Washed Up

The garage door buckled under the force, groaning as it caved in. Warm water rushed out like a broken levy, raising the water even further up the rescuers’ torsos, the heat oozing through and between and around legs and bodies. Much like the water, the thick wet stink that had consumed the room was released, exploding outward and across the speeding water, enveloping the exposed faces. They were drowning in the setting of disparity.

The rescuers stood ground, either holding onto the supporting remains of the door or having their feet buried under syrupy mud, and let the rip current pass. Finally the waters leveled to their waist-high originality and the foul draft rose, leaving the necessary task unshielded and accessible.

Dislodging their legs from their muddy retreat, the three men waded forward against the water, through the newly created threshold, and entered the garage.

“The car’s still here.”

“They must have thought they were coming back.”

Light from the flashlight shone eerily through the vehicle’s windows, revealing the grunge and residue from the slowly receding waters.

“Is it in there?” asked the man in the rear.

“Nah,” said the leader, “if it had been in there it would have died long before now.”

The rear man complied with silence and shone his flashlight elsewhere. Nearly empty shelves and bare walls where briefly illuminated as he scanned the area.

A whinny, a barely audible whine, made all three of the searchers swivel around, flashlights predetermining the location, to the far and unexplored corner of the garage. Another whimper, louder than the first, directed the men’s attention further up. A wooden shelf held up by metal brackets concealed the body, the lights only illuminating two piercing green and yellow eyes, shifting feverishly side to side.

“Ethan, find something for me to stand on!” said the middle man. Ethan waded around, feeling and searching the bottom of the garage floor for anything. Troy, the one that barked the command, began whispering to the pup. It didn’t cower away or recede at his voice; in fact, it leaned over the edge to reveal its clipped ears and scar-covered muzzle. A pit bull. A fighting pit bull.

He found nothing in the room. Ethan looked at the other two, mind churning frantically on what to do. He stared at the car, up to dog, then back to the car.

“Jeff, help me push the car.” Ethan asked directly.

“There’s nothing?”

“Nah, but the car should be high enough.”

Jeff slowly sloshed over to Ethan’s side, to the front of the car, and stuffed his flashlight under his belt. They both dipped their arms under the water, palms up against the slimy algae covered hood.

“On the count of three. One-”

“Two-”

“Three!”

Both of them pushed against the car, their feet being forced deeper and deeper in the mud. Finally the car, much like the garage door, gave under men’s pressure and slowly slid closer and closer to the wall.

“That’s good!” yelped Troy as he splashed out of the way of the crawling oncoming car. Ethan and Jeff stopped, out of breath and exasperated. Jeff grabbed the light out from his belt and shone it at the pit. It looked back at him his hungry, lonely, desperate eyes. Jeff’s heart melted.

Such a “terror” was a pit bull; they would “rip your throat out in an instant,” or so he had heard. Though illegal, New Orleans was a pit bull fighting haven. Just as expected, the owners of all those pit bulls up-and-left them; locking them in houses and garages or just tying them to a tree. Jeff had never seen such a massive accumulation of pitts. Dozens of them were rescued each day, all so tired and starved and desperate for affection to even exert any form of malisons to other canines.

Troy had made it to the roof of the car, expertly balancing on the glass rear window and the warping steel top. With syrupy liquid words he coaxed the dog closer to his arms.

“C’mon boy, we’re getting’ ya outta here.”

The pitt shuffled over the edge, letting its paws flop over the side. They were partially burned much like other dogs that the group had rescued. The water brimmed with chemicals and waste, and with long exposure and no protection, caused the animal’s feet to slowly melt.

A few seconds more and with some assistance from Ethan, the pitt fell into Troy’s arms. He leapt off the car, the dog momentarily fidgeting from the fear of the water, and trudged smoothly back to the boat that rested outside.

Another two barks where heard concluding that another two rescues were made before the day began to grow darker. The pitt, whom they dubbed Tony, rested his massive head on Troy’s lap, his tail thap, thap, thapping on the walls of the boat. The team eventually rendezvoused with another boat closer to the outskirts of town.

As they approached Ethan noticed something somewhat odd in the collection of pets that were compiled on the other team’s boat. Bill, a Native American volunteer, had twisted around him a large, slinking thing, the last remaining daylight glistening off its skin.

“Hey, Cody” Ethan yelled to a man in the other vessel, “is that a snake you have there?”

Cody looked back at Bill and grinned that the sight. “Yeah, that’s a snake alright.”

“You know it’s against the law to break into a house unless you hear some sort of critter,” added Troy, stroking sweet Tony’s head.

A brief pause was filled with a moment of chuckles and giggles.

“Cody, how’d the hell did you hear a snake?”

“C’mon now, Troy, you know how Indians are!”

Upon that Bill raised his hand, his face brimming with pride, and gave a “royal” wave.