Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (good books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

a correction and said fooey, not knowing that Samson was going to choose that particular time to take control of the pack. The signs had been there for days but I’d missed them or been too busy to pay attention, as I should have. Bad move on my part. Samson launched like a missile. He caught me with a full mouth bite on my left forearm, his canines punching through my heavy jacket, uniform shirt and long sleeve turtleneck t-shirt, and into my arm with enough force to numb my nerves completely. That arm was dead to me — useless. I managed to grab hold of the very back of his left jowl with my right hand and spun into his attack, using his own momentum to flip him over onto his back. I landed on top of him with all my weight and shoved my forearm as deep into his mouth as I could. There was no pain at this point, although there was plenty of pain later, and I concentrated all my will on keeping him trapped under me, and not letting go of his mouth. I screamed into his face, fear helping put force behind my words.

My cover officer, a skinny rookie named Brad Gosling, didn’t know what to do. He ran around us waving his gun, trying to get a bead on Samson screaming, “What should I do?” He was screaming so loud and Samson was growling so loud he couldn’t hear me yell for him to cover us in case the bad guys saw what was going on and decided to shoot us. Of course I was trying to yell this while at the same time screaming — nine — nine — fooey — nine — at the top of my lungs. The numbness was starting to wear off and pain to set in and only the fact that I was wearing so many clothes saved me from having the bone in my arm crushed. That dog could bite. Eventually Samson submitted, released my arm, and looked away, and none too soon. Exhausted, shocky and ready to throw up, I managed to calm the rookie down and keep him from shooting either Samson or me, and to cover us. I put Samson back in my cruiser, my damaged limb hanging like cold meat at my side, and that was that.

Needless to say we didn’t catch the burglars that night. And it was my fault. I should have seen the signs.

I was seeing those signs again. This time in Max’s eyes. I’d been lucky with Samson back then. If I hadn’t been wearing the coat, or if I hadn’t been able to flip him over — any one of a dozen things — and it would have gone much worse for me. After all we train these dogs to take out the biggest and baddest of the crooks, why should we think we could handle them if they go after us? Our training helps, that and the fact that usually when a dog first goes rank he still holds some measure of respect for the old alpha and might hold back just a little. But with Max I didn’t think that would be the case.

So, what to do? Should I bring it on, try and make him attack so I could get it over with? Or was I wrong about him? Was this just his personality? Maybe he would always question my authority a little but never try and assume command of the pack. If that were the case I could seriously hurt our relationship and perhaps his confidence and spirit by forcing him to the breaking point.

There was another possibility, one I didn’t like to contemplate. Some animals simply will not accept a beta or secondary position. Not ever. No matter what. They will die before they submit to anything or anyone. I’ve seen it in K9s. Very rare, thank goodness, but it does happen. Sometimes handlers will keep trying with them, thinking they have what it takes to tame the beast. But it never works. Never. Because it isn’t how strong or how good the handler is that is the problem. It’s the dog itself.

An absolute alpha dog. If the dog will not submit, no handler will be able to get the dog to perform acceptably as a K9. Because whenever the dog decides he doesn’t want to listen to the handler he will attack him. And this becomes a greater danger and liability than it is an asset to the handler.

I hoped Max was not that type of dog.

But that look in his eyes scared me.

I nodded toward the car. “Hop in.”

Max stared for another second. Then he jumped in.

A trickle of sweat tickled down my back.

Pilgrim barked right next to me and I jumped. I looked down at him, the Kong lying at my feet. “Thanks, pal. You just about proved Yolanda right and gave me a heart attack.” I picked up the Kong and sent it sailing. Once he got it I motioned toward the house and said “Inside.” Pilgrim’s workdays were coming to an end. He served me long and well and it was time for him to start taking it easy. I hoped Max would help make that possible.

31

I drove back to Pimple’s house in Aurora and parked down the street under a shady cottonwood. The place looked as deserted as it did last night. I had made a quick pass by Gauges on the way to see if Baldy’s car was still in the driveway. It wasn’t.

Of course I had no way of knowing if Pimples had come back home or not. If he wasn’t in there I was wasting time, of which I didn’t have a lot. Hmm.

I called a dispatcher friend of mine at the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office and had her cross check the address for a phone number. She found one for a Shelly Burbank born in sixty-one at that location and gave