On the morning of the third day, Tracksuit opened Wawa’s cage and walked her to a room in the house where she had never been. The space had been cleared out, save for a small table in the center, which was just high enough for her to prop her belly on. The surface of the table was made of smooth wood, and the metal legs were bolted to the floorboards. Tracksuit fastened Wawa’s leash to the front of it. He then took another leash and tied her ankles to the back legs. She was in no mood to argue with him. She was already convinced that whatever he was doing had everything to do with Cyrus and the good of the pack.
Tracksuit left her under the buzzing fluorescent light, her tail to the door. About twenty minutes passed until he returned. Wawa picked up Cyrus’s scent right away. She spun her head as far as she could in order to see him. The great dog limped into the room, favoring his front right paw. Though the blood had been cleaned off him, the gash in his face was still raw and infected. Cyrus needed Tracksuit to push him along. Once the dog was close, Tracksuit retreated to a corner of the room and sat with his head between his knees. Cyrus was the broken one, but Tracksuit looked ready to die and turn to dust right there.
Cyrus limped closer to her, still emitting the alien scent of the dog that had crippled him. Wawa did not fully understand what was meant to happen next, but she knew that she and Cyrus were supposed to join together somehow, that this was how the pack would survive. This would be her greatest service to the others.
Cyrus placed his paws on her skin. She faced forward. But then, with a sickly tremor, he slid away from her and fell to the floor, his claw scraping along her ribs. Quickly, Tracksuit was upon him, cradling him in his arms, saying soothing things. She had never seen Tracksuit cry. But now water streamed down his stubbly cheeks, dripping onto Cyrus’s fur. Wawa could smell the salt, mixed with some alcohol. Tracksuit did not have the energy to release Wawa from her bonds. All he could do was rock Cyrus gently, saying he was sorry over and over. After a while, he stood up and carried Cyrus away. Wawa stared into the dog’s eyes, knowing it would be for the last time. The sun went down before Tracksuit returned, released her from the table, and took her back to her cage.
Wawa went to sleep that night knowing that the pack had been broken. It was the moment she became self-aware, when she saw the world as more than simply her immediate field of vision. There were other packs out there, she realized. The world was enormous, unfair, unknown but knowable, arranged by rules that did not always make sense. She wondered how she did not know these things before. And then she noticed that she was in the act of wondering, of using her mind to do more than track food and assess friends and foes. She considered the possibility that Cyrus had somehow passed these gifts on to her in their final moments together. She quickly dismissed the notion. Cyrus, she now understood, was a mere animal. She was moving beyond whatever he had been.
Lost in thought, Wawa did not notice that the hair had begun to fall away from her paws.
When Tracksuit opened her cage the next day, Wawa thought that he was letting her go. But she realized that he expected her to fight. She saw how easy it would be to escape — it was a matter of sprinting for the open door. She decided against it. She wanted to learn everything, to gather as much information as possible. Going with Tracksuit to the house at the end of the trail would be the best way to do it.
They arrived at the brightly lit building at the tree line. When she exited the van, Wawa immediately sought out the giant red objects attached to the front of the structure. The realization eased into her mind: they were letters, forming a word. The word represented a sound. The sound represented an idea, or a name, or a thing, or a place. The sign was speaking to her.
There was some commotion going on inside the building. The items on the shelves had been scattered about the white linoleum. People scooped up cans and boxes from the floor and display cases. The front window was broken, leaving a jagged hole large enough for a person to jump through.
“Holy shit,” Tracksuit said. Wawa had heard him. She could imagine the words hanging in the air like the bright red one that floated above. As they entered the trail, leaving the scene at the store behind, she wondered what the words meant.
The house at the end of the trail was not as noisy as it had been the last time. There were empty seats for the evening’s match. In the front row, right where she thought he would be, sat the man with the porkpie hat, his dead eye hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Tracksuit prepped her, washing her down with a bucket of warm water. She faced the crowd. Everyone, she understood, was a sad, scared, powerful, emotional being like herself. They gazed out into the new world as she did: wondering, hoping, fearing, sometimes fighting back. She assessed her opponent, a jet-black dog. Probably younger than she was. Breathing heavily. Wawa wondered if he was undergoing the same changes, which led to another revelation: she was actually concerned about someone outside of the pack.
There is more than the pack, she thought.
Tracksuit slapped her on the side and said, “Go get him, girl.” Her eyes stayed on him. I am not part of his pack, she thought. She was Tracksuit’s slave. The great Cyrus and all the others were slaves. These fights were not protecting anyone. They were merely for sport. She stood still as she considered the awful cruelty of it all. The ways of the world could be learned, but they could also stamp you into the ground before you even noticed something was wrong.
The fight began. The dog charged at her. She parried him, shifting her weight so that he collided with the wall. He kept attacking. He was angry, probably starved or beaten. She noticed a barely healed gash on his left flank and realized that she might not be able to reason with him.
Stop, she said. Listen to me! But she was merely barking. The words were in her mind, but she could not speak them.
They’ve tricked us! she howled. Don’t you get it? We can get out of here!
The dog continued to surge forward. She focused on the throbbing artery in the dog’s neck. How unbelievable, she thought, that this weak point had been there the entire time, and the dogs had been taught to scrape and claw everything else.
I don’t want to hurt you! she said. Nothing. The dog jabbed at her. Wawa remained still in the hopes that her opponent would accept the peace offering. Instead, she felt the dog’s claw sink into the side of her face and rake across it. Drops of blood spattered at her feet.
Wawa swung her right paw in a horizontal arc, slashing the dog’s throat in one movement. A spray of blood hit her wounded face. The animal staggered away, the gash spilling its contents onto the floor, an obscene red against the white canvas. The dog slumped over, collapsing in a crimson pool. Hatred for everyone in the room welled up in Wawa’s gut, making blood throb in her ears, overwhelming the silence that had fallen. They made her do this.
People tried to get closer. At the other end of the ring, Tracksuit stood up. She could tell that he was shocked, and that he was trying to hide his excitement.
And then Wawa rose on her hind legs. She locked eyes only with her master. His eyebrows stretched upward, his mouth a gaping hole in his face. “Jenna?” he said.
“You,” she said, relishing the gasp that emitted from the spectators. “You … are not part of my pack.”
She heard a metal click. Her ears pointed to it first. She turned to see the man with the porkpie hat pointing a gun at her. A breathless What the fuck? came from somewhere.