Two Good Dogs Page 9

  For a long time in my life, I was placed in an adversarial position regarding members of my own kind. I have long since gotten over that and have become something of a good old boy, finding myself enjoying the company of other canines. Each one has a different story, a different reality, and I no longer size them up as to how hard it would be to take them down, but how companionable they might be on a long walk or resting by the fire. The dogs that came into my life when Gina came into our lives are no longer around. Two lanky greyhounds she called Jester and Lady. I liked them, although they were a bit on the lazy side, but that may have been due more to their advanced age than to their lack of interest in wrestling. They were devoted to each other, and when Jester went, Lady soon followed. I always admired their devotion, maybe even felt a little outside of it. Not having that kind of species relationship has allowed me to devote all of my affection toward my human. My Adam.

  The piteous howling picks up again, counterpoint to the cacophony emanating from within that solid building into which my man, my Adam, has gone.

  * * *

  The string trio is playing. Adam can’t quite identify the tune, but he’s guessing it’s something from Phantom of the Opera. Or Rent. Or maybe Cats. He smiles at the tall woman who has just come into the Artists Collaborative. He picks out the wealth markers of good jewelry and Louboutins, and catches Kieran’s eye. Time to mingle-mingle. The artists have worked very hard to make sure that they look like everyone’s idea of an artist, short of smocks and berets, of course. Kieran wears a loose black silk shirt tucked into impossibly tight black jeans. Adam guesses that he’s not worried about his future procreative chances. A pair of Doc Martens finishes the look. As for Mosley Finch, he has turned out in what might pass as a suit, if the pieces bore any relation to one another. He is sporting a tie, a wide one, hand-painted with something that looks like either split-open pomegranates or vaginas. Adam can’t decide.

  The women are hardly better, and at least one of them is flaunting her artistic temperament by eschewing bathing. She’s wearing a flowy gown that might have been a granny nightgown from the seventies, or a bedspread. Each of the invited guests to have wandered into her work space have quickly shown great interest in the art in the next space and moved away.

  A tray of plastic flutes is offered to him and he plucks a glass of Cold Duck off it, thinking that if the AC couldn’t plump for real champagne and glasses, maybe their Cold Duck idea will prompt the assembly to feel sorry enough for them that wallets will be opened. Stranger fund-raising techniques have worked.

  “Hi, Mr. March,” the server says.

  “Cody. Mosley got you working here?”

  “I’m, like, doing a favor for him.”

  “That’s nice. What’s he doing for you?”

  The girl blushes a little. “He gives me lessons sometimes.”

  “So, you want to be an artist?” He’s chatting up the teenage help, but his eyes are on the gathering, assessing who needs a little attention, who should be cut from the herd like a fattened calf and introduced to one of the more presentable artists.

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Giving up a Saturday night to serve bad wine to a bunch of old farts is a pretty big sacrifice for your art.”

  Cody doesn’t answer, and Adam feels a little churlish for making the comment. The kid’s only, what, fourteen?

  Adam places his empty flute on her tray. “I’ll give you a ride home at the end, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.” She does that little head-ducking thing adolescent girls do and moves off.

  Adam spots a new couple entering the AC. There are about twenty guests now, of the hundred or so invitations sent out. All things considered, this isn’t a bad return. That any of the guests will open a checkbook is doubtful. Cultivation is the byword. At the end, Mosley and his crew will be disappointed because they are of the mind-set that what they do and what they want will be instantly appealing to the moneyed classes. Adam sighs, wishes that he’d tossed down a second Cold Duck, and makes his way over to the new couple. It’s time to start calling the steps in this eleemosynary courtship dance.

  * * *

  I can’t focus on my shinbone. The yowling, punctuated now and again with yaps, is stressing me out. Whoever it is seems even more upset than the last time I heard him vocalizing. There is a far more desperate message than the basic I don’t like what’s going on. We all get upset with our human-forced situations. I, for one, don’t much enjoy the rare times when I am separated from Adam. If I can hear him, say, for instance, he’s in the next room, talking with a client who has dog-fear issues, then I bear it in silence. If, on the other hand, I am locked away for no apparent reason I can fathom, I might let out a protest. Now that I’m a certified therapy dog, that scenario is rarely visited anymore. But that’s just token protest. What I’m hearing, what’s tearing at me, is this dog’s anguish. Something is terribly wrong. If only Adam would come out, I’d convince him to let me go check on things. Go see what’s going on for myself.

  And, miraculously, someone does approach the car. The sad girl. I get to my feet and give her my best greeting, paws pumping up and down, big grin on my face, tail whipping from side to side. I rrrr and rrrr. And, also miraculously, she opens the car door. She says something in tongue language that I interpret as meaning she’s doing this because Adam something something said something about peeing. I really need only a couple of comprehensible words to suss out most of what humans mean. The rest is body language. And this girl, bundled up in a puffy coat, no gloves, her breath rising to meet the stars, clearly says she is happy to be outside with me. Leash? But, it’s too late; I’m out of the car and bounding for a narrow footbridge over the river that will take me to the sound of the yowling dog. She calls after me, and I politely pause, indicating to her that she should follow me.

  * * *

  This stupid dog. Mr. March never said he might run off. He’ll be so pissed that she’s accidently let his dog loose. He told her, when he asked her if she’d mind giving the dog a pee break, to make sure she put the leash on. But the leash was nowhere near the dog and he’s not tall, but darned strong. He pushed right past her and bolted for the footbridge. Cody finds the leash on the floor of the backseat and charges after the dog.

  The river is negative space beneath her, nearly invisible in the darkness below. The light of the three-quarter moon grazes the water only at the place where it tumbles over the dam. The water is audible in the still night as it rushes downstream toward the city. The footbridge leads over it to the street where the mill houses are, once home to long-gone factory workers. Safe yet from discovery and renovation into high-end riverfront homes, they sit either empty or illegally occupied. When she goes to the AC from school, she sometimes sees kids over there. The walls are tagged with gang symbols. Once in a while, one of the doors is open a little and a banged-up car might be parked in the yard.

  She really doesn’t want to chase this dog over there, not at night. But she also doesn’t want to have to tell her mother’s most frequent guest that she’s lost his beloved dog. “Chance! Come on back, boy. Come!”

  The dog pauses halfway along the footbridge. He’s got this excited look on his face, like this is some kind of game.

  “Please, come. Atta boy!” The pleading has no effect. He woofs softly and then continues his bolt across the span. It’s almost as if he’s leading her, wanting her to chase him. “Get back here!” If pleading doesn’t work, maybe yelling will. Cody gets to the end of the bridge and watches as the dog crosses the dark street and runs right up to one of the empty duplexes. They are ancient, the white asbestos siding darkened with a century of mold, the windows completely without glass, the door frames splintered. Everywhere she looks, she sees the archetype of a dangerous place. Cody kneels on the bridge. “Please come back, Chance. Please!” She claps her hands together. Whistles.

  Now the dog is barking furiously. Wait. No, that’s not Chance. Suddenly, Cody realizes that th
is whole time there has been the background noise of a barking dog. Chance isn’t running from her; he’s running to this other dog. Oh, jeez. Cody is pretty sure that any dog in that empty house is going to be bad news. Her fingers find her phone, tucked in the pocket of her coat. There’s no car outside the house, and the door is wide open. She’s pretty certain no one is there. Certain enough. Hey, maybe that dog is protecting that space, or maybe he’s hurt. She’s watched Pit Bulls & Parolees enough times to know that sometimes dogs get themselves into predicaments. At any rate, Mr. March’s dog is making a beeline for that open door.

  “Suck it up.” Cody gets to her feet, double-checks on her phone, and heads toward the open door, the leash grasped in her left hand.

  * * *

  “What happened to Cody?” Mosley Finch shoves his black glasses upon his short nose. “She’s supposed to be cleaning up.”

  “My fault. I asked her go and give my dog a quick walk.” Adam hopes that Cody gets an equal amount of time spent on art lessons as this guy is giving her tasks. “Besides, I’m taking her home, so I don’t think she’ll have time to clean up.”

  Mosley shakes his head. “No need. I’ll take her home. I hired her for the night.”

  Is it Adam’s imagination, or is there something about Mosley’s tone of voice a titch troublesome? “No. Really, it makes no sense to keep a kid out late when I’m heading right to her place.” He thinks, but doesn’t add, And I don’t think you “hired” her. You’re into it for a couple of art lessons.

  “Don’t you worry about it.” Mosley’s cell phone chirps. “Hey.” Mosley hands the phone to Adam. “Speak of the devil.”

  “Cody?”

  “Mr. March. It’s Cody. I need you to come.”

  “What happened?” Adam feels the floor sink beneath his feet with the immediate fear that something has happened to his dog. “Is Chance all right?” He quickly adds, “Are you all right?”

  “He ran off, and when I caught up with him … Just please come. Across the river. Now, please.”

  Adam forgets to hand Mosley back his phone in his haste to get to Cody and Chance.

  CHAPTER 10

  Everything about this scene is horrifying. The human form slumped against the wall, legs spraddled out only in the way of the dead or unconscious. The stubby dog, barking and leaping against the restraint of a short leash bolted to the opposite wall. The stink. The moonlight spotlights the scene, spilling against the drug paraphernalia, putting it center stage in this sad drama. Adam looks to the body first, some old first-aid training causing him to put a finger against the pulse point in the boy’s neck. He can’t tell. He’s too cold and too nervous to decide if what he’s touching is living or dead. He grabs the limp hand, fumbles to find the place where the pulse should be. The boy, for he can’t be much older than Cody, is still as death, but his eyes are closed, which gives Adam a little hope that maybe he’s just unconscious. He is the cause of the stink; the vomit cakes his mouth, and his chest is covered in it.

  “Call nine one one.”

  “I did.”

  “Good girl.” Adam’s knees creak as he gets to his feet. The dog has stopped barking, is making only a slight whimpering sound; he is entirely focused on them, his boxy head lowered, his ears back. His whole posture is stiff, and he is studying them with narrowed eyes.

  A flicker of blue lights strobe into the small room. In a moment, a uniformed cop comes through the open door and into the room. The dog immediately growls, leaps against his chain. The police officer steps back, puts his hand on his weapon, sees that the dog is restrained, and bends to the boy, who’s still lying against the wall.

  Chance leaves Adam’s side. Stalks toward the growling dog.

  It’s a perfect setup for a massive dogfight, a restrained and territory-guarding dog, one that is frightened, certainly. Another dog, a stranger, coming into that territory. Adam gives the command to back off: “Chance, leave it.”

  But Chance has other ideas and goes right up to the other dog; ears at neutral, tail making a slow sweep, he play bows. The other dog sniffs the offered cheek, makes his own show of submission. Sits. Does Chance look perhaps a little smug?

  “Oh. All right. Good boy. Boys.”

  Minutes later, medical help arrives, and Adam and Cody are shouldered out of the way. Adam really hopes that this kid isn’t dead. What a horrific thing for Cody to have discovered. No girl her age should be finding bodies. “Cody, why don’t you and Chance head back to the AC.”

  She doesn’t answer; she’s fixed on the EMTs working with the boy. He’s not dead, and Adam pats Cody on the shoulder. “You probably saved this kid’s life, you know.”

  “It was Chance. The dog, I mean, not luck. He heard the other dog barking and knew what was going on.”

  “He’s a clever boy, yes.”

  “What about the other dog? What’s going to happen to him?”

  “I don’t know, Cody.” This isn’t actually true, because Adam does know what so often happens to dogs like these, not a breed, per se, but a type, pit bull. Vilified. This one is a true “red nose,” his nose and his coat color almost the same shade of reddish brown. And Adam suddenly recalls seeing this dog and this boy before, at the crosswalk. “I won’t let anything happen to him. I promise you that.”

  “You folks want to wait outside?” The police officer shoos them away from the scene.

  “Sure. Do you need us anymore, or can we go? I need to get this girl home.”

  “I’ll need a statement, but if you’re in the area, you can just stop by the station tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Adam will spend the time calling his contacts in the pit bull rescue community. Now for the hard part. “With your permission, we’ll take that dog.”

  “I don’t think so. He’ll be impounded, sir.”

  “He’s not a useful witness. And hardly germane to the situation.”

  At that moment, the EMTs hike the gurney to its wheels and roll the boy out of the house. The dog sets up a pitiful wailing, balancing himself against the short chain so that his forepaws paddle in the air.

  The officer touches his weapon again.

  “He’s upset. He’s not being aggressive.”

  The officer looks at Chance, who has moved back to Adam’s side. “That one yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “You look too well dressed to be in a dogfight ring, but I have to ask.…”

  Adam shakes his head, smiles. “No. Quite the opposite. I’m a rescuer.” He’s never defined himself that way before, and it feels kind of nice. “I work with rescues. For dogs like him.”

  “I’ll put in a call to our ACO and he’ll pick the dog up.”

  Cody is steps away from the frantic dog. “Mr. March, we can’t leave the dog here. What if the animal-control guy doesn’t show up till morning? It’s freezing out.”

  Adam is face-to-face with the police officer. “I can’t stay and I don’t think you will. Let me take him for now and the ACO can pick him up from me. Or I’ll drop him off at the shelter.” Adam knows all too well what can happen to a dog in a shelter without an advocate, and he has no intention of making good on his promise. “Look, Officer, I’ll take responsibility for the dog.”

  Adam can see the debate raging behind the officer’s eyes, his better nature at war with his sense of protocol. “Give me a minute.” He steps out of the building, presumably to call in to his commanding officer.

  In the minute the officer is away, Adam steps slowly toward the dog, admonishing Cody to keep away. The dog may not look as fierce as he did when they came in, but he might snap out of panic at the touch of a stranger.

  Chance is all excited, doing his happy dance, as if to say, Look what I found!

  “Hey, fella. We’re your friends.” Adam takes a knee, puts out a hand. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Repeats those words over and over until the dog sits, and, in a dumb show of capitulation, extends a paw. Adam reaches back for the leash, which is still in Cody’
s hand. She gives it to him. He clips it to the dog’s choke-chain collar, unfastens the clip to the chain bolted in the wall, gets to his feet. As Adam expected he would, the dog plunges toward the open door. It takes all of his strength to hold the frantic creature back. The short, compact dog is extremely strong, and Adam feels a kinship with the old-time whalers on their Nantucket sleigh rides. He plants his heels against the tug and the dog complies. He wriggles into a submissive posture, throws himself against Adam’s legs, but all of his attention is pointed toward the ambulance.

  * * *

  I was so excited when Adam showed up in that house. Look what I found, I said over and over. Look what I found! Adam is a smart guy; he quickly surmised the situation and took charge. I like that about him: Whenever there’s a problem, he finds a solution. Whether it’s to scratch the itchy spot on my back at just the right time, or bring a sad and confused dog into our lives, he’s the guy you want.

  Adam shares more words with the other man, the one who stands stiff with authority, and I can hear the tension winding up in his voice, so I do what I have been trained to do, what I love to do, and bop him in the side of his leg with my head: Hey, slow it down, bud. Adam’s hand finds my ears and I absorb the anger out of him into my body. I lick his fingers. His tone sweetens, and in the next moment, we and the dog are free to go.

  I don’t mind sharing the backseat with my new friend. He’s a little skeptical about getting in, but I show him how. My shinbone is on the seat, and I will admit that my being a good host does not extend to giving away this special treat, so I quickly shove it onto the floor, out of his reach. He shrugs, as if he’d no interest in it, and neatly packages himself into a curl. He has put his trust in us. In our good intentions. He is immediately asleep. I curl up, too, in such a way that our backs, of an equal length, touch.

  * * *

  Mosley is standing in her way as Cody dashes into the building. His glasses are off and his eyes are at half-mast. She can smell the weed on him.