#goodway

Zuma looked at himself in the mirror—nothing fancy, really. It had a couple of cracks on one side and barely reflected his full face unless he stepped back, but it was functional enough for what he needed: making sure his fur was tidy, his scarf was properly tied, and, most importantly, that the cuffs of his pants didn’t ride up and reveal his tattoo. By now, those close to him knew he’d once been an outlaw, but he wasn’t eager to advertise that to newcomers, even if half the town shared a similar past.

“Eyes… good.” They weren’t red like last time he’d worked too late. “Breath… perfect.” Important, since he was about to have a face-to-face talk. “Paws… smelling fine.” He’d taken a proper bath—last thing he wanted was to walk around smelling like vanilla.

This meeting—strange as it was—had been postponed far too long, and today’s news had finally pushed him to act. The goal wasn’t anything more than tying up loose ends between him, the original owner of the land, and Goodway, the current mayor. The contract clearly stated that if she ever stepped down, the land would revert to him. And that was the last thing he wanted: managing a whole town and its surrounding lands. He wasn’t ready to rule anything.

With his hat slung over his back, as usual, Zuma stepped out the door with his characteristic cheer.

The night in Wild West Way was peaceful, though clouds on the horizon promised a good storm, which wouldn’t have bothered him if it caught him halfway. That would explain why, even at that hour, both saloons were packed, as were the smaller bars lining the streets. Drinking—so common on that continent—was also the root of many problems. Neither he nor Rocky wanted to ban it, knowing it would only make things worse. What they really wanted was to find better ways to keep folks entertained.

That’s what happened when people came to a “new” land chasing dreams that didn’t come true: boredom eventually took over, and for many, the only escape became the bottom of a bottle. Running water was already a reality in Wild West Way, but not in other towns, and many still preferred whiskey or tequila. In short: better to destroy your liver than fix your head.

When he reached the mansion entrance, another pup—a Doberman—greeted him with a slight nod. Claw, who was missing a piece of one ear, was one of the officers hired to patrol the town. Each night, one of them was assigned to guard Goodway’s sleep. Zuma was surprised it had fallen to the Doberman that evening.

“Looks like the night’s gonna turn rough,” Zuma said, trying to break the ice. “If it rains, I’d stay under the porch.”

“I’m used to water. Back where I lived, it rained all the time,” the dog replied, wearing a scarf around his snout—a strange habit he’d brought with him to Wild West Way. “So don’t worry, Officer Zuma. Unless there’s an emergency, I’ll be right here.”

“Alright! But I’ll tell Goodway to pull you inside if it pours. The last thing we need is you getting sick.”

Zuma stopped a few steps away from the two-story stone house that was Mayor Goodway’s modest mansion. It had only one entrance, and all the windows were barred—unbreakable even if someone shattered the glass. The woman also had a unique invention made by Rubble: a panic room, a place to hide in case anyone dared break in.

She had reason to be cautious. A Black woman serving as mayor in a booming town, surrounded by former outlaws seeking a fresh start and trying not to fall back into old habits. As much as she and Rocky dreamed of a land where everyone was equal under the law, changing certain mindsets was still difficult. Zuma knew that better than anyone.

He knocked a couple of times, tail wagging with pure happiness. After a long day’s work—several ships had arrived at the harbour simultaneously—he was eager to talk to someone other than dockworkers. Zuma was a talkative pup, no doubt about that, but even he needed variety. A conversation with Mayor Goodway? That hadn’t happened since… the handover of power.

The woman opened the door with a smile on her lips. Goodway always kept her spirits up despite the difficulties of her role: making tough decisions that affected the town, giving orders to various officials, and most importantly, walking the streets herself to take note of what needed improvement. She had tons of energy, but more than that, charisma and courage. Everything a mayor needed to launch a project like this on solid footing.

“Officer Zuma! You’re early!”

“I think we know each other well enough by now to drop the formalities, Goodway,” the pup replied, returning her smile as he stepped inside. “Been a few months, I’d say.”

The dark-haired woman laughed heartily as she closed the door—and bolted it—letting Zuma settle into the hallway. The pup didn’t need to do much: he wiped the mud from his paws while Goodway took his hat. He had left his pup-pack at home so he wouldn’t be burdened with bulky gear that wouldn’t be much use anyway. Ryder still hadn’t figured out how to strap on a knife and fork without making things overly complicated.

Goodway’s little mansion wasn’t much to look at, but its hallways were beautiful. It hadn’t even been built for her—it had been gifted as compensation for the headaches she was bound to endure running the town. The decor was modest: barely any pictures on the walls, just a few small electric lamps lighting the corridor and the usual cold floor. No rugs here or there. The house was just as it had been built, with only a few added furnishings.

Zuma wasn’t surprised. Goodway hadn’t come from wealth. She’d been a servant whose fate had given her a new chance to shine.

They stopped in the grand dining room. A large table stood in the centre with a beautiful bouquet of flowers on top. Above the lit fireplace hung possibly the only framed picture Zuma recognised: a large-scale replica of the photo taken at the town’s inauguration, with Ryder beside them (he often joked he’d found the town by pure accident). Though the town had been running since the first stone was laid, it hadn’t appeared on official maps until the proper paperwork came through. It had been chaos—bureaucracy was no easy feat, especially when trying to put a Black woman in charge.

Things would’ve been much easier if Zuma had run for mayor himself, but the pup had two good reasons not to. One of them? His personality. He didn’t like giving orders or dealing with stress. He’d accepted the role of officer to stay by Rocky’s side, just as always—not for power or status. The other reason: He was born there, on those lands. He wouldn't leave them easily again. He didn't need a high office.

“You must be thirsty,” said the woman, heading to the kitchen. “I’ll get you a bowl of fresh water. Or would you prefer something else?”

“I rarely drink anything but water, thanks,” Zuma replied—truthfully. He wasn’t a stranger to alcohol, but he’d been trying to stay away from that path. Not easy in a world where so many social ties were forged over a bottle full of broken dreams. Then his eyes caught a newspaper, and he quickly remembered one of the many reasons he’d come that night.

He hopped onto the nearby couch and rested his paws to better read the headlines. There it was, tucked in a corner, downplaying the severity.

“MASSACRE IN WILMINGTON”

Zuma shivered as he recalled reading it that very morning: the article spoke of a supposed “victory” (without saying how) of white people over Black people, citing business corruption. But what he’d heard was very different: a mob had overthrown democratically elected Black officials, burned businesses, killed innocent people, and destroyed half the town—all in the name of “racial purity.” Zuma got sick after reading that.

Goodway returned with a bowl of fresh water, which she placed on the floor. But Zuma had lost his thirst. He couldn’t stop looking at the woman with sorrow as she sat on the other end of the sofa, hands folded on her long purple skirt, pained. Afraid.

“I saw it this morning,” she finally said. “I’m thinking about stepping down and calling for elections, before things get out of hand.”

“Stepping down?!” Zuma couldn’t hide his surprise, though he quickly softened his tone. “Goodway, that happened in North Carolina, on the East Coast. We’re thousands of miles from there.”

“And yet, the news reached us in just a week.”

“Well, that’s the telegraph for you. We all knew news would spread faster once we built Liberty’s communication tower,” Zuma said, putting the paper down, still unnerved by the idea of Goodway resigning. “But this is just one news piece. Wild West Way is—”

“Exactly like Wilmington.”

“But we’re better! Everyone here has lived through hardship. We fight against injustice!”

And yet, Goodway wasn’t wrong. Wilmington had been one of the most progressive cities around. The fact that such a catastrophe had happened there only proved that Wild West Way was still just a dream—one that could crumble at any moment. All it would take was a group of people crossing the border and opening fire to spark another massacre. That’s why they were so eager for the British Crown to recognise Wild West Way—so they could be protected.

Goodway didn’t look convinced. Seeing such a strong woman so unsure made Zuma uneasy. He sat beside her, just close enough to offer moral support.

“We were full of hope after the Civil War, but reality turned out much darker,” she murmured, gripping the fabric of her skirt.

Zuma stayed silent. The article was short, but the words cut deep. In twenty sentences, you could smell the racism. He shivered, fur standing on end, his little paws pressing into the couch. Just the thought of a similar uprising in Wild West Way terrified him.

And he could be the spark. As long as his past stayed buried, everything would be fine. But if it ever came out… there’d be nowhere left to run.

Goodway stared into the distance, eyes lost in thought. In her mind, a horrible play must’ve been unfolding. Zuma took a deep breath and found again the optimistic spirit that defined him.

“Hey! Don’t worry. That won’t happen here. We’re just getting started, but we’ve got things under control. Don’t you feel safer here?”

“Of course! This town... it’s what my late husband and I always dreamed of,” she said, placing a hand on her chest. “After years working the vineyards of our master, he… Oh, what he would’ve given to wake up each morning with the hope of building a world like this.”

Zuma let out a soft whimper. They had no photo of the man who had made Goodway the happiest person in such an unfair world. They could only imagine him through the vague descriptions she gave—so generic they were barely helpful—and her deep love. Not a single flaw to speak of. At times, it almost felt like she’d invented him.

“Well, Wild West isn’t the whole world—it’s a town,” Zuma said cheerfully. “But I think we’ve done our best to lay strong foundations. People are behaving, incidents are rare, and overall, the community’s been understanding. It helps that many here are refugees—the feeling is mutual.”

A thunderclap. Zuma perked up and looked out the back window, spotting the first raindrops tapping the glass. The storm picked up quickly.

“Just like you and me,” Goodway said, ignoring the rain.

Zuma chuckled quietly.

“That’s why we gave you the mayor’s seat,” he said. “We gave it to you because you were the right one for it. You’ve lived through what most of us here have, and you know what we’ve suffered. You’ve had fantastic ideas—like that public education center.”

“Oh yes! I can’t wait for Rubble to finish it!” Her change of tone was a breath of fresh air. “The first school where humans and pups will learn side by side. It’ll be a first! I already have the plan in mind. Want to see it?”

“Of course!” Zuma replied, seizing the moment as she stood up to fetch the documents. He took the chance to drink some water. He was thirsty, but had tried to be polite and not appear desperate in front of Goodway. In the past, he wouldn’t have cared. There had been a time, especially with Rocky, when he’d become emotionally numb. Except for his partner, he felt nothing for anyone—not even the rest of the team. Somehow, the warmth he used to radiate had been burned out in the fires of ’92. It hadn’t returned until much later, when the pain became too loud to ignore.

Now it was Rocky who seemed to be burning out from the inside.

Goodway returned with a sleek black folder Zuma recognized—it was her one and only for everything: city hall paperwork, construction notes, permits, everything. She often joked about needing a backup. Ryder had offered to help, but he was always busy: when he wasn’t talking with Rubble about the bulldog’s ongoing construction problems, he was working in his shop on new inventions. Some brilliant, some total mysteries.

As she sat beside him, Zuma’s tail began wagging with excitement. Every new town project lifted his spirits—it was like a game to him. He had so much energy, he was unintentionally thumping the sofa with his tail.

Goodway opened the folder, revealing sketches and blueprints of the final school design. It would be a two-story L-shaped building with several classrooms, a dining area, and an interior courtyard where students could play during recess. The goal was to keep the kids within the grounds between classes, reducing dropout rates. The classrooms would be simple to save on costs, but filled with windows for natural light. Rocky had insisted on that—he believed light was essential for everyone.

The next pages were handwritten notes by Goodway detailing how the school should operate: secular, focused on the world around them, ensuring that students understood the injustices they faced so they could one day change them. Teaching them to think for themselves. To be critical.

“It’s been a bit of a challenge,” the woman admitted. “But your kind learns fast, Zuma. When you all showed me that… I was speechless.”

“Well…” The chocolate lab shrugged. “I guess that’s what happens when we live shorter lives than humans. At least we live longer than most animals.”

“Longer than a regular dog, that’s for sure,” Goodway said, folding her arms over her lap and smiling warmly at him. “Have you ever wondered why some of you, “pups”, can talk and others can’t?”

It was funny that, to differentiate them from other conventional dogs who can’t talk or think like they did, humanity had adopted the term "Pup" as a synonym for the breed, for lack of anything else. Zuma didn't know if it was due to a lack of creativity or laziness.

“Mhhh… Nope,” Zuma replied quickly. “Why would I need to? I can talk, I can think for myself… I can even ask for ear scratches. I feel lucky.”

“I get that. I really do. It’s just that… Well, I’ve gotten used to it these past few months. But do you remember the beginning?”

Zuma laughed at the memory, and Goodway joined in. Their first meeting had been a shock—a human who had never met a “pup” before, and two ex-outlaws who were startled to see someone who’d never encountered a talking dog. They’d been so disconnected from the world, they’d come to see it as normal, forgetting that to the rest of the world, they were a bizarre and unexplained exception science still couldn’t account for.

“‘The dog talks!’” Zuma said, mimicking Goodway’s reaction. “And then Rocky goes, ‘What do you want me to do, stare at you?’”

“Rocky was so rude back then.”

“With the life we’d lived, it’s a miracle he didn’t just turn around and storm off.”

“That would’ve been terribly ungentlemanly! I knew nothing about you two. Nothing.”

“Yeah… That always struck me as odd.” Zuma turned away from the documents and looked at her. “You never saw a talking dog before us?”

“I was a servant, sweetheart,” she reminded him, gently scratching behind his ear. “I only learned what I know because I stayed close to my mistress while she taught. If I hadn’t paid attention, I wouldn’t even know how to read or write.”

Zuma didn’t respond—he was too busy enjoying the scratch behind his ear. He let out a sigh of relief. After a long day, it felt good to get a reward like that.

“Well, your handwriting is perfect… Mmm… Right there… to the right…”

Goodway laughed.

“It’s amazing that you still enjoy the same things as any other dog!”

“We’re still dogs!” Zuma said happily. “I know it seems weird, but we’re not that different. We’re just… smart, like you. But we still have instincts, like them.”

“And you’re playful.”

“Depends on who you ask. Rocky’s taken a while to loosen up, but I’m working on it,” he said, wagging his whole body. “Still, we were lucky you accepted us so easily. Some people don’t get it… Some still see us as wild animals.” Sitting on his haunches, Zuma looked away, clearly upset. “Even pets have feelings.”

Goodway didn’t say anything. Both of them fell into a thoughtful silence. In a world where people could be cruel to animals, believing themselves superior by divine right, they both knew their social rank: her skin color had stripped her of humanity in others’ eyes; his canine form and behavior had led many to treat him as a disposable creature, denying him access to certain places.

There was no logical explanation. The Bible had always shown animals speaking, treating talking dogs as a natural part of creation.

Until Charles Darwin, in 1859, who had left them hanging in his theory of evolution, as a branch with a massive question mark. There was a “gap” in history, maybe five hundred years back, when some dogs had suddenly started speaking and thinking like humans. No one knew how it had happened. And many didn’t even accept Darwin’s theory as absolute truth. Science was still debating it—some believed it stirred too much unrest by pushing God into the background.

And some made up disturbing legends about how talking dogs came to be. Horrible stories that made Zuma nauseous just thinking about them.

“Anyway!” Goodway clapped her hands, snapping him out of it. “I’ve been thinking about writing, so I asked Mr. Ryder to help me adapt typewriters for pups. You won’t be able to use charcoal, but you’ll be able to write your own texts!”

“Really?” Writing had always been one of the pups’ main limitations. “That’s amazing! I’ll be able to write my own reports without asking anyone to do it for me! Although… I can’t write. I can read, but writing’s a different story,” he added, curious. “And how did he do it? Did he show you a prototype?”

“Even better—he brought it here! Want to see it?”

Zuma gave her the biggest grin. The idea of testing new inventions that brought him closer to human life was always tempting. He jumped off the couch, following Goodway, who shared his enthusiasm even months after discovering the existence of talking dogs.

They entered a small adjoining room used as a tea parlour. At its centre stood a wooden table with a grey cloth covering something. Zuma’s pulse quickened just looking at it, and his tail wagged faster.

“Let me introduce…” said the dark-skinned woman as she pulled off the cloth, “Ryder’s typewriter for pups!”

Zuma’s eyes widened. Instinct took over as he climbed onto the chair to inspect the metal machine in front of him. Equipped with what looked like an endless roll of paper, the chocolate lab had before him a keyboard with only twelve keys and a large spacebar. It didn’t look anything like the human ones, with a separate key for every letter. And there was a big lever at the bottom, just within reach of his back paws.

Goodway sat beside him, excited to explain how it worked.

“Each time you press a key, the assigned letter changes. When you’ve picked the one you want, you press this big lever down here with your back paw and move on to the next,” she explained. “It seems slow, but Ryder told me you pups learn quickly.”

“We sure do!” Eager to prove how capable he was, the chocolate lab got to work. After a few failed attempts and some guidance from Goodway, Zuma managed to get the hang of the system. Soon enough, he proudly typed his first sentence:

“DIS IS A FUNY MASHIN”

“What do you think?”

“It’s fantastic, Zuma!” Goodway clapped with delight. “Though I’m afraid I’ll have to teach you some grammar.”

“Well, no one ever taught us to write… But I’m excited to learn! With this, we won’t need someone else to write our reports. It’ll cut out the middleman.” He rolled his eyes. “Ugh, I hate bureaucracy.”

“They teach you to read but not to write?”

“If we’re lucky… Purebreds still have a shot at education, if life gives them a chance. But then there are dogs like Rocky. He… let’s just say he was lucky. Either way, writing’s not much use when—” Zuma raised his front paws to show the obvious, “—we don’t have fingers. And it’s thanks to Ryder that we can even use his gadgets at all. Even though we talk, think, and do math… the worlds just not built for us.”

“Well, that ends now!” Goodway declared with determination. “From now on, I’ll make sure every pup here learns to write, not just speak. And of course, you’re invited.”

Education had never been on Zuma’s list of life goals. His parents had taught him everything essential, and that knowledge had been crucial during his outlaw days. But this well-designed typewriter gave him a chance to go further, to remove another limitation, to be more independent without always needing a human’s help.

As he touched the keys, he imagined writing reports. Maybe even poems. A short story that might catch someone’s attention. Perhaps it could even impress a future soulmate. The thought made him blush. He imagined charming another pup with a self-written text, showing off skills few others had. Maybe even Chase would be stunned.

Zuma shook the thought away, his face burning. Right then, he wouldn’t have minded a drink to calm down, but all he found was Goodway’s kind face, patiently waiting for his answer, her eyes shining with hope. He couldn’t say no.

“Alright,” he said, wagging his tail. “I’ll come on my days off or whenever I’m not on patrol.”

“Fantastic!” the woman cheered, immediately standing up. “Let’s celebrate! I’m making you dinner!”

“Oh, no, no, I appreciate it, but… That’s really not necessary. I only came to chat a bit and—”

“But… I made stew…” she murmured, clearly disappointed—Zuma picked up on it right away.

He also picked up on something else: his stomach growling. The thought of stew made his mouth water. He’d barely eaten at midday, and the idea of going home to a bowl of gruel didn’t exactly appeal to him. If he’d gotten home earlier, maybe he could’ve made some fish, but he hadn’t even had time to go fishing lately.

His stomach made the final call with a loud rumble that made the chocolate lab’s blush deepen.

“… Alright, I accept!” he said with a shy grin. “But I warn you: we dogs aren’t exactly cutlery experts.”

“Believe me: you eat far more elegantly than my former masters ever did,” Goodway replied without hesitation, leaving no doubt about how she felt about nobility—something else they had in common. “Go wash your paws, I’ll handle the rest. Hope you like it! It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Tail wagging with energy, Zuma trotted off to the bathroom, not knowing that this evening was turning out much better than expected. A part of him felt guilty about Rocky—not sharing this meal felt like a small betrayal. They usually shared everything. The work running the town was keeping them apart more than usual, and while some would say that was healthy, Zuma felt like something was slipping away.

He stopped halfway to the bathroom, thinking of turning down the invitation. As much as his stomach wanted it, he knew he couldn’t enjoy the food without Rocky. The guilt would make him sick.

Frustrated, he was about to say something when a howl cut through the storm.

Suddenly, Zuma wasn’t hungry anymore. Instinct kicked in fast. A wolf’s presence was never a good sign in civilisation. Usually, they did nothing—just passed by, maybe hunting. But the lights and movement generally scared them off, and attacks on livestock were rare. Rubble’s defences should’ve been enough.

What alarmed him was how close that howl sounded. Far too close. Like… inside the town.

He turned and ran to the front door. A wolf in town was highly unusual. By nature, it wouldn’t cause problems—unless someone provoked it. But if it bit someone, they’d be in serious trouble. Zuma thought of the smell of stew wafting from Goodway’s chimney. If he could smell every ingredient from the hallway, a wild animal would pick it up from miles away.

He opened the door, ready to alert Officer Claw. He didn’t think the guy would be foolish enough to go after the wolf, but if he did, he could get hurt. In the rain and darkness, broken only by lantern light, Zuma scanned for Claw—but saw nothing but blackness and an empty post.

He clenched his jaw and even shouted the officer’s name. No answer.

“Probably went off hunting it,” Zuma thought bitterly. “Idiot. What’s he thinking, going after it alone?”

“Zuma?” Goodway’s footsteps behind him made his ears flick. “What was that sound?”

“I think we’ve got a wolf in town,” he said calmly. “But it’s alright—that’s what the sheriff’s deputy is for.” He had to stay positive. As he closed the door, his mind raced through possible actions. “Let’s shut every window, one by one. And just in case, seal the chimney too. If you don’t mind, I’ll patrol inside tonight.”

Given the circumstances, that was the safest option. He’d deal with Claw tomorrow and find out where he’d gone. For now, precautions were key—the last thing they needed was a wild animal loose in the house.