The Last Dog on Earth by Daniel Ehrenhaft

Author:Daniel Ehrenhaft [Ehrenhaft, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-48696-7
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2009-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Jasmine was dying.

Westerly had no doubts about it anymore. There was no need to bring her to one of the quarantine centers or to run a test from home. Either would simply confirm what he already knew. Sitting here on his rug, unable to work, watching her hour after hour after hour, the horrible truth was quite plain to see.

She had a prion disease.

She'd lost the ability to walk. She couldn't stumble more than a few steps without falling. Her jowls and snout were moist, flecked with white foam. Her eyes darted frantically, unable to focus. And now, as she struggled to sleep, the rest of her body betrayed her as well. She had no control over her back muscles. They danced and jerked and shuddered as if pulled by the invisible strings of a puppeteer.

“You'll sleep soon enough, Jazz,” Westerly whispered.

He couldn't believe how fast the disease was destroying her. It was only a matter of time before she stopped moving completely. Then she would enter the second-to-last phase. That comalike sleep. That strange limbo between life and death.

He wouldn't allow her to get to the phase where she attacked. Not because he cared very much whether or not she transmitted the disease to him. But because he didn't want to see the change in her eyes, the lack of recognition, the mad frenzy. He didn't want to remember her that way.

Westerly sniffed and wiped his eyes. He couldn't think about Jasmine anymore. He had to compartmentalize her. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to the computer. Maybe Harold had found that paper. Better still, maybe he had found an immune dog—an animal whose own body could somehow deactivate the prions before they did their deadly work. If there was a way to cure this disease, Westerly knew he would find it there.

But Harold hadn't called or e-mailed since he'd hung up on Westerly weeks ago. If he'd found the paper, he would have forgiven Westerly's rudeness. Westerly's own dog was at risk. Harold wasn't that coldhearted.

Although … Harold might not even know that Westerly owned a dog.

Of course he didn't. Why would he?

In a flash, Westerly was at the phone, furiously punching in Harold's number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Come on. Come on—

“Harold Marks.”

“Harold. It's Craig Westerly.”

There was no response.

“Hello?” Westerly said. “Harold?”

“What do you want?” Harold asked. He sounded tired and hoarse.

“I, um … I wanted to know if you'd found—”

“Your paper?” Harold interrupted. “No, we haven't. We haven't found an immune dog yet, either. We're a little busy.”

Westerly hesitated. “I … I'm sorry. I didn't—”

“Sorry?” Harold spat. “That's nice. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He spoke much more quickly than usual. “You want to know what's going on? We've got hundreds of sick dogs here and a lot of sick people. I haven't slept in about three days. So if you want to chat, now's not the time.”

Westerly clutched the phone. His hands were moist. He glanced at Jasmine, twitching on the rug. “My own dog is sick,” he said.

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