Ridges of Doom

Prologue

John Reedre, Rhodesian Ridgeback breeder, stretched in his chair on the patio, looking outward upon the Chiltern Hills where he lived. He wasn't that far from London, and therefore could easily meet up with and communicate freely with city-dwelling friends of his, for example his younger brother, Truman Reedre, who sat in a chair opposite him at the moment.

"Beautiful view, ain't it?" John yawned, picking up a small book that read "Kennel Club Rules and Regulations". Truman could see him flip it open to the Rhodesian Ridgeback section and scan over the favored traits of a show dog for what was sure to be the millionth time. 

"Aye," Truman replied, somewhat annoyed that while his brother commented on the view, all he was looking at was that stupid book. He had owned a few Ridgebacks himself in his lifetime, courtesy of John, of course, but he had never been much of an avid breeder. It was difficult to attend a party, or even go out in public without hearing things about dog shows on every street of London. Truman himself found it almost inhumane, to breed animals to their breaking point. It was said that some poor English Bulldogs were so deformed they couldn't even naturally reproduce anymore, all thanks to humans wanting to "perfect" them. Nevertheless, he loved his brother and wanted to encourage and feed his passion as much as possible. "So, how's your bitch faring? Still pregnant?"

John nodded. "I reckon she's about to go into labor at this point. Then I'll have me some mighty dogs, alright." He paused to look over the Ridgeback qualification rules again. "When they get older, I might even consider breeding the best one with the bitch."

"Inbreeding? Are you sure?"

Another nod. "Got to weed out the bad genes somehow, aye?"

Truman didn't reply, resulting in a most unsettling silence. God, he thought. He can be just as crooked and pretentious as the rest of 'em.

He had no idea how right he was until they heard the howling.

An ear-grating noise split the silence in two, disturbed the quiet beauty of the Chiltern Hills. Truman's first thought was horror, but John jumped out of his chair in excitement and rushed to the door leading into his house. Truman was hesitant, but ultimately quick to follow.

The barking grew louder as the men approached the source of the noise, coming from John's bedroom. "Nola," John said quietly as they entered the room, yet loud for a whisper. He kneeled down next to what Truman was quick to realize was a dog, a beautiful Ridgeback more than qualified for show. Black nose, round eyes, a glossy brown coat, and most importantly, a thin strip of fur on her back running in the opposite direction as the rest of her fur: the defining ridge from which her species got their name. Her barks eventually turned to quiet whimpers, and when John stepped away from her, Truman saw the reason for her cries.

Nola had given birth to a litter of four, curled up against her and each other as she laid her head down in contentment on the polished wood floor. John looked down at the dogs with such a pride that it seemed he was the sire, and not whatever Ridgeback Nola had truly mated with. His eyes passed over each and every puppy, yewling and kicking. Truman joined him, attention immediately shifting to the newborns' ridges. Before he finished observing, however, his brother gave a disapproving grunt at the fourth puppy.

"Ridgeless," he growled, pointing at the puppy. "Damn shame. I was positive Nola would give a perfect litter." He sighed, brushing off the ridgeless Ridgeback and turning to the three others. "At least these three look qualified."

At first Truman wondered what his brother meant, but when he turned to the fourth Ridgeback he saw for himself. Where the other puppies possessed the qualifying ridge, this one's was nowhere to be found. Yet still it kicked and mewled just like the rest of them. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it, other than the missing ridge.

"We'll have to cull this one, then," John turned back to the ridgeless pup and picked it up gently. "A male," he said more to himself than anyone else as he observed the dog's posterior. "Perhaps euthanize him, even."

Truman gasped in shock and horror. "Why on Earth would you want to do that?"

"He's useless. Nothing but bad genes and bad luck." John set him back down where he eagerly rejoined his siblings in sucking on Nola's milk. 

"That's just inhumane!" Truman retorted. "Look at him! He still acts like a regular puppy! I bet he plays like one, eats like one, and will grow up to be a regular dog, just...without a ridge."

"Exactly. He's regular. Rhodesian Ridgebacks are anything but regular, and now I have to kill time dealing with him when I could be practicing with Nola for her next show!"

"You can't do this, John, I beg you!" Truman was unable to meet his older brother's eyes, and instead met Nola's, shifting his gaze to her ridgeless offspring with a look of pity. The dog had no idea his life was on the line. He had no idea that Truman was fighting for it.

John looked at him coldly. "Would you...like to take him, then, Truman? It would save me the time and money, and..." he looked down at the fourth puppy and scoffed. "And your puppy."

Truman looked up at his brother with wide eyes and made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. "Yes, I'd...I'd be happy to take him off your hands."

"Great," a short, approving laugh came from John, who looked down at Nola. "Aranola de Xidion, you've just produced three perfect puppies!" His eyes strolled to the ridgeless one and he scooped him up once more. "I'm going to need to keep this one here until he doesn't need Nola's milk anymore. That okay with you?"

"Of course," Truman replied. "As long as you promise not to euthanize or cull him."

"You have my word," John promised, sneering slightly and impatiently.

As Truman Reedre drove home that day, back to the city of London, his mind always drifted back to the poor little ridgeless puppy, whose life he had saved. John had agreed to contact him when he was old enough to drink water and eat freely, mere months from now. But the more Truman thought about it, the more months began to feel like years, decades, centuries. He had decided a name for the puppy the second he entered his car: Ingonyama, Xhosa for "lion", as past names for the Ridgeback included "lion dog" or "lion hound". He had indeed saved a dog's life, and he had never felt so great about any an achievement.