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George only took Jake out at night. He adored the puppy and hated to be apart from him so much, but things were getting bad and he was getting desperate. He had become increasingly furtive, lying to his wife, kids, friends and neighbors. There was no one he could trust anymore. He was a haunted man, always looking over his shoulder, unable to sleep, go out, talk to anyone. His friends never called him anymore, nor he them. They had stopped e-mailing one another.  It was for their own protection. They were all  frightened even to go online and talk to other dog lovers, who pursued and attacked them mercilessly. There were informers everywhere.

George had paid careful attention to the dog patrol’s routine, and they swung by at almost precisely the same times every day – 9 a.m. and then 3 p.m.  They had stopped by several times, looking through the house, listening, scanning the ground for leavings and marks. An informer had told them that he had a dog, the officers told him roughly.  A bought dog. They had big red jackets and patches which said “Therapy,” “Rescue” and “Petsavers.”

The informer had said the dog was a purebred Labrador Retriever puppy. Was this so, they asked, as they had before?  No, said George, a lie, not true, he had once had such a dog, but that was in the other time, when people could get dogs any way they wished, when they could even – he lowered his voice – buy them from anyone they wished. When different choices were permitted. He had always had healthy, happy dogs, he thought, but did not say that out loud. No one wanted such dogs now.

At the end of the Other Time, the breeders had all been finally driven out, moved to Mexico, were hiding in caves in Oregon. Dogs that were not rescued or abused quickly vanished, as the idea of dogs as sad and piteous creatures grew and became the dominant idea about them. At first, it was blasphemy to buy a dog. Now, illegal. At first, it was said that no one should buy a dog when so many were free. And then, no one could afford to buy a dog when there were so many for free. And then, there was no one to sell them.

George could see that the officers were suspicious, did not believe him. They had searched the house and grounds a dozen times and found nothing although their dogs picked up scents. Old ones, he insisted.  Over the past few month he had moved Jake further and further back from the house, in an abandoned fox den out in the woods. George told no one about Jake, lied to everyone, said he had put the dog down, or shipped him off to Canada, where people were still permitted different kinds of ideas.

George  knew his options were limited. He was running out of time for his dog.  Jake was not rescued. He was not abused. He did not come from a shelter. Or an online rescue group, the only approved ways one could get a dog. In a mad and obsessive impulse, George had looked through old and now forbidden dog magazines, saw the photos of the Labs, went to secret chat rooms online, then driven to a small town in Maine, just below the Canadian border and paid $50 for Jake from the last breeder in the Northeast. The man took the money and then said goodbye, climbing into his motorboat and setting a course for New Brunswick. It was said that there were a couple of Newfoundlands there. And people couldn’t tell you what to do, was the rumor.

The deadlocked Congress had not passed legislation in years, but had unanimously changed the dog laws. There were millions of dogs in no-kill shelters, more coming in from all over the world. It was now a crime to put a dog down for any reason, and dogs could only be purchased by no-kill people for no-kill homes from no-kill shelters,  the only kind that were now legal.  Older dogs were placed in assisted care facilities and nursing homes where they lived on medications and machines for many years more than dogs had ever lived.  All dogs had universal national health care. So there were tens of millions of dogs spending their lives in shelters, and Congress was considering passing laws requiring you to take three if you wanted one.

The working breeds were all gone now, George knew. The border collies, the Labs, the Retrievers, Jack Russell’s, even the Pit Bulls. No more breeding. No more herding. No more hunting. It was wrong to get a dog anywhere but from a shelter, was the thinking, and so it had become law.  There were now more than five million dog play groups in the U.S., many of them meeting in schools and child playgrounds, almost all shuttered by decades of budget cuts and political stalemates. The parks were filled iwth people wearing patches, and dogs wearing vests with various slogans – “Abused,” “Rescued,” “Make Way For Therapy Dog,” “Slow Down: Caribbean Rescue Dog On Board.” George  had no sticker for Jake. He was grateful he had never registered Jake online, or he would have never had a chance to carry out his plan. But now, things were desperate. He was determined to save Jake, and he knew things were closing in.

George struggled to keep himself from crying. But he was determined.  It was time for his plan, to save Jake, to give him a new and free life.  He went out into the woods, slipped the puppy a sedative, and when he was groggy, he picked him up and rubbed mud all over his coat. Jake was light, thin. It nearly killed him to do it, but George had been cutting back on his food for days. He took a knife and sliced his own hand, and then smeared some of the blood on Jake’s nose. He rubbed some berry juice on Jake’s teeth so they would look stained.  He rubbed ointment in Jake’s eyes to make them look runny. When it got dark, he drove to the town’s sprawling new animal shelter, a no-kill facility housed in the former town library, abandoned after years of rejected town budget votes It was now a no-kill dog and cat and bird shelter, housing needy animals from 26 states and 15 different countries. Animal lovers traveled all over the world to find rescue animals and bring them to the shelter.

George waited to see that there was no one around, and tears flowing down his cheeks, he left Jake asleep in his blanket by the rear receiving platform, and he attached this note:

“Dear Shelter. This is Jake. As you can see, he has been badly abused. Stained teeth, blood from beatings, not washed in many months. He looks like a Lab, but he comes from the Deep South, where he was thrown off a truck, run over, attacked by crows and then chained in the rear of a garbage dump. He is part Shitzu and part Rotty, although he looks a lot like a Lab. He is not a Lab. As you know, there are no more Labs.  Please take care of him and find him a good home.”

George sobbed and took one last look, kissed the groggy Jake on the nose, left his bundle on the platform, kissed him goodbye one more time, rang the bell and then ran. He turned and looked back and saw a shelter worker open the door, peer back and forth and then pick up the bundle. George came home and turned on his computer. His heart was about to pound right out of his chest. He sat staring at the town’s animal rescue site for nearly 24 hours, barely eating or sleeping. Finally, he saw it. A photo of Jake, a dog who had been beaten, starved neglected.  Jake’s runny eyes and stained teeth looked appealingly into the camera. Good boy, Jake, said George, sobbing now.

And then he looked at the bottom of the photo and smiled. Hundreds of people had already applied for Jake. His dog had been saved. His dog had been rescued. He was going to make a break for New Brunswick. Maybe there were Labs there too.

The three donkeys were lying by the hay feeder, soaking up some Spring sun, annoyed that Jon and Maria had stopped giving them hay. “There is plenty of grass,” said Simon,” but I have to lean over and get it and there is plenty of hay in the barn if they would give it to us.”

“Yes,” snipped Lulu, rolling over in some manure, “I like to get fresh grass and also get hay, especially when the grass is short. They don’t think about all the leaning over we have to do.” Fanny yawned, agreed. “Maybe if we stare at the window, Jon will come out. He’s usually a sucker for that. He likes to rant on an on about animal attachment, not treating them as children, but who is out here at 6 a.m. with carrots and apples and oat cookies? Some hard-ass! Writers.”

Simon snorted. “I wouldn’t complain girls. You are both purebreds, raised by a donkey breeder. I am a farm donkey, and I can tell you it can get ugly out there –” Fanny jeered, “yes, we saw you when you came and you were plenty ugly.” Lulu stood up and ate some brush that was popping up. She nosed the chickens out of the way. “Well, Simon, you and Jon have your thing, reading stories to each other, taking walks. You have his number for sure. But you were not here before Maria came, and I can tell you, it was not all clover and cookies, for sure. That boy was very strange. It was crazy around here. All sorts of crazy dogs, crazy people, those dumb cows and loud goats. And he was so twitchy I got nervous just listening to him talk on the phone inside of the house.”

“Yeah,” said Lulu, “and he had that tough little monster dog, Rose, who bit me on the ass all of the time. Just because I kicked her once. She was always pushing the sheep around and I was always trying to protect them, like I was supposed to do, and what did I get for my troubles? My ass bit. I hate to see any animal die, but I’m glad she’s gone. I have to be honest.”

It was always thus, said Lulu. Whenever humans got in trouble, a donkey got kicked in the ass.

Simon nodded wisely, as donkeys do. “The thing is, we have to work on Maria more. She’s the key. She is like a little love and apple machine, that one. She is not twitchy, and she loves to cuddle. She knows how to commune with a donkey. Jon is always dragging that camera along, and he has that guy thing about being a bit standoffish.” So true, exclaimed, Fanny, you know I think women are just more open emotionally than men. I can smell her feelings, and they are right up on the surface. It’s always been that way, I hear, all the way back to biblical times. Women are just more evolved, I think.”

“Nurturing is the word,” said Simon. He said he doubted he would be alive if the women at the farm he was at didn’t sneak him some food when he was starving. But Simon liked to look to the future, not the past.  “Listen,” he said, “about this hay thing. Go stare through the gate at Jon’s office. He’ll sneak out here in a flash and bring out some hay. He can’t resist that. Just big eyes. Look mournful. Wistful. Sort of pleading.”

The donkeys practiced their wistful look, and then Simon went over to the gate and brayed loudly. They all stared at Jon’s office window and they saw the blinds move a bit. “Keep staring, just don’t waver,” hissed Simon. They whinnied softly and looked wise, ancient, knowing.  Simon heard the back door opening. “Just hold the pose for a few more minutes,” he said. “He’s got some carrots in his back pocket. Maria will be out in a couple of minutes with the brush, I bet.”

Simon whinnied softly. “These humans. They are so predictable, if you just are consistent and patient.”

This is a short story – fiction – inspired by a real writer.

Stanley, a once-famous animal writer, was at the end of his rope, as well as his publishing contract. His wife had gone to live with her mother, his daughter wouldn’t return his phone calls, he wasn’t going to meet the mortgage payment this month. he was depressed. His ancient Lab, Perocles was having panic attacks and was on anti-depressants that cost $300 a month.   After the recession hit, his agent called him and said he couldn’t sell a book of Stanley’s anywhere, and even the self-publishers didn’t want his work. But, he said, the news wasn’t all bad. There was interest.

Some guy in Trinidad had e-mailed him and said he loved Stanley’s writing and had work for him. Could he fly down there? Like most writers, Stanley was not about to pass up a free trip to a Caribbean Island. And he needed work. So he flew to Trinidad. First class – he had never flown first class – and he would be in a luxury suite in a five star hotel.

Stanley, a nervous and impatient man,  waited in his luxurious room on the ocean for hours until finally there was a scratching at the door, and he opened it to find a short, almost hairless bright-eyed mutt staring up at him. “Hey,” said the dog, “I know you were expecting a human, but I am a dog, Paco and I am the one hiring you and paying for your work. Just get over it and it will go easier.” Stanley’s mouth was open for awhile, but remembering what his agent had said, he got over it, especially when Paco told Stanley he loved his work. The dog, he had to admit, was well-spoken and courteous.  Stanley invited Paco in, and offered him a bowl of water and the remnants of a hamburger, which Paco declined. He had already had dinner, he said, and was cutting back on fatty foods.

Paco got down to business. He had a booming business going, selling Caribbean rescue dogs to Americans who were happy to pay to fly them to the United States and pay rescue and handling fees as well, ranging from $200 to $500.”  Paco jumped up on the couch and looked Stanley in the eye (the ocean waves were crashing against the beach as a background, which was nice, even dramatic).

“I’ll be honest with you,” Paco said. “We all think Americans are crazy. Banks there rob people, hit them on the head and take their money and  throw them out of their homes and  into the street, and nobody says a thing. But they all want rescue dogs from the Caribbean, no matter what it costs. Strange country. They don’t want happy dogs, only sad ones. If you tell them the dog was happy and healthy and for sale, no deal. If the dog has a sob story, they go right away. So when the dog bites Grandma, or throws up on the rug, or digs up the flowers, they cry for him, poor abused thing, instead of kicking him the ass.”

Paco said the Caribbean dogs – including him –  were stunned by this phenomenon, but also happy, as they had never been worth any money, or even anyone pay for them. Not to mention transport fees on airlines, and good lives in America eating rich food, having toys, fancy collars and sleeping in beds. Can you imagine, said Paco? It started when tourists saw hungry dogs in the streets and took them home. Now they didn’t need to see them. They just needed the sad story. So they were breeding like crazy, trying to meet demand.  They had to move fast before the Americans figured out out that there were a million dogs on Petfinder.org right in the U.S. and many more million in shelters, and they could just drive a few miles and pick one up. Paco knew his stats and demographics.

Yes, thought Stanley, Paco was a wise dog. And this was all curious. But what did this have to do with him? He used to be reviewed in the New York Times, and now was trying to impress a balding dog who talked.

I need stories for these dogs, said Paco. We are breeding them as fast as we can, but everybody wants a sad story to tell their friends about them, each sadder than the next and we need you to come up with them. We are running out of new ones.  Come down the beach tomorrow and dawn and you’ll meet the dogs and come up with stories for them. $100 a story.

Stanley said yes, didn’t think much about it. He didn’t want to go home. “Thing is,” said, Paco, “we need sob stories, tear jerkers.  You can’t tell your neighbors in America that your dog is just a dog. That would make you seem immoral and cold.  Americans don’t want dogs, they want dogs in trouble. With stories. Over there, in America, they yell at each other all the time, poor people can’t afford medicine, but they’ll do anything for a dog with a story. You gotta make them cry, Stanley.”

Paco made a quick call, then told Stanley he was loving his IPhone, which was strapped to his collar most of the time, and was training Siri, the personal assistant to help him keep records. “She’s not Hal, she’s not a miracle worker,” he said, “and she doesn’t really get the dog thing, but she is learning to understand me and is a big help. I loved Steve Jobs,” said Paco, almost tearing up. “He changed my life.”

At dawn the next morning, in a secluded cove, scores of Caribbean mutts – some flown in from Puerto Rico and Barbados and the Virgin Islands, a few even smuggled in from Cuba  – were waiting in a huge line for Stanley. Paco had reminded Stanley that all of the dogs had to be abused – that was essential. Otherwise, he had creative license. He was the writer, said Paco, sensitively. He had some tips.  It was good if the females, the mothers,  had lost their puppies, that was a huge seller, they practically flew to the U.S. all by themselves. Or if the dogs had been beaten and abandoned in a slum, found dying in doorways and alleys.  Or were near starvation. But Paco wanted fresh stories, and the demand was growing.

Can’t any of the stories be happy?, Stanley wondered, for the last time. He wasn’t sure he could only write sad stories. No, said Paco, they tried happy stories, and nobody wanted the dogs. They were unadoptable, doomed to years in crates.

Stanley did get to work. He  met each dog, asked a few questions, checked out any identifiable markings – colors,  scars, spots –  took a few notes, and then, in the afternoon, sat on the beach drinking Rum Punches, eating plantain chips by the bucket,  listening to the waves and looking at the girls in bikinis and writing his stories on the Ipad that Paco distributed to everyone in his company. Stanley, to his relief,  was good at this. If his publishers always wanted his stories to be upbeat, Paco didn’t care what he wrote as long as they were downbeat. It was, he thought, a great gig. America and all of its publishing turmoil – Amazon, E-books, troubled bookstores –  seemed far away.

Stanley kept some of the staple stories – beaten dog rescued by tourists, mom nearly dies giving birth, puppies don’t make it, dog saved from drowning, dogs with exotic diseases, dogs beaten by street bums. And he added some twists. Dogs who escaped drug dealers, dogs who lived on boats and were thrown overboard, dogs who lived in the jungle and were bitten by snakes. Dogs who battled alligators.  He even wrote about one poor scrawny little mutt who was assaulted by a gang of parakeets. And he had a bunch of stories about dogs who were beaten trying to save abused spouses. Dogs coming of age by hiking across islands and swimming many miles.  Very new, very now. He felt as if he were coming back to life as a writer. And he was making money, for the first time in years. Good money.

Stanley and Paco worked well together. Paco’s sales went up as the stories improved and diversified. “You are gifted,” he told Stanley every morning. Stanley had not head that  in years. Paco especially loved one story Stanley wrote of a band of one-eyed brown mongrels who were political dogs, who escaped tyrannical politicians and broke for freedom on the beach. They needed asylum. Those dogs went for $500 a pop in minutes. Paco mulled raising prices, and spent half the day posting these stories on his blog, where he was hailed all over the world for his rescue work. His Facebook Page – he thought Twitter was too elitist –  had 20,000 likes, and when Stanley came up with his Pirate Dog Series – dogs taken into captivity,  tortured by pirates and abandoned on city streets, Paco gave him a bonus and made him a partner in the company, which he re-named “Dog Rescue Stories From Paradise.” Paco was offered three book deals and one movie deal, and he took one of the book deals, but not the movie offer. “Can you imagine when they meet me?” he howled, his tail and body shaking with laughter.

Stanley’s family and friends wondered for years what happened to him, as he never came back to the States. Finally, his agent tracked him down and told him some good news – the economy was improving and he could get him a book deal.

“No thanks,” said Stanley, I’m not coming back. He turned away from the phone.

“Is that a dog I hear barking in the background?,” asked the agent.

“Oh, yes,” said Stanley. “I just gave Juan a biscuit. He was trapped in house when an earthquake hit. He refused to abandon his owners for weeks until rescuers got through, and he was nearly dead when they found him. He could have eaten them, but chose to wither instead. I took him in. I think he was clearly abused, too. He bit an old man on the toe, but what can you expect, the way men have treated him? I love him more than I can say.”

The agent said Stanley was a good man, and he admired him for the work he was doing, which, he said, was much more important than writing books, and he wished him well.