You Lucky Dog

by Julia London

  “As much as I’d love to dash down and order burgers, I’ve got the dog,” Carly said with an apologetic wince. Bubbles lost interest in the skateboard and trotted into the kitchenette, her leash trailing behind.

  “Bax can stay with us,” Victor said, and went shooting across the concrete floor.

  “That’s not Baxter. Come on, guys,” Carly said. “We have the shoot, and Phil has a very limited schedule—”

  “We really don’t need you here to do the shoot,” Phil said. He lifted his camera and snapped Carly. “I can take it from here.”

  “You gotta go, Carly,” Victor said as he swooshed by her. “I can’t focus without something to eat, man!”

  Bubbles reappeared from the kitchenette. As Victor skated by her, she began to bark again. Phil whistled, and Bubbles changed course, trotting directly into Victor’s path. “Whoa,” Victor said, hopping off his board and flipping it up to his hand just before he might have collided with the dog.

  “Got him,” Phil said. He leaned down and hauled Bubbles onto his lap. “What are you feeding this dog? He’s heavy.”

  “See?” Victor said, waving at Bubbles as he looked at Carly. “We’ve got it under control.”

  Carly knew when she was defeated. “Yeah, okay, I’m only your publicist, but whatever,” she said.

  When Carly returned a half hour later with two bags full of burgers, Phil showed her the photos. Every one of them featured a basset hound. The photos of Victor’s designs with Bubbles were adorable.

  As the others ate the food she’d bought with her personal money, she called Brant again. Still no answer.

  She was really worried about her own photogenic dog. Where was Baxter?

  Two

  Dr. Tobias Maxwell Sheffington III was a tenure-track professor of neuroscience at the University of Texas. One would think that the holder of an advanced science degree might have some basic common sense, but that clearly was not true, because if Max had any, he would have known it was not a good idea to go out drinking the night before a big presentation to his department. He would have remembered that he was the kind of guy who could have a couple of beers, but any more than that was guaranteed to make him blotto, which was how he’d earned the moniker of Lightweight in college. And he would surely have considered that it was never a good idea to sleep with another professor in the department.

  It had all been so spur-of-the-moment, an impromptu goodbye party of sorts. For a dog.

  Max was conducting a study on how the human bond with canines affects the release of oxytocin and elevates levels of dopamine in the brains of dog lovers and in dogs and, specifically, how the relationship of social behavior and the oxytocin system in canines could lead to a better understanding of the same relationship in the autistic brain. It was a mouthful, but the work had a lot of potential in the study of autism.

  Part of his research included overseeing an undergraduate lab where the students assisted with some of the work he was doing. The presence of dogs made his lab extremely popular.

  In particular, he had a blockheaded yellow Labrador who was single-handedly increasing the dopamine levels of everyone who came into contact with him. Clarence had not shown the aptitude to be a service animal, nor was he particularly good at learning the commands necessary to work effectively in a research lab. But he was aces when it came to hauling his enormous body onto laps and demanding to be petted.

  Tuesday was Clarence’s last day. He was on loan from the Austin Canine Coalition—otherwise known as the ACC—but had been recently adopted from the rescue organization. Clarence seemed pretty happy about his change in fortune—or maybe it had been the paper ball one of the graduate subjects had tossed his way—but everyone in the lab was heartbroken.

  Max explained to the students and the two volunteer research subjects that they’d have a replacement dog next week. He’d already arranged it with the ACC—a three-legged Australian shepherd named Bonnie.

  The ACC was a joint, citywide consortium combining the forces of several local dog rescue organizations. The rescue groups took dogs they couldn’t place or couldn’t house to the ACC. The ACC then attempted to train those dogs as companions and therapy dogs, as comfort buddies to soldiers, to kids who had to testify in courts, autistic youth, and to medical and senior centers. The dogs that flunked out of the ACC training program were put up for adoption, but while waiting for that happy day, they could be loaned out for projects, such as the one Max was conducting.

  The ACC occupied fifteen acres right in the heart of some prime Austin real estate, where dogs romped under grand old live oaks. Max had learned about the consortium and the work they did when his little brother, Jamie, got a job there. Jamie was twenty-seven, and had autism spectrum disorder. He particularly had difficulty understanding social cues and was not functionally verbal, which severely limited his employment opportunities. But Jamie could express himself in other ways. Like in his art. To Max’s untrained eye, Jamie was a brilliant impressionist artist, painting familiar landscapes and people through a hazy, soft pastel lens. His artwork hung on the walls of his room in the family home, the sunroom his dad had converted into a studio for Jamie, and the den. Max had a few at his house, too. He liked them. He thought there was something entirely relatable and familiar about the scenes his brother painted, but at the same time, something hauntingly distant.

  But Jamie’s artistic abilities were not enough to compensate for his inability to verbally communicate or consistently behave in a manner deemed socially acceptable to the world at large.

  A couple of years ago, Jamie’s doctor had recommended behavioral therapy to help with social situations. In the course of learning how to integrate with society, Jamie had been introduced to dogs at the ACC and had fallen into obsessive love with them. He wanted to know all about them. He ordered books on the different breeds and read them all. He drew pictures of all sizes of dogs.

  Max had been fascinated with this. Their mother had been extremely allergic to pet dander, which had ruled out any chance of having a dog at home. And in his memory, a younger Jamie had been suspicious and nervous of animals. Maybe Max had imagined that, because the adult Jamie was changed by that trip to the dog campus. He was not affectionate and didn’t like to be touched—but a dog could lay its head on his arm or lap, and Jamie seemed not to mind. A dog could crawl in his lap, and Jamie would hug him. Dogs seemed to understand Jamie and would press their bodies against him when he was nervous or anxious.

  When the opportunity for part-time work came up at the ACC, Max and his dad had helped Jamie apply. His job was to clean the kennels and walk and feed the dogs. He had never missed a day he was scheduled to work.

  Max began to wonder if a dog companion would make it possible for Jamie to live in a group home. His father wasn’t ready to think about Jamie living somewhere without him, but Max believed Jamie would thrive in one. His brother wasn’t stupid and, in fact, he was brilliant in some aspects. He just needed some extra help, and maybe a dog was the answer to that. As Max continued to notice the subtle changes in his brother’s behavior—such as his willingness to be touched by a dog and how the presence of a dog seemed to soothe him when he was agitated—Max began to think more about the interaction between dogs and humans and brain chemistry, particularly as it related to autism. There was not a lot of research that employed both qualitative and quantitative methods to determine if dogs were an effective social intervention and how it compared to other techniques used to help adults on the spectrum.

  So he developed a research proposal around this idea. His department was on board with it. So was the ACC. If Max’s research could inform their special-needs training, they were happy to supply the dogs.

  Through Jamie’s social skills program, Max was able to find two adults on the spectrum willing to participate in his study. Clarence was the first dog to come on board and had begun his weekly lab rotations t
wo months ago. For Clarence, that meant a happy adventure where he sought out treats. The ACC reported to Max that Clarence had gained four pounds since he’d begun his weekly lab rotations, the result of treats being snuck under the table to him.

  Yesterday, on what was Clarence’s last day, the students threw him a goodbye party. Clarence slept through most of it. The guests had included Dr. Alanna Friedman. Like Max, she was a professor in the department and had asked Max if she might audit his lab. Dr. Friedman was cute in a sciencey sort of way with her turquoise and purple framed glasses and the messy bun of dark auburn hair at her nape. She was doing some amazing research into the effects of narcotics on the brain that Max admired. And she had a sultry little smile that he really liked, too, so he’d said yes.

  It was Alanna who suggested that the lab students go for drinks after Clarence trotted off with the ACC volunteer to start his new life as a family dog. Predictably, many of the graduate students were down for that. At first, Max had hesitated. He’d had some papers to grade and some analyses to run, but it had been a while since he’d hung out with a pretty woman. It sounded like fun.

  Last night happened as those nights tend to do—one drink too many, one touch too intimate—and the next thing Max knew, he was giggling like a little kid with Alanna as they slipped in through the side door of his house.

  He was drunk, he was horny, and while he noticed that Hazel had not eaten her food, he was not concerned. He figured she was mad at him for coming home so late.

  This morning, Max and Alanna had said an awkward goodbye, both of them clearly questioning themselves in the light of day. Max took his splitting headache and blurry vision into the kitchen in search of coffee. He padded past the utility room in his boxers and said, “Good morning, Hazel.” Generally, that would cause his dog to launch her sausage-like body across the floor, enthusiastically slipping and sliding her way to him for petting and whatever food he might offer. But this morning, Hazel didn’t move.

  Max paused. She was in the same spot she’d been when he’d come in last night. Something was wrong. Was she sick? He backed up a step and changed course. He went into the utility room where she was, but as he got closer, Hazel tried to shove her body into the corner. “Whoa,” Max said.

  He rubbed his eyes. He looked again. Hey. That was not Hazel.

  He carefully inched down onto the floor beside the basset hound who was not Hazel. This one had the same coloring as his dog, but the markings were different, now that he looked at her . . . wait. At him.

  He knew instantly what had happened—Brant had probably been high and brought the wrong dog home. That’s what Max got for hiring a pothead dog walker, even one who’d come recommended, notwithstanding his perpetual state of stoned. Fucking Brant. Max’s neighbor had vouched for him! “Yeah, sure, he walks my dog every day. Sits with him when I’m out of town,” he’d said. “Just an old Austin hippie who has a dog-walking gig to get by.”

  At the time, that had seemed entirely plausible to Max. He’d lived in Austin his whole life and had known his fair share of hippies. In fact, the current occupant of the Hoffman Chair of Neurophysics lived in a tiny house off the electric grid. And Hazel did seem happy and tired on the days Brant walked her.

  Still, this was unbelievable—you couldn’t call yourself a dog walker and return the wrong dog.

  “Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” he murmured, and attempted to stroke the dog’s head, but the dog pressed harder into the corner, as if he thought he was hiding. So Max turned around and sat next to the dog, carefully petting him until the dog finally melted down and pushed his head against Max’s leg with a heavy sigh.

  “I get it,” Max said. “I’ve definitely had those days. Frankly, all signs point to me having one today. For what it’s worth, I’m going to personally kill Brant for doing this to you.”

  The dog sighed again and rolled into Max’s thigh.

  “But first, I’m going to need, like, a bucket of coffee. I’m pretty sure this situation is going to require some cognitive function, and I don’t have any just yet.”

  The dog lifted his soulful eyes up to Max.

  “Here’s some free advice, buddy—don’t ever let anyone talk you into drinking boilermakers.” Max scratched the dog beneath his chin before he hauled himself up and carried on into the kitchen for that much-needed coffee.

  After he’d slugged some down, Max located his phone and looked for the calls he was sure would be there, all from Brant, all offering profuse apologies for the mix-up. But there were no such apologies on his phone. There were no calls from Brant. Neither did Brant answer his phone nor pick up his messages, because his voice mail was full.

  Yep, he was definitely going to kill Brant in some horrifying manner. Right after work.

  He dressed. Then, he tried to get the dog to eat, but he wouldn’t even look at his food. So Max put a lead on him and told him to come on. The dog stubbornly refused to move from the corner of the mudroom at first. But with a few tugs and stern words, Max eventually convinced him to get up and get in the car. He had to. He couldn’t very well leave the dog at home—if Brant called him, Max would have to duck out between classes to take this one back and exchange him for Hazel.

  Where the hell was Hazel? He was worried about his Very Good Dog, a fourteen on a scale of ten on any damn day. He hoped whoever had ended up with her was taking good care of her. Hazel liked to watch Dog TV and lie on the couch with her front paws hanging off the edge. She wouldn’t understand if there was no couch. Max’s eyes got a little wet imagining Hazel trying to figure out where the couch was.

  He rolled down the back seat window for the dog, and the old boy perked up at that. When they started moving, he pushed his head out the window and let his long ears fly. He even wagged his tail a little.

  Max called Brant again on the way to work. He called from his office where the dog had taken up residence in another corner. He called during his advisory period. He called between classes and in the middle of grading papers.

  By the end of the day, Max had reached a new level of anxiety. He was ramped up from debating whether to drag the dog around with him or leave him in his office. He opted for the latter, and during his presentation on his research progress to the department chairs, he winced every time he heard the distinctive bay of a hound down the hall. Dog’s howl was full of displeasure. He was probably alarmed by the plastic brain with the removable parts Max kept on the windowsill.

  As the day wore on, he grew increasingly worried that something had happened to Hazel. He even worried about Brant. Where the hell was he? Max pictured him strung out in some alley, high on something more potent than pot.

  Moreover, Brant was supposed to have been Hazel’s dog-sitter this weekend. In just two days, Max was taking Jamie on a long-planned weekend trip to Chicago to see a big regional dog show. He was accomplishing two things at once with this trip—treating his brother to a slice of dog heaven because Max was convinced Jamie could handle it, and giving his dad a well-deserved and much-needed break as Jamie’s caregiver. The old man had planned a big fishing trip with his buddies for the weekend. He’d gone out and bought himself a new reel and rod, for Chrissakes.

  Max had invested a considerable amount of money and effort into this weekend, and if Brant wasn’t going to be around to dog-sit like he’d promised, then Max was in an even bigger bind.

  * * *

  By the next afternoon, Thursday, there was still no word from Brant, and Max was starting to panic. He tried not to panic—he was well aware that while his sympathetic nervous system had geared up, his parasympathetic nervous system would soon enter the picture and bring his anxiety down, because he did not have, insofar as he knew, a panic disorder.

  But he sure might develop one if he didn’t find Brant or Hazel soon. He hadn’t had much time to look, honestly—he had a major research article due to his faculty adviser, two tests from two
different classes to grade, and he’d agreed to sub for another professor whose mother had died. But he did manage to swing by the ACC after work yesterday, hoping Hazel might have shown up there, taken by whoever had gotten her instead of Dog.

  The dogs were out for group play. There were at least two dozen of them, some of them lounging on preschool play sets, some engaged in a serious game of chase. But no Hazel. When Max walked by the field on his way to the office, all of the dogs raced to the fence to greet him, save a bulldog in the back who didn’t seem inclined to give up his space on the play set bench.

  In the office, a young woman with pink hair and heavily tattooed arms said, “I’m sorry, sir. We haven’t received any bassets this week. But I’ve got a coon hound mix if you’re interested. He’s very friendly. But I would not advise leaving leather boots lying around.”

  “Thanks,” Max said. “But I’m just looking for my dog.”

  “Good luck!” she said.

  Thursday morning rolled around, and Max took Dog to work with him again on the slim chance that Brant might call and announce where he and Hazel had gone. But instead of leaving him in his office, Max had decided his classroom students could deal and Dog would be happier, so he’d brought him to the lecture hall. At first, Dog had stuck to a corner of the room, his head pressed to the wall. But he’d warmed up to the class, and, let’s be honest, the number of new smells a dog could not overlook or ignore, even the most depressed of basset hounds. Dog had wandered around as Max tried to instruct the students on the nervous system, plunging his nose into backpacks and crotches at will. The students were delighted, but also distracted by Dog, which was okay with Max, given the circumstances.

  But he hadn’t counted on a visit from Dr. O’Malley, the department head.

  O’Malley’s face set into a dark frown as Dog lumbered around the classroom. As if he thought dogs only belonged in the lab, and not in the auditorium. Dr. O’Malley generally frowned about a lot of things, but Max didn’t want him to frown in his class, especially since he’d just found out that he was not the only candidate being considered for tenure this year; he was apparently one of two. And only one would be allowed to go forward through the university process. Max was well aware that what O’Malley thought of either candidate would definitely factor into the decision.