The Last Dog on Earth Read Online Free PDF Page B

The equipment was ready. He was one of the few scientists in the country who had such equipment, in fact. Testing for prion diseases was difficult— and given how rare they were, it was hardly worth the effort. Or so most people believed … unless there was an outbreak.
    But was there?
    Yet even as the question squirmed in Westerly's brain, he knew he wouldn't test Jasmine's food. Not tonight. He was too afraid of what he might find. Because if the food
was
infected, he might as well start digging her grave. There was no cure for prion diseases, at least none that had been proven to work. Westerly had a couple of theories on how a cure might be created, of course—but that was all they were: theories. They wouldn't suddenly provide a magic pill that could save a dog's life.
    Besides, nobody had ever listened much to his theories, anyway.
    Many months had passed since Mother's death. In that time, the sickness had spread. The rest of the pack were gone. Only White Paws and the she-pup remained, left to fend for themselves. They were young, not even a year old. But they were healthy. They were strong. White Paws assumed the role of leader. It was the law of the forest: Those who are strong take charge; those who are weak submit to them or perish.
    Yet the she-pup refused to submit to any creature, even her brother.
    One night, she took off into the darkness. White Paws tracked her scent over hills and through thick brush, under fallen trees and across puddles….
    As he approached the highway, White Paws could smell the horrible odor of the cars, their choking black smog. He could see the fearsome glare of their headlights through the trees. The cars were close—very close. One came to a stop, its roar fading to a low, steady growl. There were other noises, too: strange bumping sounds, the voices of men.
    White Paws slithered behind a rock. He could see his sister. He watched as a man scooped her into his arms, then as the car swallowed them both and roared back into the night.
    For a long time, White Paws sat by the highway in silence.
    But after a while, he began to howl. It was a howl born of a loneliness that every creature of the wild knows—a howl born of the primal understanding of loss.

Letter faxed to Rudy Stagg the night of June 21
    Sheila Davis
    Associate Editor
    The Redmont Daily Standard
    170 South Avenue
    Redmont, OR 98873
    June 21
    Dear Mr. Stagg:
    I am writing to inquire about the “dog bug” that you discussed in your statement to the police yesterday. I am a reporter for
The Redmont Daily Standard
. I cover the police beat, and Sheriff Van Wyck showed me your statement. It struck me as quite interesting, particularly since I am a dog owner myself.
    I think there may be a story here. Do you agree? If so, I'd love to talk further.
    Sincerely,
Sheila Davis

PART II
J UNE 22–J ULY 3

C HAPTER
FOUR
    “We're getting you a dog,” Robert announced.
    Logan didn't look up from his cereal bowl. He'd been expecting something like this. It was Monday morning, and most Mondays began with one of Robert's stupid announcements. (First prize for the stupidest announcement ever: “We're taking away your how-tobuild-electronics books, Logan.”)
    Somehow, Robert always thought that getting something or taking something away would solve all of Logan's problems. It didn't matter how complicated the problems were or if there even
were
any problems. What mattered was solving them in a jiffy. Robert was all about finding a quick fix. The less he had to
deal
with Logan, the better.
    Logan was actually relieved. Ever since the barbecue, he'd been worried that Robert would make good on his threat to ship him off to that juvenile delinquent boot camp.
    It had been two days since the stereo disaster. Robert had confiscated the LMMRC immediately; no surprise there. But over the weekend, he and Mom had also met for several hushed conferences in the bedroom. With the door locked. And the radio on. That way Logan couldn't hear