Critters of Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  “It’s all right, doggies.” I said as I heard him shut the front door. I twisted the knob and opened the door before they could lock it again.

  They sat neatly on their haunches in the middle of the bathroom floor with beatific smiles on their faces and festoons of toilet paper hanging from their jaws and ears.

  Around them lay a foot deep cloud of torn toilet paper and paper towels. The storage cupboard behind them gaped open. Not one roll remained on the shelves.

  I started to yell, but found myself laughing so hard the tears rolled down my cheeks. The proud pooches ooched across and laid their toilet-paper draped heads in my lap. I’m sure they thought I had gone insane and needed cosseting.

  I shut the door behind them, limped downstairs and lay down on my bed. I didn’t say a word when both dogs slipped up to lie beside me, one great head on my stomach, the other against my shoulder. That’s the way Charlie found me when he came home.

  “Everything Okay?” he asked. I merely pointed upstairs. “You clean it up.”

  The new gate was tall enough to contain even Benjamin at his most agile, so they sat in the hall and glumly watched us eat the cheeseburgers that Charlie had brought home. He unwrapped my foot, checked it carefully for bits of glass and rewrapped it. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. We left the dogs, went into the den and cuddled on the sofa. With his chin propped on the top of my head, he said, “Millie’s mother is no better. They’re moving her to a step-down unit. Millie doesn’t know when she’ll be home.”

  I closed my eyes. “I can’t keep them,” I said. “I don’t have the strength.”

  “Millie knows that. She’s quit her job here and doesn’t know when she can come back, if ever. She’s going to try to find a home for them. Poor things. They’re littermates. They’ve never been apart, but nobody’s going to be willing to take two of them. They’ve both been neutered, so no breeder will want them.”

  That’s when I broke into tears. I felt sorry for them, but sorrier for me.

  “I told Millie I’d get on the Net and find some breeders who might know of homes. There may even be a Bouvier rescue site.”

  The next morning I called Dr. Blackshear and told him about the dogs. “They are so sweet, but I’m afraid they’ll knock one of us down, and we’ll break something. Frankly, they’re driving me nuts. And they’re not happy. They need more exercise, but I simply haven’t the strength to give them any more.”

  “They need a job,” he said. “They’re working dogs. Left on their own they can destroy the world.”

  “They’re definitely destroying mine.” I hesitated. “What sort of job?”

  “In Belgium they used to pull milk carts.”

  “Of course they did. Riiiiighht. Sorry. Fresh out of harness, cart, or cows to make the milk.”

  “They also herded sheep.”

  “You are a great help. I happen to be fresh out of sheep as well.”

  “Mr. Boyd has plenty of sheep.”

  “I am not bringing sheep into my back yard for those two to herd.”

  “He teaches sheep dogs to herd. He could probably teach yours.”

  “And maybe find us a sheep man to take both of them! Yes!”

  I hung up feeling better. I called Mr. Boyd, made an appointment for him to assess Ben and Bel, took them out into the back yard and began my daily trolling for loot. They both had the souls of magpies. They regularly stole anything shiny they could get into their mouths. This morning I found my second-best wristwatch, two silver teaspoons, a bunched up piece of aluminum foil and a part of the clicker for the sound system that Charlie hadn’t noticed.

  The new clicker lived in the topmost cabinet. Having the alarm go off for thirty minutes at 5 am for a week had nearly broken up our marriage.

  Both dogs did understand getting into their crates for travel, although they positively refused to go near them the night we brought them in the house to try to crate them while we ate and slept. We drove the thirty minutes out to Boyd’s farm and found him waiting for the three of us. He looked both dogs over while they were still in their crates.

  “Need to try them one at a time, see what kind of sheep sense they got.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dog’s born and bred to herd sheep looks on ’em the way a wolf does. Dog hates sheep like the good cutting horses hate cows. The instinct to kill has been bred out of ’em. Or most of ’em. You get a dog that wants to kill a sheep, you got a problem.”

  “They’re both sweet,” I protested.

  “You got two legs. Ma’am. Sheep’s got four. Come on. Let’s take the big ’un first.”

  Bel began to call when she realized Benjamin was being led away on his twenty-four foot telescoping leash. I gave her a treat, and she settled down with a sigh and went to sleep.

  Mr. Boyd had a fenced pasture of about three acres where he kept what he called his herdin’ herd. Twenty or so big white sheep with black faces grazed contentedly all over the pasture. I looked down at Ben to see him straining at his leash so hard he was cutting off his air.

  “What we’re gonna do is put this long leather leash on him so we can grab him if he tries to attack,” Boyd said. “I’ll walk him in and let him look around a little, then we’ll let him go and see what he does.”

  What he did was go straight for the four sheep at the far end of the pasture at a dead run. Took him perhaps five minutes to begin to organize the herd and bring it all into one group. Then he moved it around the pasture.

  “Don’t sheepdogs nip at the sheep’s heels?” I whispered.

  Not taking his eyes off Ben, Boyd said, “Some nip, some don’t. Some just bark and run. Corgis nip at the heels of cows. That’s why they’re so low to the ground. Kick goes right over their heads.”

  “So what do Bouviers normally do?”

  “They’re the linebackers. Watch him flat run into that ewe and shove her back into the group. See? Now, in New Zealand I’ve watched Huntaways run across the backs of the sheep.” Ben launched himself at another ewe and barked in sheer joy.

  One big ram took off and when Ben tried to turn him, he rounded on the dog with his head down. His horns were immense.

  I gasped.

  Ben narrowly avoided those horns and that forehead, ran around behind the ram and chased him all the way back to his ewes, barking in triumph the whole way.

  After about twenty minutes, Boyd walked out, grabbed Ben’s leash and brought him trotting back to me, proud as your average peacock. Ben collapsed at my feet with his tongue hanging out and his sides heaving.

  He’d be much too tired to cause havoc this evening at home.

  We discovered Bel was slower, sneakier and less apt to bark. She was smaller, but used her weight more efficiently and moved the sheep with greater purpose than Ben. Each was effective, but in different ways.

  When she also collapsed at my feet with a grin on her face, Boyd turned to me with a smile on his. “You got the makings of a champion pair there, Ma’am. How much you want for ’em?”

  I froze. Boyd would give them the training and the life both deserved. They could stay together with land to run and sheep to herd. I knelt to scratch Bel’s woolly head and smiled at Benjamin in his crate.

  My heart thudded. I felt as though I was going to faint. No more chairs or clickers torn to pieces. No more searching for the good spoons in the back yard. No more splinters of glass in my feet. Charlie and I could get back to our quiet lives.

  The perfect solution.

  I took a deep breath. “They are not for sale.” And they weren’t. Not now, not ever. They were ours, Charlie’s and mine, whether we liked it or not.

  He nodded.

  “But would you be willing to train them?” I asked. “And me?”

  “Can you whistle?”

  “Certainly.” I puckered and blew.

  He shook his head. “Naw, not like that. Like this.” He pulled his lips tight against his teeth and let out a screech that brought both dogs to instant
alert.

  I shook my head. “My teeth aren’t built right for that. Does that mean you can’t train us?”

  “Naw. Just means we got to get you two whistles. And you need a crook to point with. See, each dog responds to his calls and his only.” He narrowed his eyes. “I charge twenty bucks a lesson, five minutes or two hours, my choice. You need a couple of lessons a week. You afford that?”

  I’d have been willing to mortgage the house to pay him if that’s what it took, but forty dollars a week was doable. We’d just have to eat a bit more mystery meat and not go out to dinner so often. Not that we could anyway with Bel and Ben at home alone. I nodded.

  He glared at me. “Take a fair amount of walking. You ain’t no spring chicken.”

  “Neither are you. What are you, a hundred?”

  He glared at me. “First rule. Don’t make fun of the teacher.”

  “Yes sir. Can we start now?”

  “Hell’s bells, woman, ain’t you run them two into the ground already today? Come back two days from now at nine o’clock in the morning. I’ll get you your whistles. Ought to carve your own, but I don’t guess you can do that either, can you?” He sounded disgusted.

  On the drive home I wrestled with whether I should tell Charlie about Boyd’s offer. I pulled into a fast food place to get an order of chicken nuggets for the dogs. I know they shouldn’t have them, but they deserved a treat. I called Charlie from the parking lot. “Sweetie,” I said, “Call Millie and tell her not to bother trying to place the dogs. We’re keeping them.”

  “She was planning to sell them, Louise, not give them away.”

  “Ask her what she wants for them and write her a check. Don’t quibble.”

  “You sure about this? You said you couldn’t . . .”

  “Charles, we are keeping them, period. Mr. Boyd is going to train them for sheep-herding. I wasn’t aware, but apparently there are sheep-herding contests all over this area. He thinks they’re going to be champions at that, too.”

  “You sure you don’t want Millie to sell them?”

  “I’m sure. Mr. Boyd offered to buy them, but I just couldn’t. You don’t sell family.”

  The Mice that Roared

  Part Eight

  Jayne

  I’ve always closed the coffee shop at six p.m. every night except Friday and Saturday. Figured not enough people needed coffee and its inherent caffeine after that to warrant the cost of staying open.

  At six-thirty sharp, Win Allen knocked on the back door, which was, at least in theory, the front door to my apartment.

  “You’re right on . . .” My words faded as I took in the wiggling bundle in his arms. “Oh. Is that . . . a dog?”

  It looked more like a blond hamster with a pink bow on top of its head.

  Win held up the furry creature, looking proud and pleased with himself. “This, Ms. Reynolds, is your new mouser.”

  It took a moment for me to process that. “Mouser? That’s a cat?”

  “No, Glinda’s a dog. A Cairn Terrier.”

  “Glinda? Karn? What are you talking about?!”

  “No, Cairn. C-A-I-R-N. I looked it up on the internet. It’s an ancient Scottish dog, bred to kill vermin for farm—”

  The little dog who’d stopped wiggling to sniff the air alertly, suddenly jumped from Win’s arms, leapt past me, hit the landing next to me so close I could feel a whoosh of air and fur, then bolted up the stairs.

  I gaped at Win in surprise. He gaped back. “What is she . . .” Then I remembered my son, “Matt!”

  I raced up the stairs, Win right behind me. I burst into the apartment only to see Matt just getting up from where he’d been playing with Lincoln Logs on the living room floor.

  “Dog, Mommy! Dog!”

  I took a deep breath. “I know, little darlin’. Where did it go?”

  Matt pointed at the bedroom. “Dere!” He took off toward it.

  Win caught him after two steps. “Whoa, there, Matt. Let’s see what she’s up to first.”

  “What would she be up to?” I demanded.

  “Mice,” he said firmly.

  “Mice?” I repeated. “Cats chase mice. Dogs chase cats. That’s the natural order of things.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  His smile was so smug, I stared at him. He was acting very oddly. Not that I knew Win all that well, but this was odd for anyone.

  To bring an animal into someone’s home was a . . . well, it was a familiar thing to do. Familiar in the sense that it’s only done by people who know the person they’re bringing it to intimately. People don’t bring pets to other people unless they’re absolutely certain the animals would be welcome.

  The hand that wasn’t holding Matt settled on my shoulder and turned me toward the bedroom. “Let’s go see, shall we?”

  “What did you say her name is? Glinda?”

  “If you like it. I call her that because that’s the name of a character in the Wizard of Oz. The good witch of the North. Toto is a Cairn.”

  “Oh,” I stopped. “Oh!”

  Glinda pranced—I swear, she pranced around the end of the bed with a mouse clamped between her jaws. The loathsome gray critter was hanging limply, so Glinda had already dispatched it.

  “Doggie!” Matt cried in delight.

  Win handed Matt to me, then went to kneel down in front of Glinda. “Drop.”

  Glinda looked as if she wanted to argue, then gave a tiny whine and dropped the mouse on the floor. It didn’t move, so it really was dead, not just playing possum.

  Matt clapped his hands. “Good doggie!”

  Obviously my child had no qualms about the violent death of mouse. All he cared about was the dog.

  I shivered as I envisioned bird dogs and shotguns in my future.

  Win gave a crisp snap above Glinda’s head. “Sit.”

  Glinda sat promptly, looking up at him and wagging her tail furiously.

  He smiled over his shoulder. “I taught her that last night. She’s incredibly smart.”

  Matt clapped again as he giggled loudly.

  I didn’t know what to say. I was too dumbfounded by everything that had happened in the last three minutes.

  “If you’ll take Matt out of the room, I’ll dispose of the body,” Win said.

  Without a word, I turned.

  Matt twisted in my arms. “Here doggie!”

  I heard the pitter patter of tiny feet following us. I plopped Matt down on the sofa then sat beside him.

  Without breaking stride, Glinda popped up between us. She gave Matt a quick tongue up the side of his face, then turned soulful eyes to me. She placed a paw on my leg, as if asking permission to stay.

  Hesitantly, I extended a hand and gingerly stroked her head. “I don’t know what to say, little dog. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Gracious. Had I really answered her?

  But it was as if she’d really asked the question.

  I heard the toilet flush. So much for a mouse funeral.

  Matt stroked her back. “Ginda stay. Right, Mommy?”

  “I don’t know, Matt . . .” I glanced up as Win appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on? Whose is this dog? Where did you find her?”

  He stepped into the room. “Hank found her.”

  “Just like that, Hank found her? Sit down, please.”

  He settled into the overstuffed chair, then squarely met my eyes. “Hank found her because I asked him to.”

  I remembered the words that had passed through my head earlier. To bring an animal into someone’s home was a familiar thing to do. Familiar in the sense that it’s only done by people who know the person they’re bringing it to intimately.

  Or who want to know the person intimately.

  My breath caught. Was Josie right? Was Win interested in me?

  “You asked him to . . .” I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that Win had not only recognized a need that I had—most of the town knew about my predicament—he’d acted on it. Had
gone to quite a bit of trouble to act on it. For me.

  Win nodded. “Specifically, I asked him to find a canine mouser for you. And I have to tell you, he’s very proud of finding this little lady. She’s perfect for you.”

  “But I—”

  He held up one hand, as if holding off her objections. “I know you’re a cat person, but Matt is so crazy about dogs, and I think that if you give her a chance, Glinda might just grow on you.”

  To hide my confusion, I looked back down at the dog. She’d curled up in Matt’s lap, the perfect size for such a small person. He gently stroked her from her head to her tail, like Ingrid had showed him.

  “Glinda?” I said.

  The little dog twisted so she could see me. Yes, Mama?

  I would’ve sworn on a Bible she said it.

  “Look there,” Win said proudly. “She already knows her name. Smart as a whip.”

  “Where did Hank find her?”

  “At the Humane Shelter in Bigelow. You’d be rescuing her.”

  Glinda settled back down in Matt’s lap.

  I liked that idea, and I liked the way she was bonding with Matt. Smart indeed. She’d probably already sensed that there wasn’t much I would deny my son. “She’s so small. Is she a puppy?”

  “No. Hank said she’s around three years old. Perfectly healthy, though small even for the breed. He thinks she wasn’t fed very well, and that’s why she was in the Humane shelter.”

  “Well, we can certainly take care of that,” I said.

  “I have food in the car,” Win said. “I took her and Cherry down to PetSmart in Bigelow last night. Went a little crazy. But you’ve already got some food, a leash and a crate.”

  “Crate?”

  “Dogs like having their own ‘den.’ A place of their own to go and sleep or get away from it all. And you can lock them in it if you need them out of the way for awhile. Cherry has one. She sleeps in it, though I rarely lock it. Did when she was a puppy though. Helped with house training.”

  “Oh. Will I have to . . .”

  “Shouldn’t. Glinda seems to be housebroken already. I didn’t have any problem last night.”

  Emma suddenly jumped on the coffee table and hissed at Glinda. Glinda popped up and for a minute, I thought we were about to see a chase scene worse than The French Connection.