Chapter 68.

Celery Tracy was living the rags to riches dream.

Since coming into Gordon's care, she'd seen an entirely new side of life. All the abuse, terror, and starvation she'd previously endured had been screwed up in a ball and replaced with cuddles, warmth, and buckets of love.

The first visit to the vets had been a doozy. A nurse had estimated that she was about two years old, but had the bone density and bodyweight of an eight month old puppy. A bag of calcium-fortified dry food had been prescribed, along with the recommendation that she go on at least two walks a day. Hydrotherapy had also been suggested, much to Gordon's delight.

Then, there had been the fleas. And the ticks. Alan had squealed and ended up clinging to the overhead light in the treatment room when he'd seen the ecosystem Gordon's new dog was harbouring. Medicated shampoo had been purchased, along with enough flea powder to fill Thunderbird Three's cargo bay twice over.

Then, the delicate matter of male and female bits. As a former stray, it came as no surprise that Celery wasn't spayed. One furious threat from Scott about what he'd do to Gordon if he found Tracy Island overrun by puppies had been sufficient to make him add neutering to the mutt's list of procedures.

Further analysis of Celery's face had also revealed that she was missing a couple of teeth. Alan's innocent enquiry of whether she was simply losing her baby teeth had been met with a look of quiet frustration from the vet, who'd sharply responded that she'd probably broken them trying to eat trash and would never grow them back.

The hole in Celery's left ear had been the icing on the cake. A bullet was deemed the most likely culprit. According to John, gun violence was on the rise in Rio, and stray animals made easy targets.

Gordon had allayed his inner fury by booking Celery in for every veterinary procedure she was eligible for. He'd opted against reconstructive surgery for her ear, however. The hole was a battle wound, just like the scar he bore on his left shoulder, courtesy of a trigger-happy Fuse and the hydrothermal vent he'd brought down on Thunderbird Four during the fight over Braman.

His splurging hadn't stopped there. He was determined to spoil Celery rotten, much to Scott's dismay. Her collection of coats, toys, beds, and expensive treats soon surpassed even those of the great Sherbert Creighton-Ward. The fact that the little mutt had already been photographed alongside the famous Pug at several public events was also causing a canine media scandal. The public were enthralled by the prospect of Sherbert ditching the Duchess of Kent's corgi for an ex-stray.

Rags to riches indeed.

-x-

"As you can see, we've got quite the turn out."

Virgil felt his jaw drop as he surveyed the vast crowds milling around Hurlingham Polo Club in Buenos Aires. He didn't monitor Kayo's social life, but knew for a fact that she couldn't possibly have this many friends.

"Most of the people here are members," Penelope explained, as if somehow reading Virgil's mind, "The other half are guests I invited on Kayo's behalf. I also extended invites to a couple of people you boys know personally through work."

John's eyes widened as he spied Captain Ridley O'Bannon chatting with Ned Tedford over by the winner's enclosure. Gladys was perched on a nearby table, her pink petals wilting in the unforgiving humidity.

Celery trotted happily along behind Gordon. He'd spared no expense in kitting her out with every piece of canine equipment known to man. She had on a bright yellow collar in representation of Thunderbird Four, and a matching cooling vest to keep her panting under control. Her feet were encased in orthopaedic booties and a yellow lead attached her to Gordon, who was busy taking in his luxurious surroundings. So busy in fact, that he didn't notice when said lead slipped clean out of his hand.

Celery wasn't a disobedient dog. While her loyalty to Gordon was the result of anxiety rather than proper training, she recognised her name and generally tried to obey the few commands she'd learnt. Sitting and staying had been mastered, but heeling was proving a bit harder.

Celery's nose twitched in curiosity as she caught the scent of food. She'd had breakfast a couple of hours ago, but the calcium-fortified stuff Gordon was feeding her tasted weird. Now that she was up to a heathy weight, he'd started scaling back on the amount of human food he supplemented her with as well.

Long gone were the days when she'd been allowed to lick his plate clean.

Instinctively, Celery began to follow her nose. Gordon and his brothers were still wrapped up in a conversation with Sherbert's owner and were woefully ignorant of the adventure her snout was taking her on. After a few minutes of detailed sniffing, she found herself at the entrance of a big tent of sorts. A couple of humans were milling around inside, but that was fine. She was learning to trust humans.

The delicious aroma her nose had tipped her off about turned out to be a bowl of ridiculously posh dog food. Huge chunks of chicken mixed with fresh rice and steamed carrots sat in a heavenly smelling gravy. Every dog, and possibly human's, dream.

As a former stray, Celery would never lose her 'see it, eat it' mentality. She'd been denied food too often and for too long.

Several mouthfuls in, a low growl sounded.

Instinctively, Celery flattened her ears against her head and tucked her tail between her legs. Half a second later, a Rottweiler that looked to have more in common with a crocodile than a dog came into view, his displeasure at finding a stranger eating his food clearly evident.

Ever so slowly, Celery began to back away, her eyes downcast and her head lowered. When the Rottweiler bared his teeth in a snarl and began to stalk after her, she flattened herself against the ground in surrender.

Big mistake.

A stationary target made the job of pouncing and attacking significantly easier for the Rottweiler. With raised hackles and bared fangs, he launched himself at Celery, who screamed in pain and fear as he sank his teeth into the scruff of her neck, her claws scrabbling desperately as she tried to back-pedal her way to safety.

Celery's screams escalated in volume as the Rottweiler began to violently shake his head, tossing her around like a freshly caught rat. In a fit of blind panic, she managed to sink her own teeth into one of his forelimbs, however this served only to enrage her attacker further. Blood began to pour from the left side of her head as the bigger dog released her, only to re-clamp his jaws around her skull, his fangs tearing at the delicate flesh near her bullet wound.

Just as the little mutt felt her energy begin to evaporate, the Rottweiler was suddenly ripped off her. The familiar and comforting scent of tea tree filled her nose as she glanced up to see Gordon directing a solid kick at her attacker's muzzle, rage written in every line on his face. The force of the attack sent the Rottweiler careening backwards into a portable water dispenser, the plastic rupturing on impact.

Gordon wasted no time in bending to scoop Celery off the ground, however was denied the opportunity to escape by a second Rottweiler materialising. He pivoted to shield the little mutt as the new aggressor catapulted forwards and sank its teeth into his forearm.

Gordon had been trained to deal with pain, but even his enhanced tolerance was no match for the agony radiating up his bicep. With all the force he could muster in his rather compromised state, he reeled back his arm and delivered a devastating punch to the second Rottweiler's snout. The grip on his arm weakened enough for him to seize the dog's muzzle and wrench himself free, but another growl signalled that things were far from over.

Gordon felt himself panic as a third dog materialised from seemingly nowhere. He was no authority on breeds, but even he knew a German Shepherd when he saw one.

Plus, the first Rottweiler looked to be coming back for Round Two.

Panic turned to dread as all three dogs encircled him, their gazes fixed on Celery. The German Shepherd lowered itself to the ground in preparation for a pounce, while the second Rottweiler eyeballed the exposed skin of his ankle.

Celery howled in pain as Gordon shifted her so that she was propped against his hip, his shirt smeared red with her blood. As he reflected despairingly on his damaged arm and the lack of next moves he had in his arsenal, Jeff's voice suddenly sounded in his head.

'Son, a Tracy is never out of options. Remember our motto: Never give up, at any cost.'

Fortunately for Gordon, salvation came not in the form of an elusive 'option', but a certain brother's foot.

The German Shepherd and first Rottweiler were forced to sample the tail-between-legs dish they'd force-fed Celery as Scott's foot made solid contact with their rib-cages. Both dogs immediately ceased their hostility towards Gordon and switched their combined attention to the eldest Tracy, who looked like an explosion waiting to happen.

As both Rottweilers and the German Shepherd hastily re-grouped, Scott took advantage of his surroundings and seized the discarded water dispenser before dumping the icy contents over all three dogs. The champagne glasses that were lobbed at the soaked canine's retreating backsides as they yelped and scampered out of the tent was the icing on the rather morbid cake.

"What in the blazes is going on here?" a new voice demanded. Pivoting round, Scott came face-to-face with a portly middle-aged man who was glowering at him and Gordon like they were something unpleasant he'd just stepped in.

"I'll tell you what's going on," Scott thundered, barely noticing when a rather confused Alan joined the party, "Your filthy creatures just launched an unprovoked attack on my brother and his dog. I am, quite frankly, appalled by your decision to leave them unrestrained and unsupervised in a public space. What if a child or vulnerable adult were to wander in here?"

The man's beady eyes narrowed accusingly, "This tent is my property, meaning that anyone who enters without permission is trespassing. You and your brother do not have clearance to be in the VIP section. My dogs were merely following their training and protecting my property."

Scott drew himself up to his full height, "Sir, I'm intimately familiar with the workings of guard dogs through my line of work. Your animals are dangerous and attacked without provocation or warning. The legal prognosis for both dog and owner in such situations is dire."

The man scoffed and carelessly lit a cigar, "Alright, I see what game you're playing. Tell you what, I know several highly reputable breeders. How about I arrange for you to be put on the waiting list for the next litter of sought-after mosaic Labradors, and we gloss over whatever it was you think my dogs did. No, not your taste? Okay, how about a bi-coloured Pug? They can fetch up to three thousand dollars apiece in the circles I frequent. Surely young men such as yourselves would rather have one of those flitting around your heels than that scruffy old mongrel?"

Gordon's eyes welled as he hoisted Celery into his arms. Gently cradling the little mutt's bleeding head, he stormed out of the tent, Alan close on his heels.

Scott's voice shook as he went in for the kill, "Listen here, buddy. Your ancestors may have won you access to the VIP lounge by ruining the lives of people they deemed inferior, but we are International Rescue, and to us, every life matters. Expect a call from our lawyer. We'll also be sending you the vet bills for our own dog's treatment. Oh, and one final thing. You'd better hope you never end up in a situation where you require the aid of a Thunderbird or its pilot."

With eyes like fiery sapphires, Scott spun on his heel and hurried after his brothers. The trail of blood staining the immaculately mown grass told him that they were heading in the direction of the veterinary tent, unsurprisingly.

Whether the blood came from Gordon or Celery, he couldn't tell.