You Lucky Dog

by Julia London

  Carly wanted desperately to tell Alvira she was the rudest person she’d ever met, but she couldn’t, because she was too busy fighting back hot tears of frustration. If you can avoid it, never cry in public, because the world will use it against you, Megan whispered.

  How could her life have gone to shit so completely and so quickly? Because Carly’s week did not improve from there. Victor did a vanishing act on her for two days. Naomi texted her and asked if she would be there by the holidays, because they were getting tickets to the new Broadway Christmas show. She was going to be living with her mother by Christmas at the rate things were going. Baxter lost interest in Dog TV and had gone back to his little corner in the kitchen. He didn’t want to eat much. When he did go out in the yard, he wandered aimlessly about, then dragged himself back inside.

  He missed Hazel. The poor dog was breaking her heart. Everything was breaking her heart.

  Thursday afternoon, Carly finally gave in, made a box of mac and cheese, and spooned half of it on top of Baxter’s super organic, super nutritious dog food. Baxter sighed as if it were a chore. But he ate it.

  “I feel you,” Carly said, and with her back to the wall, slid down to sit next to Baxter’s bed in the kitchen. “What I wouldn’t give to plant my face in a bowl of carbs right now.”

  When he finished, Baxter lay down beside her and put his head on her leg. She stroked his crown and his ears. Her thoughts wandered to Hazel . . .

  Well. To Max, really. She imagined them having a grand old time over there with Dog TV and some strange new food defiantly added to the bowl in spite of the guarantee of an evening of dog flatulence. She thought about Max’s gray eyes, and the curious little smile he had when he looked at her, like he couldn’t quite figure her out. She thought about the yards of denim he’d worn. She wouldn’t mind burying her face in some of that, too. She wouldn’t mind the feel of a man’s strong arm around her about now. Not because she couldn’t take care of herself. But wouldn’t it be nice, on occasion, to just let go and let someone else do all the worrying for her? Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to tell all the ridiculous things that happened in a day?

  Carly looked at Baxter. She picked up her phone.

  Hey, it’s me, Carly Kennedy. Hope I’m not bothering you, but I need some advice from a scientist.

  The text showed delivered. And there it sat. The minutes ticked by. Whole minutes, each one longer than the last, each one piling up so that she was cringing, wishing she could pull that text back. But then three dots popped up.

  Hello, Carly Kennedy. The scientist is in.

  Carly grinned. Baxter lifted his head and she showed him the screen. “See? He didn’t even bring up the fact that I didn’t believe he was a scientist. I think he might be a really good guy, Bax. Cute, too.” She texted back:

  Baxter is depressed again. Any suggestions?

  Ah. Dog problems. Did you kick him off the couch?

  I did not. He removed himself. My theory is that it didn’t hold the same appeal without Hazel.

  The scientist in me is dying to tell you that you are anthropomorphizing Baxter, but you may be on to something. Did you make him go back to organic food like the manual says?

  Of course I did. But I may or may not have given him some mac and cheese tonight because he wouldn’t eat.

  That should have triggered the reward centers in his brain and released some doggie dopamine. Dog TV?

  Had it on all day.

  Dog toys?

  A veterinarian-approved chew toy. The manual says it’s supposed to help keep his teeth clean.

  Hmm . . . this is a tough case. Did you tell him you love him?

  Carly looked at Baxter. “I love you, Bax,” she said. And gave him a good belly rub.

  Yes I did! AND I rubbed his belly. I’m not a demon.

  This all should have done the trick for my old pal Baxter. My professional opinion is that there is only one thing that can be done at this point. You probably won’t like it.

  Don’t keep me in suspense. What will save my dog, doctor?

  The only thing that will save your dog is if you and he meet me and Hazel at a dog park near you, and SOON. I think this is too serious to discuss in a text, but let’s just say there are only so many remedies for a canine’s broken heart, and you need to do something before it gets worse.

  Carly smiled. She couldn’t have Baxter’s broken heart on her conscience. She texted Max to find out when and where. And then she smiled for the first time in what felt like days.

  Nine

  Carly’s text could not have come at a better time.

  Max and his good friend and faculty adviser, Dr. Drake Silverman, were sitting outside the College of Natural Sciences, watching a television broadcast crew pack up. A student passing by told them they’d been on campus to interview Dr. Alanna Friedman about her important work in the neurobiology of addiction and her isolation of certain receptors in the brain as it related to addiction. Max knew about her work. It was promising, something that could lead to new modalities of treatment and even pharmacological interventions.

  They’d stumbled on the interview quite by accident—Max had asked Drake to do a beta read of his research paper and findings, as well as his proposal for further study into the translational aspects of the behavioral and endocrine phenotypes of dogs and the presentation of autistic behaviors in humans.

  “So basically you’re saying that our understanding of autism in the human brain can be learned from studying similar behaviors in the canine brain,” Drake said.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Max said.

  Drake grinned. “I think you like having dogs in the classroom.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Max asked. “Except for O’Malley. He didn’t seem too thrilled.”

  Drake waved a hand. “He doesn’t like anything. I think this is good to go, Max. I made notes for a couple of suggested tweaks, but you’re ready to present.”

  The paper Drake had reviewed was the last bit of research Max would submit as part of his dossier, which included all the research and published articles he wanted to be considered in his quest for tenure, as well as proposed articles and his future research goals. The departmental tenure committee would review his work and his plan. If that committee deemed his body of work and the latest research to be sufficient to move him forward, his dossier would be sent to the college dean. If Dean Goldbart reviewed his research and deemed it worthy, he would be moved on to the campus tenure committee. If that committee found him worthy, they would recommend him to the provost. If the provost decided to grant him tenure, Max would move from assistant professor to associate professor with tenure, with a chance to compete for endowments and license to continue his study of neurodevelopmental issues and, specifically, autism. Oh, and there would be a nice pay raise.

  It was a long, complicated process and there were a lot of scientists to please along the way. It was little wonder the tenure track took years. In addition, the department had a policy of submitting no more than one candidate each year. That meant all tenure-track professors had to compete for one annual slot. Max had believed that this was his year. He’d been before the committee twice before and had never moved forward. But his body of work was more robust now, and his publication schedule was great. He thought that, for once, he was a lock. Which was why, when he and Drake noticed the TV crew, his belly dropped.

  Alanna was doing some excellent work. Most people chuckled at Max with his dogs, like he’d chosen his field of study to hang out with them. “This does not bode well,” Max said to Drake as they watched a guy in a photographer’s jacket close the van door and hop into the passenger seat.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Drake said. But Max noticed he avoided eye contact. Well, Max was sweating it, and he had a tendency to slide into a hole when he was worried about something. So when
his phone pinged in his pocket, he was glad for the distraction.

  “CNN,” Drake said as the van drove by them. “That’s a big deal.”

  Yeah. A Very Big Deal. Max sighed and looked at his phone. He felt a smile curling his lips. Was this a text from Carly Kennedy? It damn sure was. Nothing at that moment could have been better for him.

  “I better get back,” Drake said, and stood up. He looked at Max. “Everything okay?”

  “Hmmm?” Max looked up from his phone. “You’re taking off? Hey, thanks, Drake. As always, thanks for being my mentor.”

  “Dude,” Drake said and, grinning, flicked his wrist at him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Umm . . . I need to take care of this,” Max said, holding up his phone.

  Drake nodded, said he’d see him later, and walked on.

  Max zipped his jacket against a north wind and responded to Carly’s texts. They agreed to meet tomorrow after work. He was smiling when he stood up, the CNN van forgotten. Everything was forgotten. Whatever worry and angst that had begun to build had been effectively tucked aside, shoved into a back pocket in his brain. He was thinking only of Carly as he walked back to his office. He’d been thinking about her for days.

  * * *

  When Max arrived at West Austin Neighborhood Dog Park the following afternoon, he heard Baxter before he saw the hound—his deep baying bark was rather distinctive. Hazel heard it, too, and began to prance excitedly at the gate, answering with a couple of barks of her own. Max opened the gate; Hazel charged in the direction of a picnic table at a speed that did not seem physically possible given her girth and the length of her legs, and just when Max thought she would crash into the concrete table, she leapt at Baxter, knocking him off-balance. The two of them rolled once, then took off, nipping at each other in a game of chase.

  That’s when he noticed Carly standing behind the picnic table. She waved.

  Max waved back. He was privately relieved that she was not wearing one of the weird outfits. Not that he minded what she wore—he thought she probably looked good in anything—but more that he didn’t know what to say about them. Today she was dressed in tights and boots, a long-sleeved T-shirt and puffy vest, and a knit cap with a fluffy white ball at the crown. Her long black hair was braided and hung over her shoulder. An image of that braid wrapped around his fist popped up in his mind’s eye, and he felt a bit of a flutter in his chest, a telltale sign that the hormone norepinephrine was coming together with the rest of him to brighten his day.

  She smiled as he walked across the park to reach her. Max would swear to the gods of men that he could see her blue eyes from this distance. She was attractive to him in a way that slipped into his blood and spread, turning each and every molecule pleasantly warm. He noted, as he quickened his pace, that he didn’t normally have thoughts like this. But he was definitely attracted to her, and by the time he reached the picnic table, he’d lost all sight of his dog and didn’t care.

  “Hey!” she said cheerily. “Did you hear Baxter? He has it so bad for Hazel.”

  He hadn’t noticed anything but her.

  She turned her head, and her braid swung a little. “Look at them.”

  Max watched her watch the dogs a moment. Then she looked back at him, smiling with such delight that the skin around her eyes crinkled. “The difference in him is amazing. They’re so cute!”

  “So cute,” he agreed. But he was looking at Carly.

  She gestured to a thermal bag on the table. “Guess what? I come bearing gifts.”

  “You do?” He was surprised by this. Carly had not seemed the type to bear gifts. So far, she’d presented as the type to knock your block off if necessary. He sincerely hoped it would never be necessary.

  “I do, of course I do. I have manners, sir. You don’t ask a gentleman and his dog to save your dog from the depths of doggie depression and show up empty-handed.” She slanted a look at him as she unzipped the bag. “Also, I owe you an apology for not believing you were a scientist. I thought you were making a joke because you got busted for telling me to calm down.”

  Max smiled. “For the record, I totally believed you were a supermodel.”

  She laughed with surprise. “With that muffin top? Wait—don’t answer that.” She pulled out a plaid thermos and held it up to him. “It’s hot chocolate. Do you like hot chocolate? I mean, you don’t have any weird allergies to chocolate or anything, do you? It would crush Baxter if I had to cancel this rescue because you totally ruined everything by being allergic to chocolate.”

  He pressed a hand to his heart as if he’d been mortally offended. “I would never ruin this for Baxter. I do like hot chocolate and I have no weird allergies. And if I did, I wouldn’t admit to them because that,” he said, pointing with two fingers at the two dogs, “is a match made in heaven.”

  “Exactly,” Carly said with a grin. “We should all be such lucky dogs.” She pulled out two paper cups, opened the thermos, and poured. She handed one to Max, then picked the other one up and tapped it against his. “Thank you again. Seriously. He’s been so depressed.”

  Max looked into her eyes. He wanted to speak, but words had drifted out of his mind, almost as if he had frontotemporal degeneration. Which he did not.

  “Cheers!” she said and tapped her cup to his.

  “Cheers.” Max sipped. The taste of rich, warm chocolate hit his tongue and a hint of his childhood came rushing back at him. Which was quickly followed by a hint of his college years, because this hot chocolate was laced with alcohol, and he coughed, then looked at Carly with surprise.

  She burst into laughter and sat on the picnic bench. “It’s Friday! And there’s a nip in the air. I’m actually doing you another favor by keeping you warm.”

  “I like the way you think, Carly Kennedy. This was a favor I didn’t even know I needed.” He sat next to her.

  “That’s high praise coming from an actual brain scientist.”

  “All right, get it out of your system,” he said, gesturing. “You don’t have to say brain scientist like I’m creating Frankenstein’s monster in my backyard.”

  Carly laughed.

  “What made you believe me, anyway? It couldn’t have been my analytical calculation of how to get you out of that skirt.”

  “Definitely not that,” she agreed. “Google made me believe it.”

  Max sputtered another sip of his hot chocolate.

  “What? Are you surprised? Don’t you google people?”

  “No! I mean, sure, professionally speaking I have googled people. But nonacademics?” He shook his head.

  “You should! You need to know who you’re dealing with. Seriously!” she said to his dubious smile. “I wasn’t kidding—you could have been a legit dognapper.”

  “You googled me before you met me?”

  “No, but I should have, and that’s the point,” she said. “At the time I was too flustered to think.”

  “Your theory is that if I’d been a legit dognapper, I would have posted it on the Internet?”

  “My theory is that your long rap sheet of dognappings and social media posts about dognappings or other awful behavior would have given you away.”

  He laughed. “Social media posts about awful behavior? What does that mean?”

  “It means, if I googled you, and checked out your social media accounts, and found out you were a big game hunter, eew, or liked some racist posts, I mean, come on, I couldn’t hang out with you in a dog park.”

  “Aha, I get it now.” He sipped. “Just out of curiosity . . . what did you find?”

  “That you really like dogs and brains.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He smiled. “There’s a flaw in your theory, you know. I’m rarely on social media, so there is very little information about me.”

 
She squinted a moment as she considered that. “You’re right. You could still be a dognapper. I guess I’ll have to go about this the old-fashioned way and interrogate you.”

  “Great!” Max grinned. “Nothing I like better than a good interrogation. Hey, did you ever google Brant?”

  “Now you’re getting it! And you just proved my point—we both should have googled Brant. I didn’t, because he had a card and everything, and, frankly, I was a little desperate. But I learned from my mistake, Max. So when a guy unzipping my skirt randomly announced he was a brain scientist, I knew immediately it was worth a google.”

  Max laughed. “When you put it like that, I guess so. Did I really randomly announce it? I usually wait for someone to ask.” What he remembered about that night was the feel of her skin. Soft and pliant, warm and—

  “Anyway, I read your profile on the university website.”

  “Oh.” It felt a little weird, knowing she’d googled him. “What did you, ah . . .” He hesitated, not wanting to ask in case he didn’t like the answer.

  “Think about it?” she finished for him.

  He wanted to know if she liked it, if she was impressed. If by chance his profile had magically separated him from all the other men who sought her attention. “I think that’s what I’m trying to ask, yes.”

  “I thought that there is no way in a million years I could understand what you do, and hats off to you for being so smart.”

  “I’m not so smart. I just know the science lingo. We brain scientists are a small group, relatively speaking. We have to have our own language so we can stick together.”

  “Oh, it’s a secret club thing?”

  “Something like that.”

  She grinned. She traced her finger around the edge of her cup. “What made you decide on neuroscience? Were you that kid in sixth grade who took the science experiments a step too far? I’m kind of fascinated, because when I was in the sixth grade, Johnny Grakowski threw a dead cricket at me and that effectively ended any interest I might have had in anything remotely scientific.”