it’s not just for your benefit,” answered Kinnear.
“Surprise, surprise,” said Furgul.
“It’s for the greater good of society.”
“You mean it’s for the good of the masters.”
“I saw how you looked at that unladylike German shepherd, Samantha.”
“Her name is Dervla,” warned Furgul, his hackles rising.
“Don’t take it out on me, Furgul. The Grown-Ups saw it too. You fancied her, didn’t you? And they don’t want even more mutts and mongrels running around. There’s far too many already. Humans don’t want them, you see. So the vets have to ‘put them down’ with the needle.”
“I’m not a mongrel, I’m a lurcher,” said Furgul, restraining the urge to go for Kinnear’s fat throat.
“Lurchers, mongrels, half-breeds—it’s all the same. There’s just too many.”
“But it’s different for the pedigrees.”
“Well, there’s always a healthy demand for pure pedigrees,at least among the better sort of masters,” sniffed Kinnear. “But pedigrees don’t just breed with anything that moves. We don’t just fancy another dog and go charging across the park.”
“Dervla did.”
“Don’t take offense,” said Kinnear, “but Dervla should have known better. It’s for our masters to decide who we breed with. The masters know best. Quality must be crossed with quality. The results speak for themselves—” Kinnear saw his own reflection in the glass kitchen door. He sucked his belly in. The difference it made was invisible. “That’s why we pedigrees are worth so much money. It’s not that we’re bigger, stronger, faster, more useful or more clever. We’re just better. We’re valued. And that’s why the masters can’t get rid of mongrels fast enough—because you’re not.”
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Furgul would have told him what he thought of pedigrees and their masters, but he had bigger things to worry about. Like his nuts.
“So what can I do?”
“Stop worrying,” said Kinnear. “Believe me—you won’t feel a thing.”
C HAPTER S IX
THE VET
N ext morning the Grown-Ups didn’t give Furgul any breakfast. He watched Kinnear guzzle down his pellets of Chuck Chumley’s Extra Meaty Dog Feed, but before Furgul could steal a mouthful, Gerry put on his muzzle so he couldn’t eat. Furgul didn’t know why—for once he couldn’t think of anything he had done wrong. Kinnear filled his belly, then cheerfully confirmed that the day had come when Furgul would lose his nuts.
Kinnear said, “You can’t have food before an anesthetic—that’s the injection that puts you to sleep—in case you throw up.”
When the breakfast bowl was empty, Gerry came back and took the muzzle off. He gave Furgul an unusual amount of petting, along with guilty smiles, unconvincing chucklesand so much sympathy that you’d think that Gerry himself had been neutered. Furgul felt sick. It was just as well he hadn’t eaten. He felt like throwing up already. Gerry disappeared.
Furgul tried to think clearly.
What would Argal do?
He thought back to his first visit to the Vet. It wasn’t easy to remember because he’d been wounded with buckshot and was shivering to death with exhaustion, but he tried. Yes. There was a parking lot outside. Then a door into a bright room where other dogs were waiting. Then there was a counter. Somewhere behind the counter—in a second bright room—was the shiny steel table where they had given him the sleeping injection.
“Kinnear,” asked Furgul, “will I have to wear the leash when the Vet cuts my—” He couldn’t bring himself to say what the Vet was going to do. “You know.”
Kinnear shook his big jowly head. “The shiny table has to be super-clean—that’s why it’s shiny! The leash has dirty germs on it, so once you get in there, the Vet will take it off.”
Furgul frowned. “So I’ll be on the leash until I’m in the shiny table room.”
Kinnear nodded. “I know what you’re thinking, mate, but
“Surprise, surprise,” said Furgul.
“It’s for the greater good of society.”
“You mean it’s for the good of the masters.”
“I saw how you looked at that unladylike German shepherd, Samantha.”
“Her name is Dervla,” warned Furgul, his hackles rising.
“Don’t take it out on me, Furgul. The Grown-Ups saw it too. You fancied her, didn’t you? And they don’t want even more mutts and mongrels running around. There’s far too many already. Humans don’t want them, you see. So the vets have to ‘put them down’ with the needle.”
“I’m not a mongrel, I’m a lurcher,” said Furgul, restraining the urge to go for Kinnear’s fat throat.
“Lurchers, mongrels, half-breeds—it’s all the same. There’s just too many.”
“But it’s different for the pedigrees.”
“Well, there’s always a healthy demand for pure pedigrees,at least among the better sort of masters,” sniffed Kinnear. “But pedigrees don’t just breed with anything that moves. We don’t just fancy another dog and go charging across the park.”
“Dervla did.”
“Don’t take offense,” said Kinnear, “but Dervla should have known better. It’s for our masters to decide who we breed with. The masters know best. Quality must be crossed with quality. The results speak for themselves—” Kinnear saw his own reflection in the glass kitchen door. He sucked his belly in. The difference it made was invisible. “That’s why we pedigrees are worth so much money. It’s not that we’re bigger, stronger, faster, more useful or more clever. We’re just better. We’re valued. And that’s why the masters can’t get rid of mongrels fast enough—because you’re not.”
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Furgul would have told him what he thought of pedigrees and their masters, but he had bigger things to worry about. Like his nuts.
“So what can I do?”
“Stop worrying,” said Kinnear. “Believe me—you won’t feel a thing.”
C HAPTER S IX
THE VET
N ext morning the Grown-Ups didn’t give Furgul any breakfast. He watched Kinnear guzzle down his pellets of Chuck Chumley’s Extra Meaty Dog Feed, but before Furgul could steal a mouthful, Gerry put on his muzzle so he couldn’t eat. Furgul didn’t know why—for once he couldn’t think of anything he had done wrong. Kinnear filled his belly, then cheerfully confirmed that the day had come when Furgul would lose his nuts.
Kinnear said, “You can’t have food before an anesthetic—that’s the injection that puts you to sleep—in case you throw up.”
When the breakfast bowl was empty, Gerry came back and took the muzzle off. He gave Furgul an unusual amount of petting, along with guilty smiles, unconvincing chucklesand so much sympathy that you’d think that Gerry himself had been neutered. Furgul felt sick. It was just as well he hadn’t eaten. He felt like throwing up already. Gerry disappeared.
Furgul tried to think clearly.
What would Argal do?
He thought back to his first visit to the Vet. It wasn’t easy to remember because he’d been wounded with buckshot and was shivering to death with exhaustion, but he tried. Yes. There was a parking lot outside. Then a door into a bright room where other dogs were waiting. Then there was a counter. Somewhere behind the counter—in a second bright room—was the shiny steel table where they had given him the sleeping injection.
“Kinnear,” asked Furgul, “will I have to wear the leash when the Vet cuts my—” He couldn’t bring himself to say what the Vet was going to do. “You know.”
Kinnear shook his big jowly head. “The shiny table has to be super-clean—that’s why it’s shiny! The leash has dirty germs on it, so once you get in there, the Vet will take it off.”
Furgul frowned. “So I’ll be on the leash until I’m in the shiny table room.”
Kinnear nodded. “I know what you’re thinking, mate, but
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