Carlotta Graham
The animal urge
CHAPTER ONE
The Oak Tree estate and grounds were as typically lovely and idyllic as ever in their late summer garb of fading green meadows and mellow, wilting flowers. The undergrowth of the heavily-wooded area was dark with knobbed shrubs and the oldest trees stood gnarled and sprawling, like old men colored brown with age. Glistening dew drops of rain splashed down on the leaves and dribbled earthward through the thick networks of foliage, finally to fall on the rich black soil below. And yet, strangely enough, the sky was a bright clear blue that seemed somehow separate from the woods, which languished obediently under the inexorable rules of the season's end.
The Hartley home, a large rustic house with an ample amount of partially-cleared acreage surrounding it, nestled cozily in a small shallow valley running on a rocky irregular level between two gently sloping ridges on either side. Behind the house, off to the right and slightly downwind, there was a spacious modern dog kennel with half a dozen central shelters and a maze of long fenced runs in which a number of handsome German Shepherds, of varying sizes, ages and colors, could be seen either dozing quietly or pacing nervously to and fro, whining and occasionally barking at some barely perceptible movement in the nearby underbrush.
In one of the longest runs, an immense black-and-fawn-colored male stood by himself, completely motionless and at the alert, as he stared upwards at a tiny rag of grey sky that was framed overhead by a small circle of evergreen branches. The imposing thoroughbred dog gazed longingly, almost defiantly, at a bird flying in a cramped orbit far above the treetops, its spread wings catching flashes of yellow and silver light from the sun. The bird drifted around and around, seemingly fixed to some invisible track in the air. After a while, the magnificent German Shepherd's strong legs began to tremble, his massive muscular body tense and straining with his natural instinct to somehow, impossibly, snag the feathered creature from the safety of its lofty circling and destroy it with one crushing swipe of his forepaw.
"Jesus, look at Wolf out there. The bastard looks better than ever," Bill Hartley enthused proudly as he stood gazing out the living room window at the kennels. The good-looking twenty-four-year-old young man did not wait for his young wife's reply and added, "If I'm lucky enough to buy Pete Sangler's prize bitch up in New Hampshire, just think what a beautiful litter she and Wolf will produce. We'll make a Goddamned fortune out of the pups!"
Diane Hartley, his wife, an extremely pretty twenty-one-year-old blonde, sat in haughty silence across the room, sipping daintily from her whiskey sour cocktail as she fought down the impulse to say what was really on her mind. She resented the fact that she would be left alone again while Bill was off on another of his frequent business trips, selling some of their own valuable dogs and negotiating for new championship breeders to upgrade their stock at Oak Tree. As usual, she would be left in charge of running the kennels by herself, a demanding responsibility that both intimidated and frightened her. God knows, the voluptuous young blonde thought bitterly to herself, her wealthy aristocratic parents had socially-groomed and educated her for far more important things than playing hostess to three dozen hairy brutes, no matter how valuable and expensive they were, while her thoughtless husband deserted her for days… sometimes weeks… at a time.
"What's the matter, honey?" he asked suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. "Now don't tell me you're going to start complaining again just because I've got to make a business trip."
"Oh no, not really," the satin-skinned blonde answered in a sulky, slightly hurt voice, her full lower lip pouting out to give her the appearance of a beautiful little girl who has been unfairly treated. "It's just that… well, we've only been married for eight months, and you've been gone almost half of that time, while I stay home and take care of the dogs… You know they frighten me."
"But honey, dogs are our living… a damned good living, too… and someone has to handle the business end of things," the handsome dark-haired husband protested, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. "I've got to travel and visit other breeders. We're in a highly competitive business and need the best dogs available to keep our line where it is – at the top."
"Yes, Bill, I know, but…"
"And that means scouting around," he continued, ignoring her attempted objection. "Unless, of course, you'd rather we just sat back and lived off your parents, always dependent upon them and without any real say about our own lives."