Four-Footed Angels Page 2

  There was nothing little about Little John Abbott. His height measured just under six feet, but his weight was tremendous. He weighed in at almost three hundred pounds, but his was not sloppy, unattractive fat; the man was built solid as a rock – the extra weight on his frame was similar to that of a professional body-builder. The flames from the pit reflected off his shiny, bald but perfectly shaped, head. His eyes appeared to be as black as the night that surrounded the back forty acres of his 100-acre ranch; there was no human emotion reflected in those eyes. He had high cheekbones, thanks to his distant, Cherokee-Indian heritage, and a thick black mustache that was always meticulously trimmed.

  He stood erect, arms crossed and legs slightly apart, and watched three of his crew as they performed their assigned duties. One operated the dump truck, one tossed the carcasses into the 20-foot pit, and the third man monitored the fire to ensure that the contents of the pit burned properly.

  The man operating the dump truck got out and came around to where Little John stood. “Any word from Tyler yet, Boss?”

  Little John’s eyes glazed over the driver and dismissed him without a word.

  The man rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. “Sorry, Boss…it’s just that I wasn’t here when Spartacus took off, and I haven’t heard anyone say anything about him…I was just wondering if Tyler had tracked him down yet.”

  Little John decided to grace his employee with an indifferent response. “No…not yet. He thinks the loser probably died in the woods. He tracked him to Monticello before he lost his trail.”

  The driver offered up a nervous smile. “Wow…Monticello, huh? Spartacus covered some good ground in less than twenty-four hours. He got chewed up pretty bad in that last fight…”

  Little John stared down the driver. “I’m well aware of how he performed in his last fight; that’s why he should be in that damn pit tonight, instead of wandering around free.” Little John had invested a lot of time and money in training Spartacus to be a grand champion of the southern-Georgia underground dog fighting rings; a grand champion was an undefeated fighter dog with five wins. He had remained undefeated until the fight that took place late Friday afternoon. Little John had placed a ten-thousand dollar bet on Spartacus to defeat the second-ranked pit-bull in the area, Czar. He stared back at the pit and said, “Make sure nothing is left…” He turned back to his own pick-up truck.

  “Sure thing, Boss…you can count on me,” the driver mumbled. He covered his nose and mouth with his bandana to reduce the nauseating smell of burning fur and skin.

  _____

  Spartacus’ eyes were closed but he was aware of everything going on around him. “The tall dark man with the kind eyes and gentle hands sat down on the floor beside my blanket. I pulled back when he started to rub my head, but the second he touched me, my entire body relaxed in a way that I’ve never felt before. I’ve only felt the touch of kindness once before, and although it felt good, it was nowhere close to what this man’s touch felt like. I felt a tingle that started at the tip of my head, spread to my shoulders and down to my belly, and ended at the very tip of my tail. I’ve never felt a tingling sensation like that before, but something told me that it was a good, safe feeling; something told me that I had nothing to fear from this man and woman.”

  “The patties are ready, Max; I’m going to break them up in smaller pieces for him,” the loud woman yelled from where she was standing in front of the big white box…the box from where all the good smells seemed to be coming.

  The dark man’s hand moved back to my mouth. He looked into my eyes and smiled. “I just want to check inside your mouth,” the man whispered. “Is that all right with you, fella?”

  I closed my eyes in passive submission, which seemed to go against everything that Little John had trained me to do. The man opened my upper and lower jaws. I heard a small gasp escape from him, so I opened my eyes to see what the problem might be. The woman walked over with a bowl of some wonderful-smelling food. “What are you doing, Max?” she asked. At least now I know the dark man’s name…Max…I like that name, and I like this man.

  “I was just checking his teeth, Bertie,” the man replied softly. “His teeth would tell me if he was used as a bait dog, which I thought was the case at first…or if he was trained to be a fighter dog, instead.”

  I looked at the woman and willed her to put the bowl of food on the floor. She did and I looked toward the dark man for permission to eat it. “Go ahead, fella…eat it all…but try to eat slowly if you can…” Shucks…slowly? Really? He’s a nice man but he doesn’t have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had anything to eat, but…okay…slowly it is…

  Max rubbed my head while I managed to eat as slowly as I could. He looked at the loud woman…Bertie, yes that was her name…and said, “Judging from his wounds, I first thought he was a bait dog, but their teeth are usually filed down to the gum line and their nails are pulled out. This fella has extremely sharp teeth that have been filed to make them even sharper than normal, and he still has all his nails. He’s been used as a fighter dog; a bait dog wouldn’t stand a chance against this one. No…some of his wounds are old…maybe from fights…maybe from being beaten by his owner…” Max stopped talking and rubbed my head again. I stopped eating long enough to look at him…water was falling from his eyes. I thought he looked very sad.

  “A fighter dog?” Bertie questioned. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at me. At first, I thought she might be mad at me because I had not eaten the food slowly enough, but it didn’t take me long to realize that her anger was not directed at me. “What the hell are you talking about, Max? Are you telling me someone out there actually trained this poor pup to fight? Why would they do that?”

  “Dog fighting is a popular sporting event in many states, Bertie…especially the southern states. Some dogs are stolen from their owner’s home or yard; some are gotten from the free classified section of the paper or on that web site that Doug told us about…Craigslist…or something like that. Some are even adopted from pounds and shelters. The leaders of the fighting rings will make the determination on whether or not the dog is a prospect and has gameness…”

  “A prospect…and what the hell is gameness?” Bertie pouted.

  Max smiled, sighed and continued rubbing the top of my head. “Well…a prospect might be a young, aggressive pup that the ring leader has identified as being a potentially good fighting dog. Gameness is a critical quality for any fighting dog; it shows the dog’s willingness and his tenacity to fight. If the stolen or adopted dog does not show gameness, then the leader will, most likely, use it as a bait dog instead.”

  Bertie bent down to rub my head, too. “I can guess what you mean when you say bait dog, Max…and I am not liking what I’m thinking.”

  “The life of a bait dog is not a good one, Bertie,” Max sighed. The ring leader will use any kind of animal as bait…puppies, kittens, rabbits, squirrels, or any dog that turns out not to be a good prospect to become a fighter dog. These bait animals are often beaten and starved, their mouths are taped shut, and their legs bound together so that they cannot escape when they are put into a crate or ring with a fighter dog. If the fighter dog does not instinctively kill the bait animal right away, the leaders will poke the bait animal with a knife causing it to bleed, which will attract the attention of the fighter dog. At this point, the bait animal is horribly savaged by the fighter dog. If the bait dog does not die immediately from its wounds, the leaders sometimes complete the torture by breaking all its bones, stabbing it, hanging it, dragging it behind vehicles…well…you get the picture…until it is dead.”

  I looked from the dark man to the loud woman, who was no longer loud. She had lots of water coming from her eyes, just as the man did. They both looked very sad. I did not understand all the words they said to each other, but I hoped I was not the reason they were sad. Maybe that meant they would turn me away into the night, but if they were going to do that, I wonder why they
fed me and cleaned the sore and hurting spots on my body. Humans were such strange creatures at times. I continued to look back and forth between the two of them until the woman finally stood up and wiped her nose.

  “I’ve heard enough, Maximus…for the life of me, I can’t understand what would motivate someone to treat one of God’s creatures like this.” Bertie was quiet for a few moments before she continued. “Max…that young man that was in here tonight…do you think he had anything to do with this?”

  Max shook his head and said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing, Bertie, but…I honestly don’t know. Maybe we can find out some more information about him when we go Home on Sunday. Martin might be able to help us with that. Who knows…maybe the young man will come back here…”

  “Well…I still haven’t decided what it was I was feeling about him…I don’t know if he had good intentions or bad ones…I just know that something didn’t feel right. I hope he does come back in…”

  “Why don’t you go home, Bertie? I’m going to stay the night with this fella…I want to clean those wounds up some more and make sure he gets the rest that he needs.”

  Bertie placed her hands on her hips and stared down at the dark man. “You’re crazy as hell if you think I’m going anywhere. I’m staying here, too. We can take turns keeping an eye on him. Maybe tomorrow will bring us the answers to some of our questions.”

  It quickly became obvious to me that these two humans were not going to throw me back outside to fend for myself. I think it might be safe for me to close my eyes and really sleep. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to do that…

  _____

  Tyler Foster waited patiently until his boss left the main ranch. He knew that Little John was riding to the back forty acres to check on the disposal of the latest batch of bait dogs killed in the training of his best fighter dogs. Tyler looked around to make sure no one else was within hearing distance of the phone call he needed to make.

  It was three o’clock in the morning, Saturday, but the phone at the other end was answered on the third ring. “Hello…” the man’s deep, raspy voice echoed through the phone line to Tyler.

  “Dad? Hey…it’s Tyler…really sorry to be calling you so late, but I needed to let you know that I wasn’t able to find Spartacus…at least not yet. I’m going back out tomorrow…there’s a place I want to check a second time.”

  B.B. Foster rubbed his large nose between his thumb and index finger. “I’m really sorry to hear that, son. I was hoping you would find him. Keep looking and if you do find him, just remember to call me right away and I’ll meet you at the half-way point that we discussed.”

  Tyler sighed. “He’s hurt pretty bad…he could be dead in the woods by now, but…”

  “But…something tells you that he’s a survivor, right?”

  Tyler smiled into the phone. “Yeah, something like that. Anyway…I won’t quit looking until I know for sure.”

  “No chance of your cover being blown, is there?” the elder Foster asked.

  Tyler shook his head before remembering his father couldn’t see that motion. “No…at least not yet. Little John thinks that I’ve been taking his losers, torturing them for losing their fights, then killing them slowly. He always wants a detailed description of how they suffered at my hands.”

  “Well, as long as he continues to believe that you’re as evil as he is, then we’re okay. The authorities are still working things at this end. They’re close to getting all they need, but it could be another week or two before they’re able to close in on him, so it’s important that you keep your cover, okay?”

  “You know I will. We’re going to get this son-of-a-bitch, and all the other ones connected to his ring of horrors. Hopefully, we can rescue more than he kills…”

  “That’s what we’re here for, son. That’s what Foster Farm is all about. You take care now and call me if you need anything.”

  “I will…love you, Dad…”

  “I love you, too, son…God Bless…”

  Tyler Foster closed his cell phone and stuck it in his back pocket. He looked around him into the black midnight that surrounded the Abbott ranch, and listened to the whining of the dogs in the far-off kennels. Their sounds were pitiful, pleading, and…heartbreaking. He knew that he could not save all of them, but he was determined to save as many as he could. “I will find you, Spartacus…I promise…” He closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer to the Father above him.

  “Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer; and attend to the voice of my supplications. In the day of my trouble I will call upon You, for You will answer me.” Psalm 86:6-7 (NKJV)

  3. Amanda Visits the Foster Farm

  Amanda Turner closed the sliding door to the van that belonged to Pet Haven Rescue, a Tampa organization that rescued cats and dogs at the last minute from high-kill animal shelters. She lifted her face upward and breathed in the cooler, October breeze. The summer of 2013 had been a scorcher, and the clear, pleasant days of Fall in Florida were a constant reminder to her of why she lived in that wonderful state. Life in Florida during the months of October through April made the scorching, humid days of summer worth it.

  The owners of Pet Haven Rescue were an elderly couple by the name of Earl and Sharon Stocker, who had dedicated their lives, and their 40-acre ranch, to rescuing as many animals as they could from the high-kill shelters surrounding the Tampa Bay area. They had no children of their own, but had grown extremely attached to Amanda during the few months she had been a volunteer at the ranch. Pet Haven depended heavily on the work of volunteers and private donations. The ranch had the capability to comfortably care for about sixty to seventy-five animals at any given time, but they were currently at the top of their intake limit.

  “Are you all set, Amanda? Are you sure you can handle this load by yourself? If you want to wait until tomorrow, I’m sure Earl will be feeling well enough to go with you.” Sharon Stocker wiped her hands nervously against her apron and blew a strand of wispy, gray hair off her forehead.

  Amanda began volunteering at Pet Haven several months ago, shortly after her twenty-third birthday. She had been an only child and both her parents were dead now, so it had not taken her long to warm up to the kindness and compassion that came so generously from the Stockers. She had never volunteered at any animal shelter in the past, but her parents had come to her in a dream and told her she was needed at Pet Haven. The heavenly dreams with her parents had begun during the summer of 2011 when she left Tampa and ended up at a small, out-of-the-way café in Monticello, Florida…the Heavenly Grille Café. It was there that her life had been changed forever by the three angels who operated the café…Max, Bertie, and Doug.

  Amanda walked over to Sharon Stocker and gave her a quick hug. “I’m fine, really. I can handle this load by myself; there are only six dogs, and Brooksville is only an hour away. I’ve never been to Foster Farm, but I’ve got their address loaded into my GPS. They do know that I’m coming, right?”

  Mrs. Stocker nodded and smiled at the young woman who already felt like a part of their family. “Oh, yes, indeed…they’ll be waiting for these handsome fellas. You’ll like B.B. Foster…just wait until you see the Foster Farm!”

  The six pit-bull mixes inside the van were barking, but Amanda had all the van windows down, so she knew they were as comfortable as they could be for the time being. “From what you and Mr. Stocker have told me about it, I’m really looking forward to meeting Mr. Foster and checking out his ranch. I Googled it last night, though, and couldn’t find anything at all about it.”

  Mrs. Stocker shook her head and grinned. “And you won’t find anything about it on the internet, my dear…no…word of mouth…that’s the only way someone would find out about Foster Farm. They intentionally keep a low profile, you see, because their primary goal is to rescue dogs used as part of dog fighting rings. They’re actually doing us a favor because they know we’re at full capacity right now, and they have a lot more room than we do for t
hese animals. Not many groups want to help the pit-bull mixes these days, but that’s what Foster Farm is all about. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but rumor has it that B.B. Foster won a large sum of money in a lottery several years ago, and saving the pits is what he spends that money on.”

  “I love the bullie mixes,” Amanda sighed. “I had one when I was younger…his name was Sam and he was a HUGE shiny, black pit-bull/lab mix. He looked like he could take you down with one swipe of his paw, but he was really just a big, teddy-bear of a thing.”

  “How long was he with you?” Mrs. Stocker asked.

  Amanda sighed again. “About ten years or so…my Dad got him for me when I was about seven…right after my Mom died. Sam helped us both get through a pretty difficult time in our lives.”

  “He sounds like he was a very special pet, Amanda…speaking of which…where is Buster?”

  Buster was the small bullie-mix pup that had been delivered to Pet Haven in the middle of the night a few weeks ago. It had been love at first sight for Amanda when she held the brown and white puppy in her arms, and she had been quick to adopt Buster for her very own.

  Amanda grinned and gave Mrs. Stocker another quick hug. “Yep, Sam was very special, for sure, and…Mr. Buster is waiting patiently for me in the front seat; he’s riding shotgun on this trip.”

  Mrs. Stocker moved to the front passenger door and peered inside. The subject of their conversation lay on his back with all four paws splayed in different directions. He was snoring soundly, and was oblivious to the barking of his six, fellow riders. “Riding shotgun, huh?” She laughed and shook her head. “Good luck with that!”