Chapter Three

Psychotic Peace

Past

Joan lived in peace for years before the Hoggs became her neighbors. Their arrival turned her solitary life into hell. The multiple thefts from her property took away her sense of security, but it was the incessant barking and howling that drove her mad. She had called the sheriff’s department numerous times, and nothing changed. After exhausting all other options, she finally resorted to contacting the closest city’s humane society. She told them about the puppy mill and the dog fighting.

At night on the ranch, you could see car lights coming for miles. There was never a pattern where she could pinpoint the next fight, but she knew at least ten different vehicles, with an unknown number of passengers, attended them. The horrible sounds on those nights were indescribable.

The person she spoke with was sympathetic. They’d also said that without a police report, evidence was needed for them to get involved. Joan pondered the problem and came up with a solution. She couldn’t pinpoint the fights, but she could almost certainly capture animal abuse in the lens of her camera.

On a particularly warm evening a week later, Joan decided to collect the evidence. It could take several trips, and she didn’t care. Listening to the sounds of tortured dogs was at an end. She left Max behind so she could sneak in and out quickly.

Over the years, Joan had hiked every inch of her property, and by following the wash through the canyon and navigating the ridge, she would come out above the Hoggs’ homestead. It was the perfect spot to spy, and she held no illusions. This was spying.

She’d waited for the full moon so she wouldn’t need a flashlight, though she brought a small one. She also had binoculars and a good camera.

“You behave while I’m gone and don’t chew the furniture,” Joan told Max and handed him a bully bone that would hopefully keep him busy. He was a year old now, but she’d found him gnawing on one of her old shoes a few days before, and they were her favorite gardening pair.

He looked at her with the same sad eyes he always had when she left him behind. He opened his jaws and made a small noise; that was his way of speaking.

“I know,” she patted his head. “I’ll be back soon. Guard the house.”

Joan loved the Rottweiler breed because they inherently knew how to guard their family, and they looked fierce. She’d turned Max into a big baby, but she had no doubt he would protect her at risk to his own life. Rottweilers were basically lazy dogs who liked cool weather over warm and could be stubborn when it came to things like baths. Max was her fourth, and she hadn’t thought she would get another after her Molly died, but with mountain lion sightings, she’d needed another dog. He’d helped deter the Hoggs from their petty theft and vandalism too. She felt more secure with him inside at night. He would be okay for a couple of hours no matter what his sorrowful eyes begged for.

Joan stepped from the back door into the muggy night air. Monsoons would start soon and give relief in the afternoons. Most people thought of Arizona as desert, but that was only the southern part of the state. She lived six thousand feet above sea level, and although it was considered high desert, she was able to enjoy all four seasons each year. She prepared for winter at the end of summer and shopped for food storage at the large shopping club store in Flagstaff, which was a little more than two hours away. Flagstaff had one of the highest snowfall accumulations in the country, and winter stopped all but necessary travel. It was something she planned for each year.

Joan turned on the flashlight, so she didn’t stumble as she hiked down the first ridge to the scrub-filled area before she got to the wash. She carefully made her way down to what she called the flatlands. It was an area about the size of two football fields. She’d thought about planting wildflower seeds just to see what happened. Maybe next spring, she mumbled under her breath as she went around a group of large boulders taller than her.

Dead shaggy-bark junipers and cedar trees littered the area. It was great for collecting kindling. She went up another small ridge to where she could see the wash. It was easier to slide down on her backside than to risk falling, and that’s exactly what she did. She couldn’t help thinking about the woman who moved out here and the healing it gave her damaged psyche. That weak person was long gone. In her place stood a self-sufficient, capable woman who would figure out a way to do just about anything. The land would give her granddaughter these same traits, and Willow had something else going for her. She was a survivor, and she would fit into this lifestyle just fine, at least if the Hoggs weren’t in the picture.

Joan made it to the wash and had to climb down an embankment to the sand. It tired her legs, but the wash was basically clear, and she could avoid large boulders and fallen trees. If she saw water, she sought high ground immediately. Heavy rain coming from New Mexico sent water cascading into her wash while there were clear skies above her house, and it all started with the first trickle. Joan couldn’t help feeling proud of the survival accomplishments she’d made. There wasn’t much of a city woman left.

If she’d driven to the Hogg homestead, it would have been a much shorter distance. The problem was Jeb, and his sons could see and hear her coming. All she wanted to do was sneak close enough to gather evidence for the sheriff’s department and humane society.

She half-crawled up the final ridge, the sandy hill making it hard to find purchase without sliding backward. At the top, she looked around and saw an area of scrub brush with a large bush beside it that would be perfect for surveillance. She couldn’t turn on her flashlight and had no idea what critters were on the ground as she bent low and wiggled her body into position, dragging her backpack behind her. This was something else she’d never thought she could do and another accomplishment. She no longer gave a fig about bugs.

Reaching inside the worn leather, she retrieved her camera. It was an older model but had a good fast lens for nighttime photography. She loved taking pictures of her land and the amazing number of stars, along with incredible full moons. Her favorite cactus plant let loose with stunning pinkish-red blossoms for one week each year, adding to her image collection. The camera had become a friend.

A male voice called out, and Joan stopped attaching the lens so she could listen.

“This dog is gonna learn what it’s job is or he’s going in the fire,” Jeb yelled.

Joan finished attaching the lens and pointed the camera at the house. A burning fire pit sat about ten feet away from the front door of the home. Movement to the right had her veering her lens in that direction. One of the Hogg boys held the leash of a medium sized Pitbull. It barked and growled incessantly at another dog cowering behind one of the other boys. Jeb’s sons released them at the same time and the Pitbull sprang forward.

Joan watched in horror, a sick feeling rising in her stomach. The fight didn’t last long and when it was over, the smaller dog, which no longer moved, was tossed on the fire.

Jeb Hogg was a revolting human being, and his sons weren’t far down the list.

Joan moved the lens after getting her trembling hands under control and began capturing Hogg horror.

Kennel after kennel contained multiple dogs. She could only imagine their suffering because most were lying still within the small boxes. She could just make out one with its head between a break in its bars, panting, its muzzle low. She couldn’t begin to count the number of dogs.

Anger overwhelmed Joan, and she itched for her shotgun.

If the sheriff’s department didn’t do something with her evidence, Joan would take the law into her own hands, and the law could arrest her for being a psychotic killer. She took her final pictures and left.

Early the following morning, her anger still in overdrive, she’d driven to Deputy Berger’s place. She’d gotten lost twice because she only knew the general vicinity. She finally made the last correct turn and saw the top lights on his police SUV.

He’d listened and taken her evidence, which she’d transferred to a CD.

“This may not be enough,” he said.

Joan saw red. “You had better make sure it’s enough, or you’ll be investigating five homicides.”

“Don’t be saying that, Joan,” he insisted.

“It’s Mrs. Morgan to you. For once, do your job. That family is a menace. They treat that girl like their personal punching bag, and I’m tired of your department doing nothing.”

The deputy turned and muttered under his breath.

“I can hear you, you old goat. I meant what I said. ”

She stormed back to her truck and kicked up dust as she slammed it into gear and took off.

Deputy Berger did his job and filed charges. Joan also sent the images to the Humane Society. Unfortunately, they had their own way of doing things and she hadn’t understood when she first spoke to them. The judge agreed with their solution. If Jeb turned over his dogs and swore to never own more, his charges would go away, and even his penalty for making the dogs square off would disappear. The judge added insult to injury by saying a video recording of the dog fight might have swayed him.

Joan’s testimony meant nothing. What she witnessed and captured in images was worthless.

Jeb took the deal. His new puppy mill was back in full swing within six months. A few months after that, his pit-fighting dogs were heard again too.

The memory of what she’d witnessed didn’t leave her and she constantly stewed on the trial’s outcome. Joan’s extreme dislike of the Hoggs grew to something more.