RESCUE YOU
Author: Elysia
Whisler
ISBN: 9780778310082
Publication Date: October
27, 2020
Publisher: MIRA
Books
BOOK SUMMARY:
One
Constance slammed on her brakes.
Steam rose from the street as rain gurgled through the ditches. She killed the
engine, stepped into the pattering droplets and scanned the shoulder of the
road. Nothing there but the remains of a goose carcass. “Where are you, boy?”
Constance gave a low whistle.
It hadn’t been her imagination. The
picked-over goose only made her more certain she’d seen a dog, weaving through
the foggy afternoon air like a phantom. A lost dog, with his head bent against
the rain as he loped along the muddy ditch.
Constance whistled again. Silence,
but for the sound of rain hitting the trees that lined the road. “Maybe I’m
just tired.” She’d done a lot of massages today, which made her feel wrung out.
Constance almost ducked back into the van, but halted.
There he was: a white face with
brown patches, peeking at her from behind a bush. “Hey, boy.” Constance
squatted down, making herself smaller, less threatening. The dog watched,
motionless. Constance drew a biscuit from her coat, briefly recalling the
cashier’s amusement at the grocery store today when she’d emptied her pockets
on the counter, searching for her keys. Five dog biscuits had been in the pile
with her phone, a used tissue and the grocery list.
“Dog mom, huh?” the elderly cashier
had said.
“Something like that.” More like dog aunt, to
all of the rescues at Pittie Place. Her sister, Sunny, had quite the brood.
Constance laid the biscuit near her
foot and waited. A moment later, the bush rustled and the dog approached. He
had short hair and big shoulders. He got only as close as he needed to, then
stretched his neck out for the prize. As he gingerly took the biscuit,
Constance noted a droopy abdomen and swollen nipples, like a miniature cow.
So. He was a she. Constance inched toward her.
The dog held on to the biscuit, but reared back. Constance extended her fist,
slowly, so the mom could smell her. “You got puppies somewhere?”
The dog whimpered, but crunched up
the biscuit.
“Where are your puppies?”
The dog whimpered again. Her legs
shook. Her fur was muddy, feet caked with dirt. She had blood on her muzzle—
probably from the dead goose. By her size and coloring, Constance decided she
was a pit bull.
Constance rose up, patted her thigh
and headed toward her van. She slid open the side door, grabbed a blanket and
spread it out, but when she turned around, the dog was several yards away. Her
brown-and-white head was low as she wandered beneath a streetlamp, the
embodiment of despair in the drizzle that danced through the light.
Constance followed, slipping on the
leaves that clogged the drainage ditch. The dog glanced once over her shoulder,
but her pace didn’t quicken. Constance decided her calm demeanor was working,
keeping the dog from fleeing. And let’s be honest: the biscuit hadn’t hurt.
Chances were, the dog would be happy to have more as soon as she got wherever
she was going. “Let’s see where you’re headed, then. Show me if you’ve got a
home.”
Constance followed her across the
road, around the curve and down the narrow lane. Frogs popped like happy corn
all over the slick street, but the chill of the oncoming winter slithered
through Constance’s blood.
She followed the dog for a good
quarter mile. Even before she hooked a left down the unpaved road hidden behind
the trees, Constance had figured out that the mama was headed to one of the
handful of empty places that sat decomposing on the hundred or so acres the
Matteri family owned. Constance paused only long enough to squelch the sizzle
of anger that bubbled up inside before she pressed on, determined to know if
the dog was a stray or a neglected mother from Janice Matteri’s puppy mill.
Constance took the same turn and
watched as the dog neared the abandoned house up ahead. Nobody had lived there
in years. It was only a matter of time before it became condemned. The dog
bypassed the crumbling porch of the old colonial and went around back.
Constance knew little daylight was left, and she hadn’t brought a flashlight.
She broke into a trot, clutched her coat tighter around her and didn’t slow
until the dog came back into view. Constance followed her, her heart thumping
harder with each step.
The dog passed the rusted
chain-link fence and disappeared over a rise in the property, near an old shed
so overgrown with trees it was only recognizable by a pale red door. Just as
she reached the hill, Constance heard a squeak. The sort of high-pitched noise
that echoes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Another squeak came. And
another. She crested the hill and saw the dog slink inside the shed door.
Constance got to the shed and pushed inside. The dog had reached her
destination: a battered old mattress, three shades of brown, lying a few feet
inside. The mewls, now loud and hungry, came from a shredded section of the
mattress.
Constance narrowed her eyes. At first, she
counted only two bobbing, brown heads, but as she drew closer there was a
third. Then a fourth. The last one didn’t move nearly as much, just sort of
waded on his stomach. The puppies had cocoa-colored fur and black muzzles. Eyes
open. The ones that moved didn’t really walk, just stumbled into each other,
like drunks. Mama dog curled around them and they all wiggled toward her
abdomen.
Constance knelt down next to the
mattress and watched the suckling puppies. She decided they were about two
weeks old. The air in the shed smelled of sour milk, poop and urine. She dug
out another biscuit and reached, slowly, her hand in a fist to protect her
fingers, her gaze on the mama for any sign she was upset, such as pinned ears,
bared teeth or a raised ridge of fur down the back. The energy around the mom
and her pups was calm, to the point of exhausted. Constance had certainly
helped with enough of Sunny’s dogs over the years to know. She offered the
biscuit and the mom took it. With her mouth busy, Constance carefully touched
the smallest puppy, who shook so hard the tremble came from deep inside,
beneath his skin and fur, straight from his bones.
Constance rose slowly and did a
quick search of the vicinity for more puppies, which turned up nothing but
trash, vermin and an old orange crate, which she brought over to the mattress.
Now to see if Mom was going to
accept help.
Though daylight was precious, Constance waited
until the pups were done suckling before she offered a third treat. “Let’s go
back to my place,” Constance said as Mom accepted the biscuit. “My sister has a
rescue for critters, just like you. And I help her all the time. You’ll be safe
there. Does that sound okay?”
While Mama crunched, Constance reached for the
two pups closest to her and, keeping an eye on Mom the whole time, she lifted
them and settled them in the crate. Mom’s chewing quickened, so Constance acted
fast, lifting the last two pups swiftly but carefully. She rose to her feet,
crate in her arms. The mother dog was on her feet almost ahead of her, pointing
her muzzle at the crate and whining.
Constance knew the mom would follow her
anywhere she took those pups, but she also lacked any signs of aggression,
almost as though she knew that this was their only chance. Or as Pete, owner of
Canine Warriors and Constance’s longtime childhood friend, would put it, “You
just got something about you, Cici. Everybody trusts you. People. Dogs. The
damn Devil himself.”
Constance headed back to her van,
chasing the sunset. As expected, the mother followed. Once to the vehicle,
Constance opened the van and set the crate full of pups next to the blanket
she’d spread out earlier. The mama dog leaped in after them.
Constance slid the door closed,
settled behind the steering wheel and let out a great sigh. Mission
accomplished. She edged down the long, lonely road. The rain pattered on the
windshield and the scent of dirty puppies hit her nose. She’d take them home
tonight and get them settled in, see how they reacted to a new environment,
then text Sunny in the morning. Constance had worked with enough dogs, and
people, to know that introducing another new person this evening was bad news.
Let Mama get used to Constance first, and get some good food and rest, before
she was moved to Pittie Place.
Tonight, at least, this girl and
her babies belonged with Constance.
Excerpted from Rescue You by Elysia
Whisler Copyright © Elysia Whisler. Published by MIRA Books.
BUY LINKS:
BIO:
Elysia Whisler was raised in Texas, Italy, Alaska,
Mississippi, Nebraska, Hawai'i and Virginia, in true military fashion. Her
nomadic life has made storytelling a compulsion from a young age.
She doubles as a mother, a massage therapist
and a CrossFit trainer and is dedicated to portraying strong women, both in
life and in her works. She lives in Virginia with her family, including her
large brood of cat and dog rescues, who vastly outnumber the humans.
SOCIAL:
Author Website: https://www.elysiawhisler.com/
TWITTER: @ElysiaWhisler
Facebook: @ElysiaWhisler
Insta: @ElysiaWhisler
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19812585.Elysia_Whisler
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