Looking out the window, he could see the dying patches of grass interspersed between the tall and thick trees, which formed a canopy over the yard, preventing much sunlight to get through, except for the multi level porch that was off to one side. Her father had built it while she was still young, and he found that it had been kept up in amazing conditions. He remembered the first time he had come to her house, he had been stunned that she could afford such an edifice. It was a modest house, not really all that big, but on her salary, all she should have had was an apartment in DC.

     She had until about five years ago had an apartment, but then her parents had died, and they left the house, fully paid off to her, and so she owned a nice house, at an exorbitant price he thought. He did not like death, despite the fact that was how he made his living, but it was never a pleasant thought. As long as he was able to think of the bodies as simply nothing more than a statistic his job had been easy, real easy, cut them up, find out what killed them, that's all it had ever amounted to. When it became personal, the instruments simply became impossible to hold in his hands.

     Of course those first six or seven months, he had trouble feeling sorry for her, especially considering what she was having him do. After that however, he felt as if something inside him were melting, something inside him overcame what he had been forced to do, and he felt pity for her. It was certainly not love, and even now it was not love, that was what he told himself. How could he love a woman who forced him to be her dog on the weekends? How could he do that?

     It had all started when he found those cadavers from Barken, and he went to investigate. He had never before believed it possible that such a place could exist, or that something like that was even possible, but apparently it had been. He found out first-hand the day he got back. He couldn't believe he had transformed right in front of her! He thought he'd escaped the curse (they told him it was a boon, but he didn't believe it), but no, it clutched hold of him at the worst possible moment.

     Of course what does Julie do. She has to have him taken to a vet, and have a cast put on his hind-leg, essentially locking him that way for a good six weeks! Then she has the audacity to fill out the papers and get him the shots necessary to make him her dog! He'd wanted to rage at her, but there really wasn't much he could do, he was in a helpless position. So for six weeks he stayed at her place, got to know her other dog Lucky, who was a frisky Cairn Terrier (he was so relieved that Lucky was male, he didn't even want to think about the possibilities...), and from there learned how to be a good pet.

     Julie Wilder was insane.

     At least that was his impression of her. She was convinced that by forcing him to be her pet on the weekends, that it would improve their 'relationship' in the human world. Of course, to force him to be a pet, she had to blackmail him, and the fact that he could now turn into a dog was quite effective. He'd rather be put through that humiliation then lose his job. He almost did lose it in fact, but thanks to the Family Leave Act, he was able to convince them that his broken leg qualified as a family emergency, and he kept his job.

     And at the same time, Julie Wilder kept him. She called him Joey at least, and she did treat him nice. He didn't mind it all too much, in fact he kind of liked to romp with Lucky when they were let outside, but still, something about the way she went about it unnerved him. She seemed to think that there was absolutely nothing wrong with what she was doing, and in fact she seemed to think that he wanted it too! She was a nice girl, and he could have liked her under better circumstances, but the idea that he was her pet, simply didn't make him feel any better. At least she didn't insist that he be her pet all the time, only on the weekends, but then again, he was starting to look towards the weekends, and that was making him really start to wonder.

     Just then, he heard her walk up from behind. "Do my pretty boys want to go outside?" she asked in a manner he'd gotten used to. At first he found it patronizing, but now he realized that was how most people talked to dogs. At the thought of romping, he found himself getting excited, and he saw Lucky already jumping up and down by the door. Joey ran over to join him, and as she opened the door, both of them raced down off the porch, running through the cool September air, drinking in the scents of the world. To anybody watching, they looked like two normal dogs. The mind of one of them was, however, Dr. Joey Vermiclin.

     Sheriff Pierre Davis looked at the two pictures. Nearly identical in structure and frame, though location wise they were quite different. Both of them had been killed and skinned in Barken. The one had been positively identified as George Thompson, and they had a rudimentary sketch of the killer. The other remained a John Doe. There were many Bull Dogs in Barken, and nobody was reported missing yet. The fact that there were two dead had not stayed unknown for long, and now pretty much everybody in Barken knew.

     What was the most unnerving was the similarity of the photos. Both of them were eviscerated, and the entrails were left out in the same fashion, almost certainly indicating the same killer. What was worse was that nobody reported any activities in Barken that night. Usually there was a good night life in Barken on a Saturday evening, but nobody noticed the killing and skinning, which was estimated to have occurred around midnight, just like the previous murder of two days before.

     The means of death were different however. While Thompson had his skull crushed, it seemed with the John Doe that the disembowelment was the means of death. And from the way it looked, he was probably stabbed from behind, as the internal organs did sustain some bruises, possibly from falling to the ground. The body itself looked a bit bruised, indicating a scuffle had occurred, but there were no traces of blood or tissue underneath the claws and teeth. Apparently, the attacker had dominated the combat, and had killed the victim in rather short order.

     Bill Budd walked into his office, and laid down a piece of paper with a picture and statistical information on it. Davis recognized the insignia on the top of the page, and the format in which it was laid out. It was a police folder, this man was a sentry.

     "Tom Cavanaugh." Bill said almost fatalistically. "The Bull Dog was Tom Cavanaugh."

     "Tom, you will be missed." Davis said to himself.

     Bill took a seat, and then added, "Tom was with us that night. The body was left in the same position as before, it could mean..."

     "Revenge?" Davis asked rhetorically. "I think it is a distinct possibility. They're still not talking. I think I know a way I can get at least one of those four to talk, but I can't do it until tomorrow, I don't want to buck my schedule."

     "You're going to give them something to write?"

     "Yeah, an essay of sorts. It's worked wonderfully so far. They seem more resigned to their fate than before. They haven't tried to break out of here in over six months, so I'd say we'll eventually wear them down." Davis replied nonchalantly.

     "I think you should step up your schedule."

     "Why?"

     "Well, it's going along well so far, step up the schedule. Give them things to write two times a week."

     "The award is human food. If I do that, then they might be able to last between meals, and never have to eat the dog food again." Davis reminded him.

     "In that case, give them only half the amount you normally would, that way they're still hungry." Bill suggested.

     Davis smiled, nodding. "I think I'll do that. Anything else to report?"

     "Well, we have pretty much all the sentries out on patrol for eight hours at a time. The way it works out, we have at least thirty people on patrol at all times, and usually more than that. There is really not much chance that anybody is going to sneak in here again."

     "Good. Did you get those hair and fibre samples sent off to our friend?" Davis asks.

     "Yes, I FedExed them this morning." Bill replied.

     "Good!" Davis became quite serious again, his eyes glancing at the visage of Tom Cavanaugh to remind him of the seriousness of the situation. "I should probably call him and tell him what he's about to receive. How's Olympia holding up?"

     Bill grimaced. "She's surviving. She doesn't like doing the work she is, and well, she wishes she didn't have to."

     "Well, until I can get in contact with Harvey, and tell him to get back here, she's the only one who can do the job. Also, I want you to stay off the patrols until this blows over. I want you to watch over her, I don't need to loose either of you."

     "What about me watching this place at night?" Bill asked, not sure whether the reassignment was a boon or a bane.

     "I'll have Joe do it, he's been good out there recently, and he's also the least hot tempered of my best other than you. If I let Taylor do it he'd probably go back there and wring the information out of our prisoners, probably killing them too."

     "Yeah, Taylor does need to cool off some." Bill remarked knowingly.

     "Well, in any event, I have people to call, and you have other things you need to do." Davis then waved Bill out of his office. Bill left, and made his way out the door, and towards the veterinarian. Yes he did indeed have things to do...

     Will Bryant sat in his office, leaning back in his chair, looking over the array of computer screens before him. Sampling the finger print data they had found at the site, and the powders that were definitely scattered, and apparently washed off, he knew exactly what was going on. Drug Dealers. He hated them, much like most people do, and here was an excellent chance to stop them. The evidence was quite conclusive, it was simply a matter of setting them up to be captured. However, he was trying to determine just what he needed to do to catch them. What sort of set up could they construct that would meet their needs. How best to trick them, who to contact into setting up a mock deal. Of course they were always wary of federal agents, but they were good at stopping them, very good at finding them and taking them out.

     Just as a plan was beginning to form in his mind, the phone rang. Swearing under his breath, he picked up the receiver and said, "This is Agent Bryant, how may I help you?"

     "Will!" the voice called to him familiarly. "This is Sheriff Davis."

     "Sheriff Davis?" Will searched his memory for the name, and it quickly came back to him. "Oh yes! How're you doing, Pierre?"

     "Not good. We've got a couple of murders down here in Barken. We don't have the facilities to do hair and fibre analysis, so we FedExed the stuff to you."

     "Really?" Will said, quite amazed at their effrontery.

     "I hope the imposition isn't too much?" Davis called back.

     "Not at all, not at all. I would have preferred you asked me first, but I'm glad you told me at least." Will told him, a little rebuke in his voice, but not much. Then he gathered his breath and continued, "So what are the murders like, what do you think so far?"

     "Looks like the same guy. Eviscerates his victims, and skins them as well. Killed the first guy with a champagne bottle we think, and the second guy it looked like he just stabbed."

     "Sounds like you got a psycho on your hands. I take it you're sending the stuff to me because you're afraid the dog hair will show up?"

     "Something like that. Actually, we think the murderer is from Cherry, and we can't afford too many people asking questions about our relationship."

     "I understand." Will told him. "When I get the samples, I'll have the forensic team run it down. I won't tell them where I got it."

     "You can do that?"

     "Not really, but I've got a friend who'll fudge the records a little bit for me."

     "Won't you lose your job for that?"

     "Not really. You should have seen the explaining I had to do after the incident last year. They didn't believe the part about you all being able to turn into dogs, at least they said they didn't. What I accomplished was that they could trust me, because I was going to tell them what I think, and I'm going to do what's the best for everybody, despite the nuances of protocol."

     "I find it hard to believe that it's that simple."

     "It's all you need to know." Will told him, his tone taking on a warning.

     Davis caught the hint and then laughed a bit. "I guess you probably are pretty busy. Just get the results back to us as soon as possible. If you can, I'd love it if you could come out here and help us solve our problem; we'd love to have you back."

     "If things free up for me, I may." Will told him honestly. He would like to go back, and if they had a case that he could help solve, it would be even better. However, he had a case he was working on at the moment, and he was not about to abandon those drug dealers just to catch a murderer. These drug dealers killed lots more than a simple murderer everyday.

     "Well, I hope to see you then sometime soon." Pierre Davis added.

     "You too, bye." Will put the phone back on the hook, and he leaned back in his chair again. Now what had he been thinking about...

     Patrick Monaghan loped down the hill. His survival pack strapped around his waist, made from elastic so would stretch if he needed to become human again. Nose to the ground, ears alert, he was on patrol. No damn Cherry punk would get past him, especially not some murdering little bastard. He was ready for whoever was out there, nobody would catch him off guard.

     It was a quiet night, and he enjoyed the scents of the desert at night. The eerie silence in possessed, the unbelieve night activity, from the scampering of desert vermin, to the cry of a animal killed in the cold darkness. He was alone, that was what the desert did to you, it made you alone, and in that you realized your own mortality. The desert was the greatest equalizer, for only the best survived, and in this thrill he flung himself. He was part of it, he was as mortal as any other part of it, yet he would survive, for he was of the most fit, and he would not fall to some stupid Bible-thumpin' Cherrier.

     He was a big dog, a large black labrador. He liked being this size, as he when feeling frisky could tear around the neighborhood with the best of them. He fancied himself the fastest dog in Barken, and boy when he wanted to he could make his legs move. The feeling of the wind against his fur, the sand beneath his paws, was simply exquisite, a feeling he couldn't quite describe in words, something so ephemeral that he nearly lay is delight at the thought of it.

     Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he continued on his patrol. AS he turned the bend of a hill, he saw much to his surprise something perched unnaturally on a rock. It looked like a wine bottle, and with a start he realized it might just be the Chardonnay that had been used to kill George - poor dog. He stepped closer, keeping his ears and nose open, searching for any foreign scents or sounds. As he neared the rock he saw that there was something sitting at the base of it. Focusing his eyes on it, he saw that it was a digital clock, and it read 11:59. He looked about to both sides, quickly scanning the area, nobody in sight, the ground was relatively flat, and there was no cover for anybody to hide behind. What was going on?

     The first pangs of fear gripped his heart as he saw the clock change. Then he felt the sand move beneath him, and his heart leapt up into his throat, as he looked at the face rising from the sand beneath him. In the pale moonlight, he could not recognize it. As he stared in horror, too frightened to move, he saw from the corners of his eyes as the man underneath the sand brought his arms up to the side of his head in one smooth quick swing. Just before the crushing pain came, he thought he fancied a pair of rocks in his hands.