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Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
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  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
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  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
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  80. 79
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  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

In the late morning of our sixth day of captivity, guards’ footsteps approach. We all back away to the far wall and wait.

Our cell’s door is unlocked. And Gisco is pushed inside.

But it’s not Gisco anymore.

44

44

The big dog is not leashed or chained, but he doesn’t growl at the retreating guards. Nor does he look around the cell with the keen intelligence and paranoid curiosity about his surroundings that Gisco always displayed. Instead he plods into the cell, finds an empty corner, and lies down on his great belly.

I hurry over to him. “Gisco, what happened?”

He looks at me blankly, with friendly but glassy dog eyes.

I address him telepathically. Old friend, are you playing possum? Are they watching us? Did they plant some kind of a bug? Did you meet the colonel? Any news about P.J.?

No response. The line has gone dead. Gisco opens his mouth and lets out a yawn. His jowls shake and a sliver of drool spills out and trails down to the cell floor. Now I know something is very wrong. Gisco always had impeccable manners.

I pick up the great head and look directly into those enormous dog eyes. Gisco, I know you’ve been through something. I won’t press you for details. But do you at least recognize me? Give me a sign, old fellow.

Gisco looks back at me and drools again.

To my horror, I realize that he’s become a dog. A normal dog. All the humor and intellect is gone. I reach out and pat his shaggy head. His great paintbrush of a tail wags slowly, and he licks my hand. Then he lowers his snout to the ground and goes to sleep.

I try to break through to Gisco several more times, without success. He doesn’t seem to know me, or even to recognize my smell. There are no outward signs that he’s been harmed—no burn marks or fresh wounds on his body. But his brain has been scrambled. Finally I leave him alone. The truth is I can’t bear to see him this way.

Mudinho takes care of him. Brings him his soup and sits by him while he laps it up. Cleans up after him. Strokes his ears and back. Gisco returns the affection, sleeping next to the boy that night, and sitting near him in the cell the next morning, watching him play soccer, displaying that special bond that has existed between boys and dogs for thousands of years.

I can’t help remembering that Gisco wanted to leave him in the Andes, and then feed him to the caimans. I guess it’s not surprising that a boy who had his tongue cut out should forge a special bond with a dog who has been cruelly stripped of his remarkable communicative powers.