Song 12: "I Go to Extremes"

They spent the rest of the day combing the streets, searching for some hint of Oliver and his treacherous new friend. The more Dodger thought about Adena, lying to the kid, tricking him, the angrier he grew. "Oliver!" he barked. "Where are ya?"

One block searched, then another, until they'd combed all of the Upper East Side. Not a sign of Oliver anywhere. Outside the Foxworth mansion on Fifth, they caught a whiff of Oliver and Adena's scents together, but they couldn't follow the trail for long. There were so many smells in New York City, it was tough for a canine nose to focus on just one.

Anytime they ran into a fellow street dog, they'd chase them and screamed, "Wait, don't go! We ain't gonna hurt ya!" But few strays believed other strays had pure intentions.

They got a brown-and-tan mutt cornered, who only stopped trembling when he realized his pursuers weren't purebred. "Have ya seen two cats? Orange tabby and a calico?"

The mutt shook his head, and they stepped aside so he could flee.

Finally they cornered a purebred black Labrador, who was determined to go down fighting. "Ya ain't getting me, Underdogs!" He growled and raised his haunches.

"What? We're not Underdogs — ya think just cause we're mixed-breeds — Wait a minute." Now Dodger growled too. "Are ya in tha Purebreds?

"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't. I'm pure Lab, see? Better than ya mutts."

"Why ya stuck-up, no-good — "

But Dodger was cut off by the girl beside him. Nancy stepped in front of him, stopped their fight, and told the Labrador to beat it. He quickly ran off. "Don't lose ya temper," Nancy said. "That Lab wasn't in tha Purebreds. Just wanted us to think he was."

"Yeah… guess so." Dodger's ears fell at her words. His mind went back to a day long ago, when he'd sat under a sidewalk bench with a homeless man taking a smoke.

Get that temper under control before it gets ya in trouble, mister.

Dodger had tried for years, but rage was intoxicating.

"But maybe we should be asking tha Purebreds, huh?" The idea struck him. "They been after me since Halloween. Ruscoe swore to get me." His eyes widened. "What if they kidnapped Oliver to lure me? But how did they know where we live?"

Nancy's voice went low. "What if tha Purebreds ain't just dogs? What if they let purebred cats into tha gang… like calicos?"

Suddenly it all made horrible, perfect sense.

From then on, they had a new strategy: stop tracking down random mutts and start interrogating the breeded, the fancy, the posh. They were harder to find, harder to tell who was homeless and who was somebody's pet. Lack of collar was their give-away.

The sky had darkened. By flickering alley light, Dodger would slam the purebreds against the wall and demand to know if they were in Ruscoe's gang. "Who tha heck is Ruscoe?" they all said, some convincing, others not. Dodger got a few scrapes, but he moved with speed and fury and had Nancy for backup. Most of the time.

"Dodge!" she gasped as she watched him kick a tiny, chubby pug. The purebred had a wrinkled face, smeared with dirt; he cowered instantly.

Dodger snarled in his face and put a paw on his back, keeping him down. He explained that the pug looked guilty when he heard the name "Oliver." The pug's eyes watered. "So where is he, punk? Where did they take Oliver?" he growled.

"I don't know!" the pug squeaked. "One day he was there, everything was fine, then — "

" — then a calico cat lured him off, right? Where do they got him?"

"A calico? No, no, he put me in a box… Said I was a mistake. Left me in an alley."

"What? Who?" Dodger snapped, his eyes popping.

"My human, Oliver. He was good, he didn't mean it. He loves me."

"Dodger, let him go! Ya hurt him!" Nancy shrieked, pushing him away from the pug. He wouldn't budge, and she had to grab his bandana in her teeth and yank him. Free, the pug scampered out of the alley and ran into a crowd of people. Dodger was panting.

"What gives?" he spat. "Are ya crazy, ya Brooklyn broad?"

Nancy narrowed her eyes. She backed away from him, eyes watery but refusing to let a single tear fall. "He didn't know anything." Her voice quivered. "Ya outta control."

"I'm saving my little bro. They could be hurting him."

"And how would Oliver feel if he saw ya acting like this?"

"Oliver would rather not be kidnapped, ya nag."

"Ya think he'd be proud of ya, scaring and hurting innocent dogs?" Nancy glared at him. "I've known him a month and I know he wouldn't. Ya acting like tha Purebreds."

"Sometimes ya fight fire with fire. This is a gang war."

"But ya better than them! Ya not a mean dog, I know ya ain't."

"Don't judge me." He headed further down the alleyway. There was a chain-link fence before him, bent at the bottom big enough for a dog to squeeze through. "Ya coming?"

"I wanna save him too, Dodge. But not like this." She was on one side of the fence and he was on the other, light flashing dimly overhead. She was shaking. "I'm going home."

Rubber tires screeched in his head, screaming on asphalt.

"Ya leaving me. Ya said ya wouldn't, but here ya are — Go then! Get lost!"

"Dodger… calm down. I ain't leaving ya."

"I don't need ya!" he barked. "I'll save tha kid on my own."

Nancy said nothing more. They looked at each other between the silver chains, memories and hearts locked on the fence, keys thrown away. Then they both turned, walked a few paces in the opposite direction. Then they ran, not looking back. The night grew colder.

Dodger was left, again, to wander the concrete jungle alone.

His breaths were ragged, his paws blistered. The dog's brown, white, and gray fur was always scruffy, but now it was a knotted mess. He'd barely slept or eaten.

Dodger had searched the streets for hours, or days — time had escaped him — with no trace of Oliver. He'd gone over every district twice: Upper East, all of Midtown, the Theatre District, and lastly, Chelsea and Gramercy. He knew the Purebreds wouldn't take his little brother north, that wasn't their territory. He knew, in his heart, Oliver was in Lower Manhattan.

He knew that his only hope of finding Oliver was — like he'd done on Halloween — to march into the lower city. Into enemy territory.

"Seen tha Purebreds around here, punk? Calico cat with them?"

"No, I swear — haven't seen them in weeks — let me go!"

As the Dalmation slumped away, he realized he'd make the poor canine limp. He hadn't meant to bite his leg that hard. Dodger watched him slump down and nurse his wound. His mind flashed the image of a German Shepherd puppy missing an ear.

Dodger fled the alley and ran until he found a fire escape.

He climbed under the metal stairwell. "Oh, Oliver… what am I doing?"

The look in the orange kitten's eyes when Dodger had scoffed and turned his back on him for wanting to live with some rich girl. For not wanting to stay with Dodger. Ya wanna leave? Fine. There's tha door. Go on. No one's stopping ya. The heartbreak in the kid. Ya lighten up! If he doesn't like it, let him go. How many times had he let anger get the best of him?

It was the Bronx. It was New York. It was him.


He woke up the next morning to the morning rush. The homeless could always count on the bagel buyers and coffee connoisseurs for an alarm clock. Dodger wasn't hungry.

He'd let so many bad things happen to his friends and family. Why had he wasted so much life being angry at his mother, at Oliver, at the Company, even at his Nancy babe?

Late nights and early mornings were ripe for guilt. Dodger had no breakfast — all he had to do was find Oliver, save Oliver — but there was no sign of the Purebreds.

He spent hours in the grim streets of Hell's Kitchen, but no Purebreds. He walked up and down Wall Street, but no Purebreds. All of the Meatpacking District, but no Purebreds. All day he searched, and it wasn't until early evening that it finally clicked — they were avoiding him, toying with him. They were making him come to them. They were at headquarters.

Not just power. Battery also means beating tha living daylights outta ya.

When he arrived at Battery Park, there was only the occasional walkway lamp for light. No stars could be seen; the night was pitch black, and he could barely see in front of him. But Dodger smelled the Purebreds were near. He stepped cautiously into the grass.

"Purebreds?" he snarled. "I know ya there. Step into tha light."

Dodger stayed close to the lamplight — if they planned to jump him, at least he'd see it coming — and one after the other, one finely-bred canine at a time, they came forward. There was Club and Razor, in front of their subordinates. Leading the pack was Roscoe himself.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he snickered. "Oops. Poor choice of words."

"Where's Oliver? I know ya got him. I know Adena tricked him."

"Adena? Oh, you mean the calico. Didn't know she had a name."

His lackeys laughed at his callousness, a horde of brutish elites, all males. Dodger had never seen any girls in their gang, but if they were as discriminating about gender as they were about breed, then Dodger guessed they forced females to stay with the puppies.

"That cat owes us her life. She belongs to us. She doesn't need a name."

Dodger spied a white, black, and orange shape in the background, hiding behind a park bench. Adena met his gaze. If he didn't know better, he'd say she was crying.

"As for your cat… he's alive. Might not have all nine lives left, though."

"If you've touched a hair on his head, I swear — "

"You're not in a position to make threats." Ruscoe towered over him, as tall as his father had been. "And we're not threatening you. We're offering you an invitation."

"Ah, don't tell me ya throwing Club his bar mitzvah."

"More of a board meeting. A stock exchange. You can trade for your feline."

"Trade? What am I trading for him, exactly? Whaddya want?"

"Find out at midnight tomorrow. Come to Grand Central Station, and come alone. If you bring any backup — your Company friends, or the Underdogs — the trade's off."

"But what am I trading?" Dodger barked, but they wouldn't answer. The Purebreds slunk into the shadows, their backs to him. He barked and growled at them, but they didn't engage. They walked away as he shouted, "What am I trading?"


Dodger was sprinting through the streets. His eyes were locked on the great train station, just a few blocks ahead. It was midnight, the witching hour, and although New York never slept, the city had an eerie stillness. He felt like he was walking into Sykes's lair all over again.

They'd made him wait an entire day, built up his fear and anxiety, worn him out from running downtown and back uptown. The Purebreds were deliberate in their planning.

The dog reached Park Avenue and stood before the building. There were giant columns and three enormous windows, and at top, a sculpture of three figures above a clock. Below them was the carved title: Grand Central Terminal. He hoped his meeting wasn't terminal.

Inside, the station was nearly empty, save a janitor and a night guard. The famous Grand Central Terminal Clock was the centerpiece. Dodger slipped in unnoticed, his eyes darting to every corner of the building. In the far right was Ruscoe, patient in the shadows.

"Follow me," the Doberman whispered. Dodger had no choice.

They walked down a flight of metal stairs, down past the docking stations, to the basement where train mechanics worked. Steam hissed from pipes; rats scurried in the corners. At this hour of night, there were no humans. "Welcome to our board meeting."

There were several large dogs on the mechanic level, hiding behind metal pillars, emerging from the steam fog, all surrounding Dodger. He saw a perfect Boxer. A flawless Husky. An ideal Great Dane. An impeccable Malamute. He saw Club the Pit Bull and Razor the one-eared German Shepherd. He didn't see Oliver.

"And it's a trap. I knew it was a trap. So whaddya gonna do, kill me?"

"I said we were trading for Oliver, didn't I? I'm a dog of my word."

"Then where is he? I ain't doing nothing till I see he's okay."

"Figured you'd say that." Ruscoe nodded to the crowd, and on cue, Razor disappeared down the hallway towards what looked like a row of closets. He couldn't see, but he heard a hiss and a scuffle, and the German Shepherd re-entered the room with a ginger cat in his mouth. He had Oliver between his teeth, not biting him hard enough to hurt, but to trap.

"Kid," Dodger panted, heart pounding, "don't panic — I'm here."

"I'm okay! Don't do — " Oliver squirmed, " — anything stupid!"

"I think his cat is smarter than he is," Ruscoe chuckled, his gang echoing.

"Let him go, Ruscoe, or I swear to Old Yeller I'm gonna — "

"Make me? You can't make us do anything. We hold all the cards." Ruscoe laughed down to him. "But know what the funniest part is? How much you don't know about us."

"Whaddya mean? I know plenty. Tha Purebreds are breed supremacists. Ya hurt other dogs to get what ya want, and ya want territory. Ya wanna rule tha city."

"That's all true… but it's just the surface. You don't see things from our perspective." Now the Doberman circled him. "You don't even know who really leads the Purebreds."

"...What are ya talking about? Ya lead them."

"But what if I don't? What if we just want you to think that?"

The dogs surrounding them all moved aside, even Ruscoe moved aside, deferred. Another dog's paws make the metal flooring clank, for he was a heavyweight. He hadn't been there a minute ago. He was a familiar, terribly familiar, face from the darkness.

This was impossible. Dodger had known him for years, way back on Fagin's barge. He'd been a member of the Company, back in the day. The one who always made him laugh, who understood when he wanted to be left alone. He wasn't the Purebreds's leader.

"...Noah? What are ya doing here?"

"Dodger, my friend. Guess I have some explaining to do."

"But why — Noah, ya can't be their leader — it don't make sense." Dodger backed up against a metal pipe. "Ya were tha one who first warned me about tha Purebreds."

"I didn't want ya to get hurt. Ya my buddy. Figured ya'd have tha common sense to stay outta harm's way, but I underestimated ya stubbornness." The purebred Bullmastiff, the gray giant, had such a good-natured smile. "I've been their leader from tha start. Heck, tha Purebreds were my idea. But most of them don't know I'm calling tha shots."

Noah glanced around at all the dogs in the mechanic's platform. "Only tha dogs in this room right now know tha truth. Tha rest think Ruscoe is their fearless leader."

"But why? Why do ya wanna get rid of all tha mutts?"

"Hey, no worries, no cares. I'm gonna tell ya everything ya wanna know."

Maybe Noah thought hearing a play on his own catchphrase would cool Dodger's temper. It had the opposite effect. He fixated on poor Oliver, trapped in Razor's jaws. His vulnerability was the only thing keeping Dodger from lashing out.

"Bro, please, calm down." Noah stared at him with unmistakable concern. "I know ya have, well... a bit of an anger problem, but everyone's got problems, don't they?"

"I don't have problems, you no good, backstabbing — "

"Dodger, Dodger… buddy. Ya gotta calm down. Ya not thinking straight." Noah smiled wearily. "I'm trying to talk rationally with ya, cause that's what friends do."

He felt blood coursing through his veins furiously. Noah took a gentle step towards him, but he was met with a growl from Dodger. That put all of the Purebreds on alert, and he heard Oliver whimper — Razor's fangs were tightening — and Dodger controlled himself.

"Ya and me," Dodger panted, "are not friends."

"That's just anger talking. I know we're friends. Known each other for ages, went hungry on Fagin's boat together… Honestly, ya the greatest friend I've ever had on tha streets."

"Friends don't betray friends! Friends don't kidnap innocent cats to get at each other!" he barked. "Ya ain't my friend. Ya a lying scumbag." Dodger thought back to their conversation at dawn, after he'd spent the night in their subway station. "Ya weren't patrolling tha block that morning. Ya were meeting with ya lackeys, weren't ya?"

"I never lied to ya. Never said I was patrolling tha block." Noah sighed. "But I never told ya tha whole truth. Lemme make up for that now. Lemme explain."

"Fine, I'll listen. But I want Razor to put Oliver down. Get his teeth off him."

The Purebreds' true leader nodded to the scarred Shepherd, who rolled his eyes and set Oliver down. He didn't let him escape though — he kept his claws on the cat's collar. Noah turned back to Dodger. "See? We're reasonable. We ain't an evil gang. It ain't like there are good dogs and evil dogs. It ain't that simple. Really, we're doing everyone a favor."

"Oh, this'll be good. Okay, I'll bite. How are tha Purebreds doing us all a favor?"

"We're separating dogs who oughta be separated. We're establishing order. That's what Roscoe and DeSoto said to us tha first night they threatened us, remember? They looked at me, Rita, Frankie, Tito, and Einstein and asked why we were hanging out with mutts like ya, Charlie, and Nancy. They said breeds oughta stick to their own breeds. That made sense."

"Ya believed those jerks? Thought ya were superior? Ya said we were friends."

"We were. We are. I didn't think I was superior… just that pure-breeds and mixed-breeds shouldn't mingle. Separate but equal." Noah sighed. "That's why I left."

Dodger scoffed at the revelation. "I thought ya left cause Sykes scared ya off? And if ya became a breed supremacist, why'd ya live with Charlie and Nancy for so long?"

"I wasn't convinced then, but tha seed was planted. Sure, I stuck around tha girls — safety in numbers. And I liked them fine," he shrugged. He was so casual it made Dodger furious. "But late last summer, I began sneaking off. Meeting other purebreds with tha same idea. I met Ruscoe and we decided to form tha Purebreds and segregate New York for good. We'd take all of Manhattan and drive tha mutts north. Keep them in tha Bronx."

The mention of his puppyhood home sent a flash of anger over him. So this was their plan — confine all mixed-breeds to the Bronx. Confine him to the Bronx.

"After Halloween, our plans went into motion, so I left tha girls altogether. Began leading tha Purebreds full-time." He gazed at his gang members proudly. "Ruscoe and I decided that I'd be tha brains and he'd be tha brawn. I'd control tha gang in secret while he rallied dogs to our cause. Ruscoe's a natural leader, see, a dog others can admire. Better at tha whole alpha male schtick than me." He cast the Doberman an appreciative look. Curiously, Ruscoe didn't return his smile but instead looked contemplative. Noah didn't notice and kept talking. "Unfortunately, Ruscoe thinks he has a score to settle with ya."

"Yeah, I noticed when he shoved me off tha Brooklyn Bridge."

"I didn't order Ruscoe to kill ya that night. I don't want ya dead. He disobeyed me, but we had words. Came to an understanding." Ruscoe didn't look especially understanding.

It seemed to Dodger that not everyone was happy with their leadership arrangement.

"Noah, if we really are friends… I just don't get it. How is segregation good?"

"Everyone's happier around those who look like themselves. Roscoe and DeSoto made me think about tha division between mutts and pures… best thing for everyone is to separate. When they're together, they fight. When they're apart, there's peace. It's as simple as that," Noah shrugged. "Manhattan is for tha upper class. Always has been, always will be."

"So stealing territory? Stealing from weaker dogs? That's all for tha cause?"

"That's life on tha streets," he said firmly. "Ya know that as well as I do. Tha Purebreds are doing what normal street dogs do to each other, just on an organized level." Now he raised an eyebrow. "Ya never had a problem staking out an alley, fighting weaker dogs for a meal. So why are ya upset when my gang does tha same? If ya wanna eat, another dog's gotta starve."

"That ain't true. If we all shared with each other — "

"Share? There ain't enough to share!" Noah suddenly barked. "Survivors. Don't. Share." He rolled his eyes, but soon regained his composure. "If anyone's gonna share, it's gonna be pures with pures and mutts with mutts. Segregation is best. Ya know I'm right."

His mind was in a jumble. Dodger couldn't blame them for wanting to survive, even if that meant stealing from other dogs. He took a deep breath.

"Ya said I could trade for Oliver," he said slowly. "What am I trading?"

"Wondered when we'd get to that." Noah smiled. "That's tha real reason we summoned ya tonight. Ya see now that ya ain't that different from us. Ya know we're friends." It was strange to see the Bullmastiff smile so endearingly while his gang glared. It was disconcerting.

"I'd like ya to join tha Purebreds. Join me and Oliver goes free."

He didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't that.

"I'm a mutt. What about everything ya just said, about segregation?

"We'll make an exception for ya. I'm tha leader. What I say goes. If I tell my gang that ya a pureblooded Jack Russell Terrier, then ya are." He turned to his lackeys and they nodded.

"Oh, yeah! He's a Purebred!" Club said with slobber.

"Best Jack Russell I ever seen," the Boxer said.

"See what I mean? But really, Dodge, I want ya with me. Ya my buddy."

"If I join, how do I know Ruscoe won't murder me in my sleep?"

"I wouldn't allow that. A Purebred never hurts a Purebred."

He thought about everything that Noah — his friend, his enemy, he didn't know anymore — had revealed that night. He thought about all the times he'd stolen dinner from another dog, and how much he loved Manhattan and hated the Bronx. It was harder to survive up north.

Then it hit him. There was no such thing as Separate But Equal.

"I'll never join. Ya just a bully, Noah."

"Takes one to know one."

It was settled. The lines were drawn. There was only one issue left.

Dodger looked at all the dogs' positions, looked all around the room, desperate for some kind of plan. He saw Razor's claws tightening on Oliver's torso; he saw the kid wince in pain. There had to be some way out. There was always a way out.

His gaze found a pipe to his left, loose in the middle, hissing steam.

He locked eyes with Oliver. He nodded resolutely.

"Ya know, Ruscoe, ya look a lot like ya father…" He spoke casually to the Doberman, inching slowly to the left. "But ya uncle, DeSoto… I think ya got his nose."

He saw the lightbulb click in Oliver's head.

Dodger kicked the loose pipe with all his might, and in an instant, thick white steam has flooded the mechanic's room with a violent hiss. "Now, kid!"

In shock, Razor's fangs had loosened on the cat's back — it was the chance he needed. Oliver leapt forward and clawed the Doberman's nose, ferocious as a feral cat. Ruscoe screamed in pain, now sporting deep red gashes.

The steam cloud made it impossible to see anyone, and the Purebreds were biting and clawing amongst themselves, trying to get Oliver or Dodger. The cat sprung free and clawed his way up on Dodger's back — he didn't care that the claws hurt, that didn't matter — and the pair wasted no time in racing out of the room and up the metal stairs to freedom.

"They're getting away!" Ruscoe yelled furiously, holding his nose.

With Oliver clinging to his back, Dodger burst from the room and re-entered the Grand Central Station lobby. There were more people now, arriving for the earliest train, and they gasped and screamed to see the pack of dogs emerge from downstairs.

"Don't go out the front door! They'll catch us!" Oliver said frantically.

"Then where do we go?" The Purebreds were catching up.

Oliver pointed to the right. "That way! Hurry!"

Dodger saw where the kid meant and praised his genius. They charged through the lobby, ran around the Grand Central Terminal Clock's information desk, ran under people's legs who screamed and fell over. Security guards were waving batons at the Purebreds to keep them from the travelers, slowing them down. It was enough.

They escaped down another flight of stairs, this one leading to a subway docking station. The train doors were opening. Old passengers were exiting and new ones were entering. "So glad they held their board meeting in a train station!" Dodger laughed.

They darted through the crowd and snuck onboard, hiding under the seats, as far away from the passengers as they could be. No one seemed to mind — a cat and a dog were hardly the weirdest things on the New York Metro — and the doors closed. The subway took off.

"I knew you'd save me," Oliver meowed tearfully.

Dodger laid down, exhausted but smiling. "Absitively posolutely."


They'd been beaten and bruised by the security guards, but the Purebreds had escaped the Grand Central lobby relatively intact. Escaping out the massive front doors and onto the city streets, the Purebreds reconvened in a nearby alleyway.

"Well, that didn't go as planned," Ruscoe sneered, nursing his injured nose.

Noah turned on him and growled, "Something ya wanna say?"

"Yeah." The Doberman and Bullmastiff stood muzzle to muzzle, glaring at each other. The rest of their gang fell to the sidelines, muttering amongst themselves. "You never told me you were inviting Dodger to join. He's a mongrel. He insulted my family."

"He's my friend!" Noah barked. "And he's smart. Knows tha city better than anyone — we coulda used him." Now he got in Ruscoe's face. "Remember our arrangement. I'm tha brains. Ya tha brawn. Is that clear?"

"Clear as the Hudson," Ruscoe sneered.

They stopped growling at each other to present a unified front to their subordinates. The Boxer, Husky, Great Dane, Malamute, German Shepherd, and Pit Bull looked at them expectantly. That meeting has undoubtedly been a failure, so what was their next move?

"Forget about Dodger. He's just one dog." Noah's eyes narrowed. He stood with his head raised high, his chest pronounced, fangs and claws displayed proudly. "Our enemies are tha Underdogs, led by that traitor Skippy. Now we take tha fight to them."

The Purebreds barked and cheered, insulting the Rottweiler as a blood traitor, a disgrace to pure-breeds everywhere. They all wanted to be the one to take him down.

"Manhattan belongs to tha elite. Tha pure. Tha upper class," Noah barked. "Starting today, we double down our efforts. Starting today, we drive those mutts outta town."

Sunrise over the skyscrapers was greeted with wolfish howls.

"Starting today, tha gang war has begun."