The Pit

The large dog hung from the bottom of the tire swing by his teeth. His back paws swung three feet off the ground. Overhead, the sun remained a red blister in an achingly blue sky. After so long, the muscles of the dog’s jaw had cramped to a tight knot. His tongue had turned to a salt-dried piece of leather, lolling out one side. Still, at the back of his throat, he tasted black oil and blood.

But he did not let go.

He knew better.

Two voices spoke behind him. The dog recognized the gravel of the yard trainer. But the second was someone new, squeaky and prone to sniffing between every other word.

“How long he be hangin’ there?” the stranger asked.

“Forty-two minutes.”

“No shit! That’s one badass motherfucker. But he’s not pure pit, is he?”

“Pit and boxer.”

“True nuff? You know, I got a Staffordshire bitch be ready for him next month. And let me tell you, she puts the mean back in bitch. Cut you in on the pups.”

“Stud fee’s a thousand.”

“Dollars? You cracked or what?”

“Fuck you. Last show, he brought down twelve motherfuckin’ Gs.”

“Twelve? You’re shittin’ me. For a dogfight?”

The trainer snorted. “And that’s after paying the house. He beat that champion out of Central. Should seen that Crip monster. All muscle and scars. Had twenty-two pounds on Brutus here. Pit ref almost shut down the fight at the weigh-in. Called my dog ring bait! But the bastard showed ‘em. And those odds paid off like a crazy motherfucker.”

Laughter. Raw. No warmth behind it.

The dog watched out of the corner of his eye. The trainer stood to the left, dressed in baggy jeans and a white T-shirt, showing arms decorated with ink, his head shaved to the scalp. The newcomer wore leather and carried a helmet under one arm. His eyes darted around.

“Let’s get out of the goddamn sun,” the stranger finally said. “Talk numbers. I got a kilo coming in at the end of the week.”

As they stepped away, something struck the dog’s flank. Hard. But he still didn’t let go. Not yet.

“Release!”

With the command, the dog finally undamped his jaws and dropped to the practice yard. His hind legs were numb, heavy with blood. But he turned to face the two men. Shoulders up, he squinted against the sun. The yard trainer stood with his wooden bat. The newcomer had his fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket and took a step back. The dog smelled the stranger’s fear, a bitter dampness, like weeds soaked in old urine.

The trainer showed no such fear. He held his bat with one hand and scowled his dissatisfaction. He reached down and unhooked the plate of iron that hung from the dog collar. The plate dropped to the hard-packed dirt.

“Twenty-pound weight,” the trainer told the stranger. “I’ll get him up to thirty before next week. Helps thicken the neck up.”

“Any thicker, and he won’t be able to turn his head.”

“Don’t want him to turn his head. That’ll cost me a mark in the ring.” The bat pointed toward the line of cages. A boot kicked toward the dog’s side. “Get your ass back into the kennel, Brutus.”

The dog curled a lip, but he swung away, thirsty and exhausted. The fenced runs lined the rear of the yard. The floors were unwashed cement. From the neighboring cages, heads lifted toward him as he approached, then lowered sullenly. At the entrance, he lifted his leg and marked his spot. He fought not to tremble on his numb back leg. He couldn’t show weakness.

He’d learned that on the first day.

“Git in there already!”

He was booted from behind as he entered the cage. The only shade came from a scrap of tin nailed over the back half of the run. The fence door clanged shut behind him.

He lumbered across the filthy space to his water dish, lowered his head, and drank.

Voices drifted away as the two headed toward the house. One question hung in the air. “How’d that monster get the name Brutus?”

The dog ignored them. That memory was a shard of yellowed bone buried deep. Over the past two winters, he’d tried to grind it away. But it had remained lodged, a truth that couldn’t be forgotten.

He hadn’t always been named Brutus.

“C’mere, Benny! That’s a good boy!”

It was one of those days that flowed like warm milk, so sweet, so comforting, filling every hollow place with joy. The black pup bounded across the green and endless lawn. Even from across the yard, he smelled the piece of hot dog in the hand hidden behind the skinny boy’s back. Behind him, a brick house climbed above a porch encased in vines and purple flowers. Bees buzzed, and frogs croaked a chorus with the approach of twilight.

“Sit! Benny, sit!”

The pup slid to a stop on the dewy grass and dropped to his haunches. He quivered all over. He wanted the hot dog. He wanted to lick the salt off those fingers. He wanted a scratch behind the ear. He wanted this day to never end.

“There’s a good boy.”

The hand came around, and fingers opened. The pup stuffed his cold nose into the palm, snapped up the piece of meat, then shoved closer. He waggled his whole hindquarters and wormed tighter to the boy.

Limbs tangled, and they both fell to the grass.

Laughter rang out like sunshine.

“Watch out! Here comes Junebug!” the boy’s mother called from the porch. She rocked in a swing as she watched the boy and pup wrestle. Her voice was kind, her touch soft, her manner calm.

Much like the pup’s own mother.

Benny remembered how his mother used to groom his forehead, nuzzle his ear, how she kept them all safe, all ten of them, tangled in a pile of paws, tails, and mewling complaints. Though even that memory was fading. He could hardly picture her face any longer, only the warmth of her brown eyes as she’d gazed down at them as they fed, fighting for a teat. And he’d had to fight, being the smallest of his brothers and sisters. But he’d never had to fight alone.

“Juneeeee!” the boy squealed.

A new weight leaped into the fray on the lawn. It was Benny’s sister, Junebug. She yipped and barked and tugged on anything loose: shirtsleeve, pant leg, wagging tail. The last was her specialty. She’d pulled many of her fellow brothers and sisters off a teat by their tails, so Benny could have his turn.

Now those same sharp teeth clamped onto the tip of Benny’s tail and tugged hard. He squealed and leaped straight up — not so much in pain, but in good-hearted play. The three of them rolled and rolled across the yard, until the boy collapsed on his back in surrender, leaving the brother and sister free to lick his face from either side.

“That’s enough, Jason!” their new mother called from the porch.

“Oh, Mom…” The boy pushed up on one elbow, flanked by the two pups.

The pair stared across the boy’s chest, tails wagging, tongues hanging, panting. His sister’s eyes shone at him in that frozen moment of time, full of laughter, mischief, and delight. It was like looking at himself.

It was why they’d been picked together.

“Two peas in a pod, those two,” the old man had said as he knelt over the litter and lifted brother and sister toward the visitors. “Boy’s right ear is a blaze of white. Girl’s left ear is the same. Mirror images. Make quite a pair, don’t you think? Hate to separate them.”

And in the end, he didn’t have to. Brother and sister were taken to their new home together.

“Can’t I play a little longer?” the boy called to the porch.

“No argument, young man. Your father will be home in a bit. So get cleaned up for dinner.”

The boy stood up. Benny read the excitement in his sister’s eyes. It matched his own. They’d not understood anything except for the mother’s last word.

Dinner.

Bolting from the boy’s side, the pair of pups raced toward the porch. Though smaller, Benny made up for his size with blazing speed. He shot across the yard toward the promise of a full dinner bowl and maybe a biscuit to chew afterwards. Oh, if only—

— then a familiar tug on his tail. The surprise attack from behind tripped his feet. He sprawled nose-first into the grass and slid with his limbs splayed out.

His sister bounded past him and up the steps.

Benny scrabbled his legs under him and followed. Though outsmarted as usual by his bigger sister, it didn’t matter. His tail wagged and wagged.

He hoped these days would never end.

“Shouldn’t we pull his ass out of there?”

“Not yet!”

Brutus paddled in the middle of the pool. His back legs churned the water, toes splayed out. His front legs fought to keep his snout above the water. His collar, a weighted steel chain, sought to drag him to the cement bottom. Braided cords of rope trapped him in the middle of the concrete swimming pool. His heart thundered in his throat. Each breath heaved with desperate sprays of water.

“Yo, man! You gonna drown ‘im!”

“A little water won’t kill him. He got a fight in two days. A big-ass show. I got a lot riding on it.”

Paddling and wheeling his legs, water burned his eyes. His vision darkened at the edges. Still he saw the pit trainer off to the side, in trunks, no shirt. On his bare chest was inked two dogs snarling at each other. Two other men held the chains, keeping him from reaching the edge of the pool.

Bone-tired and cold, his back end began to slip deeper. He fought, but his head bobbed under. He took a gulp into his lungs. Choking, he kicked and got his nose above water again. He gagged his lungs clear. A bit of bile followed, oiling the water around his lips. Foam frothed from his nostrils.

“He done in, man. Pull ‘im out.”

“Let’s see what he’s got,” the trainer said. “Bitch been in there longer than he ever done.”

For another stretch of painful eternity, Brutus fought the pull of the chain and the waterlogged weight of his own body. His head sank with every fourth paddle. He breathed in as much stinging water as he did air. He had gone deaf to anything but his own hammering heart. His vision had shrunk to a blinding pinpoint. Then finally, he could no longer fight to the surface. More water flowed into his lungs. He sank — into the depths and into darkness.

But there was no peace.

The dark still terrified him.

The summer storm rattled the shutters and boomed with great claps that sounded like the end of all things. Spats of rain struck the windows, and flashes of lightning split the night sky.

Benny hid under the bed with his sister. He shivered against her side. She crouched, ears up, nose out. Each rumble was echoed in her chest as she growled back at the threatening noise. Benny leaked some of his terror, soaking the carpet under him. He was not so brave as his big sister.

…boom, boom, boom…

Brightness shattered across the room, casting away all shadows.

Benny whined and his sister barked.

A face appeared from atop the bed and leaned down to stare at them. The boy, his head upside down, lifted a finger to his lips. “Shh, Junie, you’ll wake Dad.”

But his sister would have none of that. She barked and barked, trying to scare off what lurked in the storm. The boy rolled off his bed and sprawled on the floor. Arms reached and scooped them both toward him. Benny went willingly.

“Eww…you’re all wet.”

Junie squirmed loose then ran around the room, barking, tail straight back, ears pricked high.

“Sheesh,” the boy said, trying to catch her while cradling Benny.

A door banged open out in the hall. Footsteps echoed. The bedroom door swung open. Large bare legs like tree trunks entered. “Jason, son, I got to get up early.”

“Sorry, Dad. The storm’s got them spooked.”

A long heavy sighed followed. The large man caught Junie and swung her up in his arms. She slathered his face with her tongue, tail beating against his arms. Still, she growled all the time as the sky rumbled back at them.

“They’re going to have to get used to these storms,” the man said. “These thunder-bumpers will be with us all summer.”

“I’ll take them downstairs. We can sleep on the sofa on the back porch. If they’re with me…maybe that’ll help ‘em get used to it.”

Junie was passed to the boy.

“All right, son. But bring an extra blanket.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

A large hand clapped on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re taking good care of them. I’m proud of you. They’re really getting huge.”

The boy struggled with the two squirming pups and laughed. “I know!”

A few moments later, all three of them were buried in a nest of blankets atop a musty sofa. Benny smelled mice spoor and bird droppings, brought alive by the wind and dampness. Still, with all of them together, it was the best bed he’d ever slept in. Even the storm had quieted, though a heavy rain continued to pelt from the dark moonless skies. It beat against the shingled roof of the porch.

Just as Benny finally calmed enough to let his eyelids droop closed, his sister sprang to her feet, growling again, hackles up. She slithered out from under the blankets without disturbing the boy. Benny had no choice but to follow.

What is it?…

Benny’s ears were now up and swiveling. From the top step of the porch, he stared out into the storm-swept yard. Tree limbs waved. Rain chased across the lawn in rippling sheets.

Then Benny heard it, too.

A rattle of the side gate. A few furtive whispers.

Someone was out there!

His sister shot from the porch. Without thinking, Benny ran after her. They raced toward the gate.

Whispers turned into words. “Quiet, asshole. Let me see if the dogs are back there!”

Benny saw the gate swing open. Two shadowy shapes stepped forward. Benny slowed — then caught the smell of meat, bloody and raw.

“What’d I tell ya?”

A tiny light bloomed in the darkness, spearing his sister. Junie slowed enough for Benny to catch up to her. One of the strangers dropped to a knee and held out an open palm. The rich, meaty smell swelled.

“You want it, don’t cha? C’mon, you little bitches.”

Junie snuck closer, more on her belly, tail twitching in tentative welcome.

Benny sniffed and sniffed, nose up. The tantalizing odor drew him along behind his sister.

Once near the gate, the two dark shapes leaped on them. Something heavy dropped over Benny and wrapped tightly around him. He tried to cry out, but fingers clamped over his muzzle and trapped his scream to a muffled whine. He heard the same from his sister.

He was hauled up and carried away.

“Nothing like a stormy night to pick up bait. No one ever suspects. Always blame the thunder. Thinks it scared the little shits into running off.”

“How much we gonna make?”

“Fifty a head easy.”

“Nice.”

Thunder clapped again, marking the end of Benny’s old life.

Brutus entered the ring. The dog kept his head lowered, shoulders high, ears pulled flat against his skull. His hackles already bristled. It still hurt to breathe deeply, but the dog hid the pain. Buried in his lungs, a dull fire burned from the pool water, flaring with each breath. Cautiously, he took in all the scents around him.

The sand of the ring was still being raked clean of the blood from the prior fight. Still, the fresh spoor filled the old warehouse, along with the taint of grease and oil, the chalk of cement, and the bite of urine, sweat, and feces from both dog and man.

The fights had been going on from sunset until well into the night.

But no one had left.

Not until this match was over.

The dog had heard his name called over and over: “Brutus…man, look at the cojones on that monstruo… he a little-ass bastard, but I saw Brutus take on a dog twice his size…tore his throat clean open…”

As Brutus had waited in his pen, people trailed past, many dragging children, to stare at him. Fingers pointed, flashes snapped, blinding him, earning low growls. Finally, the handler had chased them all off with his bat.

“Move on! This ain’t no free show. If you like him so goddamned much, go place a fucking bet!”

Now as Brutus passed through the gate in the ring’s three-foot-tall wooden fence, shouts and whistles greeted him from the stands, along with raucous laughter and angry outbursts. The noise set Brutus’s heart pounding. His claws dug into the sand, his muscles tensed.

They were the first to enter the ring.

Beyond the crowd spread a sea of cages and fenced-in pens. Large shadowy shapes stirred and paced.

There was little barking.

The dogs knew to save their strength for the ring.

“You’d better not lose,” the pit handler mumbled, and tugged on the chain hooked to the dog’s studded collar. Bright lights shone down into the pit. It reflected off the handler’s shaved head, revealing the ink on his arms, black and red, like bloody bruises.

The pair kept to the ring’s edge and waited. The trainer slapped the dog’s flank, then wiped his wet hand on his jeans. Brutus’s coat was still damp. Prior to the fight, each dog had been washed by their opponent’s handler, to make sure there was no slippery grease or poison oils worked into the coat to give a dog an advantage.

As they waited for their opponent to enter the ring, Brutus smelled the sheen of excitement off the handler. A sneer remained frozen on the man’s face, showing a hint of teeth.

Beyond the fence, another man approached the edge of the ring. Brutus recognized him by the way he sniffed between his words and the bitter trace of fear that accompanied him. If the man had been another dog, he would’ve had his tail tucked to his belly and a whine flowing from his throat.

“I placed a buttload on this bastard,” the man said as he stepped to the fence and eyed Brutus.

“So?” his handler answered.

“I just saw Gonzales’s dog. Christ, man, are you nuts? That monster’s half bull mastiff.”

The handler shrugged. “Yeah, but he got only one good eye. Brutus’ll take him down. Or at least, he’d better.” Again the chain jerked.

The man shifted behind the fence and leaned closer. “Is there some sort of fix going on here?”

“Fuck you. I don’t need a fix.”

“But I heard you once owned that other dog. That one-eyed bastard.”

The handler scowled. “Yeah, I did. Sold him to Gonzales a couple years ago. Didn’t think the dog would live. After he lost his fuckin’ eye and all. Bitch got all infected. Sold him to that Spic for a couple bottles of Special K. Stupidest deal I ever made. Dog gone and made that beaner a shitload of money. He’s been rubbin’ it in my face ever since. But today’s payback.”

The chain yanked and lifted Brutus off his toes.

“You’d better not lose this show. Or we might just have ourselves another barbecue back at the crib.”

The dog heard the threat behind the words. Though he didn’t fully understand, he sensed the meaning. Don’t lose. Over the past two winters, he’d seen defeated dogs shot in the head, strangled to death with their own chains, or allowed to be torn to pieces in the ring. Last summer, a bull terrier had bit Brutus’s handler in the calf. The dog had been blood-addled after losing a match and had lashed out. Later, back at the yard, the bull terrier had tried mewling for forgiveness, but the handler had soaked the dog down and set him on fire. The flaming terrier had run circles around the yard, howling, banging blindly into runs and fences. The men in the yard had laughed and laughed, falling down on their sides.

The dogs in their kennels had watched silently.

They all knew the truth of their lives.

Never lose.

Finally, a tall skinny man stepped to the center of the ring. He lifted an arm high. “Dogs to your scratch lines!”

The far gate of the ring opened, and a massive shape bulled into the ring, half-dragging his small, beefy handler, a man who wore a big grin and a cowboy hat. But Brutus’s attention fixed to the dog. The mastiff was a wall of muscle. His ears had been cropped to nubs. He had no tail. His paws mashed deep into the sand as he fought toward the scratch line.

As the beast pulled forward, he kept his head cocked to the side, allowing his one eye to scan the ring. The other eye was a scarred knot.

The man in the center of the ring pointed to the two lines raked into the sand. “To the scratch! It’s the final show of the night, folks! What you’ve been waiting for! Two champions brought together again! Brutus against Caesar!”

Laughter and cheers rose from the crowd. Feet pounded on the stands’ boards.

But all Brutus heard was that one name.

Caesar.

He suddenly trembled all over. The shock rocked through him as if his very bones rattled. He fought to hold steady and stared across at his opponent — and remembered.

“Caesar! C’mon, you bastard, you hungry or not?”

Under the midmorning sun, Benny hung from a stranger’s hand. Fingers scruffed the pup’s neck and dangled him in the center of a strange yard. Benny cried and piddled a stream to the dirt below. He saw other dogs behind fences. Smelled more elsewhere. His sister was clutched in the arms of one of men who’d nabbed them out of their yard. His sister barked out sharply.

“Shut that bitch up. She’s distracting him.”

“I don’t want to see this,” the man said, but he pinched his sister’s muzzle shut.

“Oh, grow some damn balls. Whatcha think I paid you a hundred bucks for? Dog’s gotta eat, don’t he?” The man dug his fingers tighter into Benny’s scruff and shook him hard. “And bait is bait.”

Another man called from the shadows across the yard. “Hey, Juice! How much weight you want on the sled this time?”

“Go for fifteen bricks.”

“Fifteen?”

“I need Caesar muscled up good for the fight next week.”

Benny heard the knock and scrape of something heavy.

“Here he comes!” the shadow man called over. “He must be hungry!”

Out of the darkness, a monster appeared. Benny had never seen a dog so large. The giant heaved against a harness strapped across his chest. Ropes of drool trailed from the corner of his lips. Claws dug into the dark dirt as he hauled forward. Behind him, attached to the harness, was a sled on steel runners. It was piled high with blocks of cement.

The man holding Benny laughed deep in his throat. “He be damned hungry! Haven’t fed him in two days!”

Benny dribbled out more of his fear. The monster’s gaze was latched on to him. Benny read the red, raw hunger in those eyes. The drool flowed thicker.

“Hurry it up, Caesar! If you want your breakfast!”

The man took a step back with Benny.

The large brute pulled harder, shouldering into the harness, his long tongue hanging, frothing with foam. He panted and growled. The sled dragged across the dirt with the grating sound of gnawed bone.

Benny’s heart hammered in his small chest. He tried to squirm away, but he couldn’t escape the man’s iron grip… or the unwavering gaze of the monster. It was coming for him. He wailed and cried.

Time stretched to a long sharp line of terror.

Steadily the beast came at him.

Finally, the man burst out a satisfied snort. “Good enough! Unhook him!”

Another man ran out of the shadows and yanked on a leather lead. The harness dropped from the monster’s shoulders, and the huge dog bounded across the yard, throwing slather with each step.

The man swung his arm back, then tossed Benny forward. The pup flew high into the air, spinning tail over ear. He was too terrified to scream. As he spun, he caught glimpses below of the monster pounding after him — but he also spotted his sister. The man who held Junie had started to turn away, not wanting to watch. He must have loosened his grip enough to let Junie slip her nose free. She bit hard into his thumb.

Then Benny hit the ground and rolled across the yard. The impact knocked the air from his chest. He lay stunned as the larger dog barreled toward him. Terrified, Benny used the only advantage he had — his speed.

He rolled to his feet and darted to the left. The big dog couldn’t turn fast enough and skidded past where he’d landed. Benny fled across the yard, tucking his back legs under his front in his desperation to go faster. He heard the huffing of the monster at his tail.

If he could just get under the low sled, hide there…

But he didn’t know the yard. One paw hit a broken tile in the scrubby weeds, and he lost his footing. He hit his shoulder and rolled. He came to rest on his side as the huge dog lunged at him.

Benny winced. Desperate, he exposed his belly and piddled on himself, showing his submission. But it didn’t matter. Lips rippled back from yellow teeth.

Then the monster suddenly jerked to a stop in midlunge, accompanied by a surprised yelp. The brute spun around. Benny saw something attached to his tail.

It was Junie. Dropped by her captor, she had come at the monster with her usual sneak attack. The monster spun several more times as Junie remained clamped to his tail. This was no playful nip. She must’ve dug in deep with her sharp teeth. In attempting to throw her off, the large dog only succeeded in stripping more fur and skin from his tail as Junie was tossed about.

Blood sprayed across the dirt.

But finally even Junie couldn’t resist the brute’s raw strength. She went flying, her muzzle bloody. The monster followed and landed hard on her. Blocked by his bulk, Benny couldn’t see — but he heard.

A sharp cry from Junie, followed by the crunch of bone.

No!

Benny leaped to his feet and ran at the monster. There was no plan— only a red, dark anger. He speared straight at the monster. He caught a glimpse of a torn leg, bone showing. The monster gripped his sister and shook her. She flopped limply. Crimson sprayed, then poured from his lips, mixed with drool.

With the sight, Benny plummeted into a dark place, a pit from which he knew he’d never escape. He leaped headlong at the monster and landed on the brute’s face. He clawed and bit and gouged, anything to get him to let his sister go.

But he was so much smaller.

A toss of the blocky head, and Benny went flying away — forever lost in blood, fury, and despair.

As Brutus stared at Caesar, it all came back. The past and present overlapped and muddled into a crimson blur. He stood at the scratch line in the ring without remembering walking to it. He could not say who stood at the line.

Brutus or Benny.

After the mutilation of his sister, Benny had been spared a brutal death. The yard trainer had been impressed by his fire. A real Brutus, this one. Taking on Caesar all alone! Fast, too. See him juke and run. Maybe he’s too good for just bait.”

Caesar had not fared so well after their brief fight. During the attack, a back claw had split the large dog’s eyelid and sliced across his left eye, blinding that side. Even the tail wound from Junie’s bite had festered. The yard trainer had tried cutting off his tail with an ax and burning the stub with a flaming piece of wood. But the eye and tail got worse. For a week, the reek of pus and dying flesh flowed from his kennel. Flies swarmed in black gusts. Finally, a stranger in a cowboy hat arrived with a wheelbarrow, shook hands with the handler, and hauled Caesar away, muzzled, feverish, and moaning.

Everyone thought he’d died.

They’d been wrong.

Both dogs toed the scratch line in the sand. Caesar did not recognize his opponent. No acknowledgment shone out of that one eye, only blood-lust and blind fury. The monster lunged at the end of his chain, digging deep into the sand.

Brutus bunched his back legs under him. Old fury fired through his blood. His muzzle snarled into a long growl, one rising from his very bones.

The tall skinny man lifted both arms. “Dogs ready!” He brought his arms down while stepping back. “Go!”

With a snap, they were loosed from their chains. Both dogs leaped upon one another. Bodies slammed together amid savage growls and flying spittle.

Brutus went first for Caesar’s blind side. He bit into the nub of ear, seeking a hold. Cartilage ripped. Blood flowed over his tongue. The grip was too small to hold for long.

In turn, Caesar struck hard, using his heavier bulk to roll Brutus. Fangs sank into his shoulder. Brutus lost his hold and found himself pinned under that weight. Caesar bodily lifted him and slammed him into the sand.

But Brutus was still fast. He squirmed and twisted until he was belly to belly with the monster. He jack-rabbit punched up with his back legs and broke Caesar’s hold on his shoulder. Loosed, Brutus went for the throat above him. But Caesar snapped down at him at the same time. They ended muzzle to muzzle, tearing at each other. Brutus on bottom, Caesar on top.

Blood spat and flew.

He kicked again and raked claws across the tender belly of his opponent, gouging deep — then lunged up and latched on to Caesar’s jowl. Using the hold, he kicked and hauled his way out from under the bulk. He kept to the beast’s left, his blind side.

Momentarily losing sight of Brutus, Caesar jagged the wrong direction. He left his flank open. Brutus lashed out for a hind leg. He bit deep into the thick meat at the back of the thigh and chomped with all the muscles in his jaws. He yanked hard and shook his head.

In that moment of raw fury, Brutus flashed to a small limp form, clamped in bloody jaws, shaken and broken. A blackness fell over his vision. He used his entire body — muscle, bone, and blood — to rip and slash. The thick ligament at the back of the leg tore away from the ankle.

Caesar roared, but Brutus kept his grip and hauled up onto his hind legs. He flipped the other onto his back. Only then did he let go and slam on top of the other. He lunged for the exposed throat and bit deep. Fangs sank into tender flesh. He shook and ripped, snarled and dug.

From beyond the blackness, a whistle blew. It was the signal to break hold and return to their corners. Handlers ran up.

“Release!” his trainer yelled and grabbed the back of his collar.

Brutus heard the cheering, recognized the command. But it was all far away. He was deep in the pit.

Hot blood filled his mouth, flowed it into his lungs, soaked into the sand. Caesar writhed under him. Fierce growling turned into mewling. But Brutus was deaf to it. Blood flowed into all the empty places inside him, trying to fill it up, but failing.

Something struck his shoulders. Again and again. The handler’s wooden bat. But Brutus kept his grip locked on the other dog’s throat. He couldn’t let go, trapped forever in the pit.

Wood splintered across his back.

Then a new noise cut through the roaring in his ears. More whistles, sharper and urgent, accompanied by the strident blare of sirens. Flashing lights dazzled through the darkness. Shouts followed, along with commands amplified to a piercing urgency.

“This is the police! Everyone on your knees! Hands on heads!”

Brutus finally lifted his torn muzzle from the throat of the other dog. Caesar lay unmoving on the sand, soaked in a pool of blood. Brutus lifted his eyes to the chaos around him. People fled the stands. Dogs barked and howled. Dark figures in helmets and carrying clear shields closed a circle around the area, forming a larger ring around the sand pit. Through the open doors of the warehouse, cars blazed in the night.

Wary, Brutus stood over the body of the dead dog.

He felt no joy at the killing. Only a dead numbness.

His trainer stood a step away. A string of anger flowed from the man’s lips. He threw the broken stub of his bat into the sand. An arm pointed at Brutus.

“When I say release, you release, you dumb sack of shit!”

Brutus stared dully at the arm pointed at him, then to the face. From the man’s expression, Brutus knew what the handler saw. It shone out of the dog’s entire being. Brutus was trapped in a pit deeper than anything covered in sand, a pit from which he could never escape, a hellish place of pain and hot blood.

The man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. The beast stalked after him, no longer dog, only a creature of rage and fury.

Without warning — no growl, no snarl — Brutus lunged at the trainer. He latched on to the man’s arm. The same arm that dangled pups as bait, an arm attached to the real monster of the sandy ring, a man who called horrors out of the shadows and set dogs on fire.

Teeth clamped over the pale wrist. Jaws crushed down. Bones ground and crackled under the pressure.

The man screamed.

From the narrow corner of one eye, Brutus watched a helmeted figure rush at them, an arm held up, pointing a black pistol.

A flash from the muzzle.

Then a sizzle of blinding pain.

And at last, darkness again.

Brutus lay on the cold concrete floor of the kennel. He rested his head on his paws and stared out the fenced gate. A wire-framed ceiling lamp shone off the whitewashed cement walls and lines of kennels. He listened with a deaf ear to the shuffle of other dogs, to the occasional bark or howl.

Behind him, a small door led to an outside fenced-in pen. Brutus seldom went out there. He preferred the shadows. His torn muzzle had been knitted together with staples, but it still hurt to drink. He didn’t eat. He had been here for five days, noting the rise and fall of sunlight through the doorway.

People came by occasionally to stare at him. To scribble on a wooden chart hanging on his door. Men in white jackets injected him twice a day, using a noose attached to a long steel pole to hold him pinned to the wall.

He growled and snapped. More out of irritation than true anger. He just wanted to be left alone.

He had woken here after that night in the pit.

And a part of him still remained back there.

Why am I still breathing?

Brutus knew guns. He recognized their menacing shapes and sizes, the tang of their oils, the bitter reek of their smoke. He’d seen scores of dogs shot, some quickly, some for sport. But the pistol that had fired back at the ring had struck with a sizzle that twisted his muscles and arched his back.

He lived.

That, more than anything, kept him angry and sick of spirit.

A shuffle of rubber shoes drew his attention. He didn’t lift his head, only twitched his eyes. It was too early for the pole and needles.

“He’s over here,” a voice said. “Animal Control just got the judge’s order to euthanasize all the dogs this morning. This one’s on the list, too. Heard they had to Taser him off his own trainer. So I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

Brutus watched three people step before his kennel. One wore a gray coverall zippered up the front. He smelled of disinfectant and tobacco.

“Here he is. It was lucky we scanned him and found that old HomeAgain microchip. We were able to pull up your address and telephone. So you say someone stole him from your backyard?”

“Two years ago,” a taller man said, dressed in black shoes and a suit.

Brutus pulled back one ear. The voice was vaguely familiar.

“They took both him and his littermate,” the man continued. “We thought they’d run off during a thunderstorm.”

Brutus lifted his head. A boy pushed between the two taller men and stepped toward the gate. Brutus met his eyes. The boy was older, taller, more gangly of limb, but his scent was as familiar as an old sock. As the boy stared into the dark kennel, the initial glaze of hope in his small face crumbled away into horror.

The boy’s voice was an appalled squeak. “Benny?”

Shocked and disbelieving, Brutus slunk back on his belly. He let out a low warning growl as he shied away. He didn’t want to remember…and especially didn’t want this. It was too cruel.

The boy glanced over his shoulder to the taller man. “It is Benny, isn’t it, Dad?”

“I think so.” An arm pointed. “He’s got that white blaze over his right ear.” The voice grew slick with dread. “But what did they do to him?”

The man in the coveralls shook his head. “Brutalized him. Turned him into a monster.”

“Is there any hope for rehabilitation?”

He shook his head and tapped the chart. “We had all the dogs examined by a behaviorist. She signed off that he’s unsalvageable.”

“But, Dad, it’s Benny….”

Brutus curled into the back of the run, as deep into the shadows as he could get. The name was like the lash of a whip.

The man pulled a pen from his coverall pocket. “Since you’re still legally his owners and had no part in the dogfighting ring, we can’t put him down until you sign off on it.”

“Dad…”

“Jason, we had Benny for two months. They’ve had him for two years.”

“But it’s still Benny. I know it. Can’t we try?”

The coverall man crossed his arms and lowered his voice with warning. “He’s unpredictable and damn powerful. A bad combination. He even mauled his trainer. They had to amputate the man’s hand.”

“Jason…”

“I know. I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise. But he deserves a chance, doesn’t he?”

His father sighed. “I don’t know.”

The boy knelt down and matched Brutus’s gaze. The dog wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. He locked eyes and slipped into a past he’d thought long buried away, of fingers clutching hot dogs, chases across green lawns, and endless sunny days. He pushed it all way. It was too painful, too prickled with guilt. He didn’t deserve even the memory. It had no place in the pit.

A low rumble shook through his chest.

Still, the boy clutched the fence and faced the monster inside. He spoke with the effortless authority of innocence and youth.

“It’s still Benny. Somewhere in there.”

Brutus turned away and closed his eyes with an equally firm conviction.

The boy was wrong.

Brutus slept on the back porch. Three months had passed and his sutures and staples were gone. The medicines in his food had faded away. Over the months, he and the family had come to an uneasy truce, a cold stalemate.

Each night, they tried to coax him into the house, especially as the leaves were turning brown and drifting up into piles beneath the hardwoods and the lawn turned frosty in the early morning. But Brutus kept to his porch, even avoiding the old sofa covered in a ragged thick comforter. He kept his distance from all things. He still flinched from a touch and growled when he ate, unable to stop himself.

But they no longer used the muzzle.

Perhaps they sensed the defeat that had turned his heart to stone. So he spent his days staring across the yard, only stirring occasionally, pricking up an ear if a stray squirrel should dare bound along the fencerow, its tail fluffed and fearless.

The back door opened, and the boy stepped out onto the porch. Brutus gained his feet and backed away.

“Benny, are you sure you don’t want to come inside? I made a bed for you in the kitchen.” He pointed toward the open door. “It’s warm. And look, I have a treat for you.”

The boy held out a hand, but Brutus already smelled the bacon, still smoking with crisply burned fat. He turned away. Back at the training yard, the others had tried to use bait on him, too. But after his sister, Brutus had always refused, no matter how hungry.

The dog crossed to the top step of the porch and lay down.

The boy came and sat with him, keeping his distance.

Brutus let him.

They sat for a long time. The bacon still in his fingers. The boy finally nibbled it away himself. “Okay, Benny, I have some homework.”

The boy began to get up, paused, then carefully reached out to touch him on the head. Brutus didn’t growl, but his fur bristled. Noting the warning, the boy sagged, pulled back his hand, and stood up.

“Okay. See ya in the morning, Benny boy.”

He didn’t watch the boy leave, but he listened for the door to clap shut. Satisfied that he was alone, he settled his head to his paws. He stared out into the yard.

The moon was already up, full-faced and bright. Lights twinkled. Distantly, he listened as the household settled in for the night. A television whispered from the front room. He heard the boy call down from the upstairs. His mother answered.

Then suddenly Brutus was on his feet, standing stiff, unsure what had drawn him up. He kept dead still. Only his ears swiveled.

A knock sounded on the front door.

In the night.

“I’ll get it,” the mother called out.

Brutus twisted, bolted for the old sofa on the porch, and climbed half into it, enough to see through the picture window. The view offered a straight shot down the central dark hallway to the lighted front room.

Brutus watched the woman step to the door and pull it open.

Before she’d gotten it more than a foot wide, the door slammed open. It struck her and knocked her down. Two men charged inside, wearing dark clothes and masks pulled over their heads. Another kept watch by the open door. The first man backed into the hallway and kept a large pistol pointed toward the woman on the floor. The other intruder sidled to the left and aimed a gun toward someone in the dining room.

“don’t move!” the second gunman shouted.

Brutus tensed. He knew that voice, graveled and merciless. In an instant, his heart hammered in his chest, and his fur flushed up all over his body, quivering with fury.

“Mom? Dad?” The boy called from the top of the stairs.

“Jason!” the father answered from the dining room. “Stay up there!”

The leader stepped farther into the room. He shoved his gun out, holding it crooked. “Old man, sit your ass down!”

“What do you want?”

The gun poked again. “Yo! Where’s my dog?”

“Your dog?” the mother asked on the floor, her voice trembling with fear.

“Brutus!” the man hollered. He lifted his other arm and bared the stump of a wrist. “I owe that bitch some payback…and that includes anyone taking care of his ass! In fact, we’re going to have ourselves an old-fashioned barbecue.” He turned to the man in the doorway. “What are you waiting for? Go get the gasoline?”

The man vanished into the night.

Brutus dropped back to the porch and retreated to the railing. He bunched his back legs.

“Yo! Where you keeping my damn dog? I know you got him!”

Brutus sprang forward, shoving out with all the strength in his body. He hit the sofa and vaulted over it. Glass shattered as he struck the window with the crown of his skull. He flew headlong into the room and landed in the kitchen. His front paws struck the floor before the first piece of glass. He bounded away as shards crashed and skittered across the checkerboard linoleum.

Down the hall, the first gunman began to turn, drawn by the noise. But he was too late. Brutus flew down the hall and dived low. He snatched the gunman by the ankle and ripped the tendon, flipping the man as he ran under him. The man’s head hit the corner of a walnut hall table, and he went down hard.

Brutus spotted a man out on the front porch, frozen in midstep, hauling two large red jugs. The man saw Brutus barreling toward him. His eyes got huge. He dropped the jugs, spun around, and fled away.

A pistol fired, deafening in the closed space. Brutus felt a kick in his front leg. It shattered under him, but he was already in midleap toward the one-handed gunman, his old trainer and handler. Brutus hit him like a sack of cement. He head-butted the man in the chest. Weight and momentum knocked the legs out from under the man. They fell backwards together.

The pistol blasted a second time.

Something burned past Brutus’s ear, and plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Then they both hit the hardwood floor. The man landed flat on his back, Brutus on top. The gun flew from his fingers and skittered under the dining room chair.

His trainer tried to kick Brutus away, but he’d taught the dog too well. Brutus dodged the knee. With a roar, he lunged for the man’s throat. The man grabbed one-handed for an ear, but Brutus had lost most of the flap in an old fight. The ear slipped from the man’s grip, and Brutus snapped for the tender neck. Fangs sank for the sure kill.

Then a shout barked behind him. “Benny! No!”

From out the corner of an eye, he saw the father crouched by the dining room table. He had recovered the pistol and pointed it at Brutus.

“Benny! Down! Let him go!”

From the darkness of the pit, Brutus growled back at the father. Blood flowed as Brutus clamped harder on his prey. He refused to release. Under him, the trainer screamed and gurgled. One fist punched blindly, but Brutus ground his jaws tighter. Blood flowed more heavily.

“Benny, let him go now!”

Another sharper voice squeaked in fear. It came from the stairs. “No, Dad!”

“Jason, I can’t let him kill someone.”

“Benny!” the boy screamed. “Please, Benny!”

Brutus ignored them. He wasn’t Benny. He knew the pit was where he truly belonged, where he’d always end up. As his vision narrowed and darkness closed over him, he let himself fall deeper into that black, bottomless well, dragging the man with him. Brutus knew he couldn’t escape; neither would he let this one go.

It was time to end all this.

But as Brutus sank into the pit, slipping away into the darkness, something stopped him, held him from falling. It made no sense. Though no one was behind him, he felt a distinct tug. On his tail. Holding him steady, then slowly drawing him back from the edge of the pit. Comprehension came slowly, seeping through the despair. He knew that touch. It was familiar as his own heart. Though it had no real strength, it broke him, shattered him into pieces.

He remembered that tug, from long ago, her special ambush.

Done to protect him.

Ever his guardian.

Even now.

And always.

No, Benny…

“No, Benny!” the boy echoed.

The dog heard them both, the voices of those who loved him, blurring the line between past and present — not with blood and darkness, but with sunlight and warmth.

With a final shake against the horror, the dog turned his back on the pit. He undamped his jaws and tumbled off the man’s body. He stood on shaking limbs.

To the side, the trainer gagged and choked behind his black mask. The father closed in on him with the gun.

The dog limped away, three-legged, one forelimb dangling.

Footsteps approached from behind. The boy appeared at his side and laid a palm on his shoulder. He left his hand resting there. Not afraid. The dog trembled, then leaned into him, needing reassurance. And got it.

“Good boy, Benny Good boy.”

The boy sank to his knees and hugged his arms around the dog.

At long last…Benny let him.