if there was an animal out there, it was at least 20 metres away.
As his breathing slowed, the sounds of the forest became more noticeable. Nearby were the chirps of small birds feeding in the ferns. From higher up came the songs of thrushes and blackbirds. Behind them all were distant noises of a logging operation in another part of the forest. Chainsaws, loaders, and the piercing air-horns they used to communicate with each other.
But there was also another sound, one Tom had not heard before. A whining, like that made by high-speed power tools.
“A dentist drill?” he asked himself, then chuckled at how stupid that was. “No Tom. They don’t have dentists out here.”
After that he couldn’t hear it for a while. When the sound did come back, it was louder. Now he was able to work out what it was. A dog. Not the noise a killer would make; the whine of an animal in pain.
What should he do? His instinct said to run, but his curiosity urged him to find out more.
Getting to his feet, he moved towards the edge of the circle in the direction of the sound. He paused to listen. It was coming from within a group of tree ferns, well off the track. This was the dangerous part. If the animal was vicious, then Tom was moving into a position where flight would be difficult. Regardless, he moved forward.
The whining stopped.
So too did Tom, his heart thumping.
When the sound resumed it was a brief, lower-pitched, pleading call.
“It’s all right,” he said softly.
This time he saw a movement between the lower fronds. Reaching out, he pulled a branch back to get a clearer look. Yes, it was a dog, staring at him with frightened eyes.
“It’s all right,” Tom repeated. “I’m here to help.”
The dog replied with more pleading whines.
Tom pushed between the fronds until he was just a few metres away. If the dog was going to attack it would do so now. Then he saw it couldn’t attack. It was tied to fallen pine branch. He took another step. No, the animal wasn’t tied, it was trapped by its collar.
The collar was thicker than most Tom had seen. Somehow, it had slipped over the broken end of the fallen branch, pinning the dog. In its struggles to get free, the dog had forced the collar over a twig, which then locked it in position, stopping any movement backwards and forwards. Unless Tom did something, the dog would stay there until it died.
The question was, would the dog let him set it free? There was only one way to find out. Tom took the last few steps until he was standing right by it. Now he could see the collar had a box attached, with a bit sticking up like an aerial. The two dogs in Dave’s photo had similar things. A green LED on the side of the box was glowing.
“You a pig-hunting dog?” said Tom, touching the dog’s head. “You get caught chasing a pig? Well let’s see if we can get you free.”
Tom’s first thought was to break off the twig and ease the dog backwards. But a closer look showed that would cause the dog immense pain. Already its neck and shoulder were raw and clotted from rubbing against the branch. Moving in either direction would be agony. Fortunately the buckle was on the side away from the branch. Release that and the dog would be free.
Except it wasn’t easy. The moment he put pressure on the collar, the dog yelped.
“Sorry fella,” he said stroking the dog’s back. “But I’ve got to do this.”
Maybe the dog understood or, more likely, it was close to passing out. Either way, Tom was able to unbuckle the lead without further yelping. Only when he took it off did the dog make a noise, a loud yelp of pain as it slumped to the ground. Blood had clotted against the branch forming a bond that ripped apart as the dog fell. That and the collar had been all that had kept the exhausted animal upright. Fresh blood was now oozing from the wound.
The dog was free but it was clear to Tom it wasn’t going anywhere soon, if ever. It lay flat out, the only thing moving were its eyes tracking the boy. Even those closed at times. Something had to be done or the animal would die.
The first thing to do was to stop the bleeding. Tom took out the wad of toilet paper he always carried when running in the forest. Unfolded, it formed a bandage wide enough to cover the wound. A red patch formed immediately and grew a little before the flow stopped.
“Okay,” said Tom to himself. “Now I’ve got to go and get help.” Then to the dog, “You okay with that? I won’t be long. I’ll bring a man who knows about dogs. He’ll know what to do. His name’s Dave Hughes.” After a reassuring stroke of the head, he left.
* * *
Dave’s door was open when Tom arrived. Before he had a chance to knock, Dave called out. “Come in, Tom. I was expecting you a little earlier.”
“I got … caught … up,” said Tom, still panting after the high-speed run out of the forest. “I found a dog … in the forest.”
Dave looked up from the paper he was reading at the table. “And that’s its collar you’re holding, I gather? You’d better turn it off. There should be a switch alongside.”
There was. Tom flicked it and the LED went out.
“Okay,” said Dave, “now tell me about it.”
Tom did, trying to get across the urgency of the situation. Dave remained sitting until the story had finished. Then he stood. “Right we’d better get back there. You get some water. There’s an empty milk bottle in the sink. Fill that up. You should find a dog dish somewhere in the bottom cupboard. I’ll get the first-aid kit.” He took off into the bedroom.
Two minutes later they were in Dave’s ute bouncing along the forestry track. Bouncing, but not rattling like Brandon’s van did. This vehicle was designed for such surfaces, and was much newer. Watching Dave drive, Tom realised that, with other things on his mind, he hadn’t noticed the stump that morning until now. It didn’t seem to hinder Dave’s driving. The only time he’d used it was to slip the transmission into drive when they’d started.
“That collar you’re holding,” said Dave. “It’s a GPS tracking collar. I’m surprised the owner didn’t track the dog when it didn’t come back.” He glanced over. “How long do you think it has been there?”
Tom pictured the scene in his head. The several piles of poo, the black, clotted blood, the skinny dog. “A long time,” he said. “The thing’s almost dead. Might be by the time we get there.”
“Then there must be something wrong with the transmitter.”
“Or maybe the hunter was injured too?” added Tom.
Dave looked across sharply. “Yes. That’s a possibility,” he said, grimly.
They travelled in silence after that, until they got to the turn around.
“Right, show me this dog,” said Dave, taking the first aid kit out of the back. “Let’s see what we can do for the poor creature.”
Carrying the water and dish, Tom led the way into the grove of ferns. A surge of emotions gripped him when he saw the dog was still alive.
Dave knelt alongside, stroking the dog’s head for a moment before testing the muscles of the hind legs.
“She’s extremely dehydrated. That’s probably her main problem. If we can get her to take water, then we can do something about that wound.”
Tom poured some water into the dish and moved it close to the dog’s snout. She moved her head trying to get a drink, but couldn’t.
“Try lifting her front up,” said Dave.
After several tries, Tom had her up enough to begin drinking.
“She’s very light.”
“Yes, she’s been here a while all right. Maybe a week. If the hunter was injured somebody would have reported it by now. I think he just couldn’t find her. I’ll have a look at that transmitter when we get back. See if there’s a name or something.”
They watched her drink until she wanted a rest. Tom lay her back down so Dave could work on the wound.
The first-aid kit was designed for hunting-dog injuries. Most of the gear would work on a human, except for a few bandages designed to bind the body of a dog. After soaking the toilet paper off with water, Dave cleaned the wound with a dressing bandage.
“Fortunately, it’s only the surface that’s broken. There’s nothing deep. There’s no need to stitch her up. She should be right once she’s rehydrated and had a feed.”
Disinfectant powder was sprinkled on the wound, followed by a clean piece of dressing, which was bound in place around her body with a crepe bandage. Once it was clipped in place they were ready to leave.
“Can you carry her by yourself?” asked Dave, waggling his stump.
“Yeah, maybe. The problem is she’s floppy.”
“Okay, you hold her body with both hands, and I’ll support her rear.”
That worked, and soon they were lowering her onto the back of the ute.
“Do you think she might be the one that’s been killing kiwis?” asked Tom.
“Not lately, she hasn’t,” replied Dave. “Before that, who knows.” He thought for a bit. “Nah, I don’t think it’s her. I was reading in the paper this morning that they’ve found four others. One of them only a few days ago. I think she would have been hooked up at that stage.”
He paused. “Look, you’d better ride in the back with her, in case she panics. You can do that?”
Tom answered by jumping onto the back, and sitting down beside the sick dog. “Yep, let’s go.”
Dave drove much slower on the way back giving Tom plenty of time to think, mostly about pig dogs and dead kiwis. He hoped Dave was right about this dog. He wanted her to recover. What would be the point of saving her if it turned out she was the killer? All of this would have been a big waste of time.