"He wants a dog of his own, right?" Duncan guessed.
"Not only for himself, he wants to gift at least a dozen breeders to the Benedictine monks near Liestal, especially those dogs who show good rescue instincts. He is willing to pay twice the going rate to introduce the breed to the area, or part of it at least. He's read about rescue dogs and the origins of the Saint Bernard and the hospice at St. Bernard Pass. And about the similarities of the bloodhound to the Swiss Jura Hound, too." Conrad grinned behind his drink, which lent him a Cheshire cat-like quality.
"I guess someone's done some research into part of Old Pete's background, or been told a tale or two . . . Twelve dogs would be almost half my breeding population. Though over half of the bitches are expecting again . . ." Duncan pulled out his breeding book and started checking some dates.
Conrad handed over a contract and Duncan whistled softly at the initial offer. His wife, Sophia, came out of the kitchen where she'd been preparing dinner. A quick peek out the curtain overlooking the backyard and the dog pens, then she finally came into the living room.
"Sophia, dearest, can you read legal Latin? I need this contract checked and to see if the buyer's willing to follow my rules and our breeding requirements to the letter." Duncan demanded those clauses of anyone who bought the dogs.
"You need to name the breed too, Duncan," Conrad interjected. "Calling them Duncan's Dogs isn't working anymore. You're just not famous enough, but stories of your dogs have reached even Vienna." With that said, Conrad made another contract appear, this one with many official looking seals and ribbons on it.
Sophia pocketed the contracts and then whispered something into Duncan's ear. At first he smiled broadly at Conrad, then he blanched white when what she told him sunk in.
Conrad was at his side in an instant, as was Old Pete. Some of the more sensitive dogs also turned and whined.
"What's wrong, my friend?"
"Well . . . umm . . . how can I put this?" Duncan looked up at his wife and his eyes teared up. He was at a loss for words. A rarity amongst these two friends.
"I'm expecting, cousin. I am due early in the spring. I just hid it well, even from myself." Sophia smiled. "Now do as you promised." She kicked Duncan's ankle and pointed at the two sleeping boys by the fire. "Wake young Noah and get him washed up before dinner."
"Oh yeah, Conrad . . . my friend . . . I think it's time for starting dinner and for your own son to wake up too. He's got pooper-scooper duty today, doesn't he?"
Conrad coughed and finished off his drink quickly, then poured another and sipped it more cautiously this time. "I think you're right, Duncan. He'll earn his meat tonight."
"Try a better way of waking him than what you did last time. Tossing him into the yard to slide until he hits something that wakes him up may not be the best method." Duncan chortled. "Messy, too."
"What can I say? The boy's lazy. How does he expect to impress a fine young woman into marriage, if he won't even clean up after the dogs and sleeps all the time? Who'd take him as an apprentice breeder?" Conrad caught Duncan's eye and gave him a significant look.
"Who me? Thought never crossed my mind. I'm too busy trying to get clean insulin that we can store at home in the freezer. The stuff we have works, but we can't control how strong it is from batch to batch yet. They're working on some new tests and refining the processes. The animal testing has gone well. Very well.
"Meanwhile I got to go to them for a shot every two or three days for a whole month. Just so they can get a baseline on my blood after I eat a special meal, which isn't much better than your own cooking, Conrad. They cut the insulin with saline and stick me over and over until they think I got a proper dose. Got to sit there for hours with them watching me and running tests. I can't wait till they perfect the process. Then I can have medicine I can count on. Then my life will be normal again."
"Oh. So that's why you can't go on long rides anymore?"
"Yep. Though I like the idea of Sophia babying me in bed for a week or so . . ." Duncan feigned dodging Sophia's slap and laughed.
"Wasn't our honeymoon enough for you, you old . . . dog!"
"Woof. What do you expect of me, darling? I'm a breeder, not a baker. Though things still do rise in the morning . . ." Sophia snorted a laugh and went back into the kitchen. "Wake the boys, Duncan. Time's short."
"Okay." Duncan turned his attention back to Conrad. "I'll make an appointment next week to open discussions with the visitors, but they don't see each other until after I meet with them. That way they can't compare or tag-team me on prices or work out a way to try to sneak out of contract details. I'd prefer they stay ignorant of each other too, in case I go easier on the monks. But before that we'll need a name for the dogs. Right? Sophia will help me with the Latin. It'll give me something to do over the next week or so." Duncan thought a moment, his lips quirking. "How about Bigus Muttus?"
"Never. I know that word mutt."
"I've always been particular to the Duke, that's John Wayne, and he played a Marine in many movies, maybe something with Semper Fidelis in it."
"We'll write that one down, " Conrad said. "Though I'm thinking they want a proper name in Latin, Duncan. Dog is Canis, I think. Perhaps you can blend something out of their old up-time breed names?"
Conrad stood up and moved over to where his son was snoring away near the fire.
"Conrad, I don't speak Latin. 'Cept what's on the back of some of our money, you know . . . 'Ye Plumber's Union.'" Duncan caught the pillow Conrad threw at him and sent it right back. Conrad deflected it and it hit his sleeping son. The boy woke abruptly, looked at the clock and, in a panic, ran outside barefooted. He was back inside in less than a few seconds.
"It's snowing outside," Conrad's son chattered. "Hard!"
The wind rattled the windows and the snow seemed to pick up. "Looks like you two are stuck here for the night again, Conrad. You get the boys to wash up. You can call the castle later.
"I guess we're having two more for dinner, Sophia." Duncan said as he walked through the now empty kitchen. He looked around, but his wife was no where to be seen. A short search found Sophia and Old Pete's favorite bitch, Helga, in the guest bathroom.
"Duncan! She's birthing! Thirteen pups so far! She might hit fifteen. Hang on Helga, you can get through this . . ." Old Pete came and sat down next to Duncan and wagged his tail. Soon the woman shooed Old Pete and his master out, as they only got in the way. If they all lived until spring, Duncan might be able to meet the Swiss order by summer, after all. Helga and Old Pete always bred true.
"Husband! What are you looking at? Go get dinner started, and you, too, Conrad. Both of you! Be sure to wash your hands first or I'll chop off your little fingers!"
"Don't say a word, Conrad, I think she means it. Probably use our dullest blade or a hatchet," Duncan cautioned with a smile.
"We need a name for the dogs, Duncan." Conrad aimed the boys to the other bathroom down the hall and began to wash his own hands at the kitchen sink.
"We'll come up with one. You heard the lady, dinner first. Now you peel the onions, carrots and garlic and I'll go get some rabbits from the freezer outside to defrost in the microwave." Suddenly the kitchen was filled waist high with Old Pete and five of the other indoor dogs and their already grown puppies. "I'll go get some boiled rawhide for the boys to chew on so they leave us alone while we cook. And don't you dare give any of them onions; it makes them fart."
Conrad smiled. "A name, Duncan, or else. . ." He waved an onion above the dogs.
August 1634, Tip's Bar
"Got a request for seven more of Old Pete's pups today."
"They're offering a lot of money, Duncan," Conrad said as he read the letter Duncan handed him.
"Yeah, they are. That's the problem. I want to be sure my wife and children are taken care of after I go. That's a lot of money, but maybe I'll sell them to the Benedictines that came into town last week, instead. I hadn't thought they'd make the trip up to pick up the dogs th
emselves. Should give em a discount for that at least. I figure I can afford to right now."
Of the fifteen dogs that had been born to Helga that winter, three had died and two were rejected due to hearing problems. The nearly deaf dogs had been donated to the Assisted Living facilities for pet therapy once they'd been housebroken and socialized to deal with older people.
His other project still only produced a trickle of medical grade insulin, but it was enough for now. Diet and exercise still mostly made up for the difference. But Duncan's eyesight was starting to suffer. He was now smoking a bowl or two of pot a day as a preventative for glaucoma and for the pain that occasionally wracked his legs. He'd secretly taken to wearing Linda's old pantyhose too, to help his leg's circulation. For his left eye, it was too late. All he could see from that eye was blurs.
"Pain getting that bad?" Conrad asked.
Duncan nodded. "Don't let on to it, though. The new insulin, the pot, and other elixirs I'm getting out of Manning Medical Manufacturing are keeping me going for now. But for how long, I don't know.
"They may not like it, but I own over a quarter of their shares and have built and paid for the last two labs at the facility so they can do more research and make more medicines. That research is keeping me alive. Sophia's noticed my change in focus since . . ." Duncan's face cracked in a wide smile. "She's expecting again, Conrad. Surprised us both, being that she's breast feeding and just had Duncan Junior four months ago."
Conrad slapped him on his back. "That's a nice surprise, my friend!"
"I've put up posters around town, seeking more alchemists who want to further their education in exchange for work at the Three M Insulin Labs. Kind of a scholarship with a work caveat. And that bastard at the rendering plant just doubled the price on pancreases again. That's the third time this month and who knows how many times since I started the insulin research.
"He was using them to make sausage before, for God's sake! I got them for cheap before, pennies a dozen, and now he wants to charge me an arm and a leg! Someone's let on that I need the stuff to live and he's taking advantage of it."
"The butcher plant you speak of is just outside this city's jurisdiction I believe." Conrad smiled. "The factory is on lands of a good friend of ours, is it not?" Conrad mimicked someone wearing a small crown. "We'll have a talk with him. You stay out of it. You definitely do not need the stress, Duncan.
"Nothing illegal of course, but I'm sure a few surprise health inspections might make him more amenable to dealing properly with you. Now. About the breed's name?" He'd been hounding Duncan for months about this subject.
"Canis Bonzo Buckaroo?"
"I'm serious, Duncan."
"Nice to meet you, Serious. Here my best friend lies to me for all these years and tells me his name was Conrad."
Conrad sighed. When Duncan, took his pain medications he got silly.
He called a coach and took Duncan home.
September 1634, Duncan's home
Duncan sat and read and re-read the letter that was heavy with seals and looked up at Count Ludwig and the three officials that arrived with him. On the table sat a small chest, unopened, but it had taken two men to bring it inside. Considering the guards outside, it probably contained a good bit of gold. Being polite, Duncan didn't open it, but his hands itched when ever he looked at it. His wife, merchant born, eyed the chest like a hawk as she fed Duncan Junior.
They'd just returned from their second honeymoon, taken before Sophia's new pregnancy made travel too difficult. They'd inspected the land and village that the count had arranged for the Cunningham family to buy at a very good price.
Duncan had immediately turned over a large chunk of the land to the training and breeding of the dogs. It was less than fifteen miles to the south of Grantville as the crow flew, but like so many towns, it had been war ravaged until it was all but deserted. The influenza breakout the previous winter had finished off most of the remaining residents.
Now renamed New Petesburg, after Old Pete—who'd made the purchase possible—it housed a larger kennel and the training facilities for the dogs and housing for the trainers and their families. A dog's temperament and intelligence would determine its training and eventual selling price, so they got the best he could afford. That only left the chest on the table and the three gentlemen who had come with the count on an unofficial-official visit.
"So, Alamo saved a boy's life and then went back into the river three more times for the rest of them and finally pulled out his mother, too? All while under fire?" Duncan bit his lips to keep from crying. He was close to all his dogs. "Did they get the bastards that threw those people into the Rhine?"
"Yes, Herr Duncan, they did. Horn's men witnessed it in time and saved the Benedictines, some refugees, travelers, merchants and the rest of the dogs, but Alamo . . . they couldn't do anything for him. He'd been shot twice already, and the rocks and currents . . . He died in the boy's arms giving him the last of his warmth. This might cause some problems later, Herr Duncan."
Duncan sniffed, "How's that?"
"Someone raised a chapel at the site and sent a petition to the Vatican to see if they could canonize the dog. Said they witnessed angels helping the dog, but in the smoke of battle panicked people see many things."
"That's silly, Catholics wouldn't . . ."
"The boy and woman your Alamo saved were very important and very well connected to the Church. Very. The men, not so much, but rich traders nevertheless and they back the witness reports. I don't think it will amount to anything, but be ready for some letters and questions from the parties involved. Maybe even a visit. Official or not, I can't say." The count sounded mildly annoyed at the later part of his own statement.
"Alamo was a good boy, always was. One of Pete's and Helga's best pups. Too bad we weren't able to breed him before we sold him to the monks, but I think we can finally settle on a name for the dogs."
The count sat back sipping his drink and raised an eyebrow. "So we can finally stop calling them Duncan's Dogs?"
Duncan nodded.
Conrad raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Are you familiar with the story of the Alamo, Sir? No? Then let's watch the movie, it's one of my favorites. Even though the Spanish—well, Mexicans—win the fight, they lose the war."
"Read the letter closer, Herr Cunningham. The monks found three dogs of similar breeding from the mountains and Alamo was one of the ones they used to breed to them before they moved south towards the Rhine. His lineage isn't lost. They are also being very diligent in keeping up the log books and maintaining your factors for breeding. They still have the rest of the dogs you sold them."
Duncan nodded, showing he was listening to the count and reached into the cabinet and found the well used tape. "Sophia, do we have any peanut brittle or popcorn for our guests?" They didn't, but trays of small sandwiches and snacks appeared as if by magic. How did his wife do it?
Not one of the dogs in the rooms begged. The ones that stayed in the house now were well trained in manners. Sophia saw to that. Old Pete still got tidbits from Duncan at meal times when she wasn't looking. Duncan suspected she knew, anyway.
As Sophia settled on Duncan's lap, she slipped him a defrosted pre-measured hypodermic from the freezer and let him inject himself. The larger glass injector and brass needles hurt like hell, but Duncan was used to it by now. Her body hid his actions and his grimace of pain from their guests.
"What's the name you've settled on, my husband?"
"Saint Alamo, the always faithful. If the Vatican won't do it, I can. His ancestors were half-saints in a way, too." Duncan tried to smile at his attempt at levity. "Can you translate that to Latin, hun?" Duncan rubbed Old Pete's ears—he wasn't going to cry.
"That's a mouthful," she said. "I've always liked Duncan's Dogs, myself."
Sophia took the hypodermic and placed it in the disinfectant the doctors had provided. She noted the time, amount injected, last meal eaten and Duncan's activity level
for the day into the ledger.
She returned after putting Duncan Junior to bed, settled down next to Duncan and placed his hand on her swelling belly. He whispered something in her ear and nibbled it. Sophia stifled a giggle. They did have important company.
"What are we going to do with our new lands, husband? All old farmlands and woods, and almost no people. And how much do you think is in the box?" She continued to whisper, still the merchant.
"It doesn't matter how much is in there. I'm a rich man right now. I have everything I need. I have a growing family," Duncan put his hand on Sophia's belly again, "and more friends than I know what to do with. We'll figure something out. By the way, you should remember to thank the count later.
"As for the lands? It's wartime. There might be some who want to settle amongst the refugees passing through the area. Part of it will remain a permanent training facility for the dogs and a central area for Conrad's patrols to stop over.
"New Petesburg will rebuild itself in no time. That's not even counting what we'll make from Three M this next quarter. The reward in the chest is just icing on the cake. We'll do just fine."
Old Pete pushed his way through the crowded room and settled at Duncan's feet as was his right.
Soon everyone was entranced by the movie. Sophia's eyes still drifted often to the small heavy chest on the nearby table.
October 1634, Cunningham household's driveway
"Herr Cunningham, why do some folks call you Slam Dunk?"
Duncan had been sitting at the edge of his driveway watching some of the neighborhood kids play ball and teaching them the finer points of teamwork.
The new insulin was working wonders. The only problems were occasional infections at the site of the shot. Mostly due from his rubbing the wounds that the big needles made. He'd learned early on to vary the injection's locations to minimize the bruising and subsequent problems.
Sophia religiously followed the cleaning requirements before she let him reuse a needle. Duncan swore to invest more money in the development of smaller needles. Each day it took longer for the bruises to fade.