“The longpaws haven’t come back here,” Lucky deduced. He had heard about Fierce Dogs before he had encountered them. The longpaws used them because they were ferocious, good at protecting their houses from intruders. Without longpaws to keep them caged and fed, the Fierce Dogs would have no one to control them, no one to tell them what to do. They would answer only to themselves. He tried to push this thought away, resisting the urge to turn on his paws and dash beneath the wire. The young dogs’ whimpers were louder now. They seemed to be coming from the big house.

Lucky and Mickey skulked low in the long grass, treading toward the building, which was raised farther off the ground than the surrounding doghouses. Lucky climbed the wooden stairs to the front door while Mickey held back.

Lucky smelled the pups before he laid eyes on them. Their scent was like the one given off by Nose and Squirm—soft, sweet, and milky. The porch led all the way around the big house. Lucky crept along it, hugging the side of the building. He froze. Three Fierce Dog pups were wriggling in a chaotic bundle on a piece of soft-hide that reminded Lucky of the beds that the Leashed Dogs had been used to before the Big Growl. The pups were peering over the edge of the porch, blinking out at the wilderness. There were no low doghouses there, just grass growing long and wild. He could see the pups’ little snouts and whiskers twitching. They knew that someone was near, though they hadn’t spotted Lucky yet.

Memories of Lucky’s encounter with the Fierce Dogs came back to him.

They could tell I was in their den, even though I stood upwind of them.

Did these pups share those sharp senses?

Like some of the grown Fierce Dogs, they had glossy tan-and-brown fur with darker faces and light muzzles, but these were rounder in shape and less threatening. Soft-furred, long ears hung at the sides of their heads, quite unlike the high, pointed ears of the adult Fierce Dogs.

Silently Lucky retraced his steps around the porch to where Mickey was waiting, out of earshot of the pups.

“There are three of them,” he told Mickey. “They’re all alone.”

Mickey’s eyes were huge. “There’s something down there,” he whined in a low voice.

Lucky tensed. “What do you mean?”

Mickey was trembling. Then Lucky caught it—a death scent, rising from the ground beneath their paws. He lowered his muzzle to the wooden floor. There was a narrow gap and through this Lucky could just see a dark, heavy bundle.

His nose twitched at the smell that rose up—a sour-sweet smell, like milk when it had been left in the sun.

Mickey whimpered: “I think it’s their Mother-Dog.”