AN: Warning for mentions of dog fighting. Nothing graphic, because Jason killed everybody.
The Dog (Lemon, even if not named here) is modelled after one of my own dogs (nothing bad has ever happened to Edgar, don't worry) in 'breed'.
CAVEAT EMPTOR: I am not a vet, nor have any animals I owned ever had severe injuries; Jason's Beginner Dog Care is what I've done upon obtaining a stray dog/dealing with doggy illnesses/caring for a dog that had knee surgery. Seek a professional for your own situation! 3
EchokittyCat: I earn my paycheck.-Dove Gotham is a nightmare. Florida Man? Florida Man is a sane individual compared to Gotham Area Man.
The two types of cases Jason hates the most are ones with kids and animals. He feels for the adult victims, but, well, that guy that tried to steal fear toxin for his own gains and got turned into one of Richardson's lobotomized zombies? That's on him. He made poor choices. Kids, though, they haven't done anything, and animals never will, and…
Those are the ones that keep him up at night, that's all.
This one isn't even one of the worst. It's still awful, but it was a small-time dog fighting ring rather than one of the big ones. Most of the animals can probably be rehabilitated. The owners...well…
So he got a little overzealous with a machete he found outside. He doubts people will care. He was going to be nicer, but he had to rescue a bait dog and there wasn't time to do his usual sass-and-dance routine. Those fuckers were gonna-
It doesn't matter what they were gonna do. They didn't, and that's what matters.
The dog in question is curled, whimpering, in a corner. It-she, that was a mama dog at some point-has a messed up leg. She's a big girl, dirty and jowly, looks like she's got some pit in her. Jesus…
He should go. The cops will be here soon and they're not friends. But...it's just…
It's dumb. He knows it's dumb. But damn if he doesn't feel some sorta kindred connection with the dog in the corner. And they might not even try to take her, with her leg like that, and her face is torn in places, and…
He drops the machete, opens up his helmet, and crouches down a few feet away. He's got time.
"Hey, baby girl," he says gently, pitching his voice to be heard over the hellish barking. "Hey-hey, sweetheart…"
He's not sure what to do. It won't be her fault if she bites him, but that's still not appealing. Okay...he knows how to make a cloth muzzle, that won't hurt her and maybe…
He rips a strip of cloth from one of the bastard's shirts-least he can do is make himself useful in death-and makes his way over, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible.
"I'm not gonna hurt ya, baby," he murmurs. "I'm gonna help, okay? But I gotta make sure you don't bite me, huh? There's a good girl, just be still…"
She licks his fingers. He doesn't start crying, but it's a near thing.
He hates animal cases…
"There we go, sweetheart. There we go. I'm gonna pick ya up, okay, baby? We're gonna go someplace they're gonna fix ya up, it's okay, you're a good girl…"
She's a big girl, but Jason's picked up bigger. Okay. No skylight. At least these sorry bastards set up shop in town, rather than on the outskirts.
"Okay, baby," he says. "Come on, let's get out of here."
He intends to deposit her safely at the animal clinic a few blocks from his apartment, say good-bye, and tell himself she got adopted by a nice home with two point five kids or whatever. What happens is that he gives them his current number, says he'll take her until she's better, and spends the next hour finding an all-night store with pet supplies.
In hindsight, he should have gone home and changed. But that ship has sailed, which is why he's standing in the pet aisle at Goth-Mart, in full Red Hood gear, pushing a tiny cart, at three in the damn morning.
Um. What now.
Okay. Okay, okay. Dogs gotta eat, right? Right-aw, shit, there's varieties? Dry, wet, refrigerated...you gotta be kidding.
Google says a bland cooked food might be his better bet. He throws a bag of kibble into the cart anyway, figures he'll get some chicken before he leaves, and keeps going. Okay, okay, leash, leash is good, and a collar-his apartment might be in a crappy part of town, but it is clean and he's not about to lock her in the bathroom forever-uh...toys! Toys. Dogs like bones, probably, or maybe a squeaky toy? No balls, she can't run. Erm...that is a Batman plush toy. It even looks like him, judgemental chin and all.
A grinchy grin spreads over his face. Squeaky Batman goes into the cart.
He's gazing at what looks like an endless amount of treats when there's a shadow at his elbow and a wary voice asks, "Finding everything okay?"
No. No, he is not. And he's not Bruce, he is asking for help.
"I ended up with a dog," he says, turning slowly and carefully. "She's had a pretty rough start in life, and she's hurt, so…"
"Any allergies?"
"I have no idea."
"Hmm." Apparently they're not worried he's going to body-slam them into the grimy tiles, because they come closer. "Well, my guys love these things." Liver treats? Blech. "They stink, but hey."
You know what, fine.
"I'll try 'em. Hey, do you guys have dog beds? She won't be able to get up on mine, but I don't want her to be stuck on the carpet, and-"
"On the back wall."
"Thank you."
"Sure thing! If you need anything else, just ask."
He's still not sure why he went with the seventy-five dollar bed with sides and the fancy stuffing. Whatever. He did, and he had to do some rearrangement of his bedroom furniture, but it fits.
What? If she needs him, he wants to be there quickly, rather than having to remember that oh, yeah, there's a dog in my kitchen.
Why aren't they calling? Shit, nothing's gone wrong, right? They said they were pretty sure-but shit happens and-
His phone rings. Twenty minutes later, he's walking into the clinic to meet with the mild-mannered vet that took her initially.
"We set her leg, stitched her face up," he says. "She's hardy. She has been bred before-"
"I figured."
The vet nods.
"She's also suffering some malnutrition. I'd recommend a bland diet for a week or two before introducing regular dog food." Ah, Google came through for him. "Keep her warm and off that leg, but if she wants to get up and move around, she can if you're there to support her. Try to keep her down, though."
"Will do."
"Okay. I'm gonna send you home with a week's worth of pain medication for her, and a 'scrip for more, but I'd like to see her back next Friday-ish to see how she's doing."
"I can do that. Thanks for, um, I know this is kind of short notice, but I didn't…" He sighs. "There were a lotta dogs there and I didn't know if they'd even bother with her."
"Hm." The man's lip curls. "You said she was a bait dog?"
"I think so."
"Some people are scum...c'mon back. She's probably a little groggy, but she should be awake."
'Groggy' is not the word he'd use; the dog's high as a damn kite, bug-eyed and a little drooly. She's clean, though; turns out she's a gray dog. Her ears are cropped-shitty job, looks like-and there's stitches going across her nose to her right cheek. Her leg's in a pink cast, and when she sees him, her tail starts going.
"Hey, baby," he says, reaches out a hand for her to sniff. "You ready to get outta here?" The tail smacks the bars of the crate. Christ. He's suddenly so glad he got that seventy-five dollar dog bed. "C'mon. Let's go home."
THE END