Karma's a Killer

by Tracy Weber

  I hoped she was right.

  I sat at the front, stared across the crowd, and tried to get my bearings. After multiple years of experience, teaching yoga to humans was easy. I could quickly and intuitively assess human yogis’ needs at the beginning of each class. Could I do the same with canines?

  Might as well give it a try. I closed my eyes and visualized the dogs I’d seen enter the yoga space. The mastiff could use an energizing practice with back bends and flows designed to build vitality. The Chihuahua would benefit from a relaxing practice to address his anger management issues. Maybe I could teach some neck strengthening exercises to that poor Rottie mix.

  Dale cleared his throat to get my attention. All around me, dogs and their owners were fidgeting. It was time to begin, whether I was ready or not.

  I pulled out the Tibetan chimes I’d brought with me, rang them three times to focus attention, and then stood up so my voice would project through the crowd. “Before we start, I need to set some ground rules.”

  I pointed at the empty space beside me. “Notice that I didn’t bring a dog today. That’s for a couple of reasons. First, I’m here as your teacher, not a participant, so I need to focus all of my attention on you. But more important than that, my crazy pup—though I love her dearly—doesn’t like other dogs. She prefers private Doga.” I grinned, waiting for the crowd’s response.

  They stared back at me in silence, obviously confused by my joke.

  “You know, like private yoga.”

  Nothing.

  “A single student?”

  Not one appreciative twitter.

  “It was a joke.”

  Dale let out a halfhearted sympathy laugh. I moved on.

  “Second, this isn’t a dog-training class. In fact, if your partner isn’t already well trained, she shouldn’t attend.” I looked directly at the Bunny Lady. “For Doga to work, the dog needs to focus on its handler without distraction.” I smiled to take the sting out of my words. “Now would be a great time to leave if this class isn’t right for your pet.”

  Two people stood and led their canines toward the exit. The bunny and his owner weren’t among them.

  I pointed toward the vendor area. “If your dog gets completely out of control, take him to the Pete’s Pets booth and ask for free dog treats.” I didn’t try to suppress my smirk. “Be sure to tell Tiffany that Kate sent you.”

  Complete silence. Not a smile in the area.

  So much for my stand-up comedy routine.

  “Well, okay then. A couple of additional thoughts. Doga is actually partner yoga, with a little assisted stretching for Fido thrown in. It has been shown to help with behavior issues, particularly separation anxiety. If you practice consistently, you and your dog can develop a stronger, more meaningful bond.”

  The more I spoke, the more I realized that, in spite of my reservations, I actually believed what I was saying. I always felt better after I practiced yoga with Bella. Happier. Why wouldn’t the reverse be true? I wasn’t sure Bella fully understood yoga’s connection of body, breath, and mind, but she definitely benefited from my calm, post-yoga energy. And—whether they fit the true definition of yoga or not—assisted stretches and passive range-of-motion exercises helped mitigate arthritis and other orthopedic diseases common in dogs.

  I gave the class an encouraging smile and began.

  “Let’s get started. Put your dog in a down-stay in front of you.”

  Dale snapped his fingers, made a sweeping motion with his right hand, and pointed to the ground. Bandit flopped down and stared at him adoringly. The rest of the dogs wiggled, whined, and generally voiced their protests, but most of them eventually lay down in front of their owners. So far so good.

  “Place one hand on your abdomen, the other on your dog. Close your eyes and notice your breath.” The humans all complied, which was evidently the opportunity the canines had been waiting for. The Doberman leveled a hard stare at the terrier. The Chihuahua showed me his teeth. Bandit crawl-walked toward the rabbit and drooled.

  “On second thought, keep your eyes open and watch your dog, but continue lengthening your breath.” The owners opened their eyes. Many seemed surprised to see their dog focusing elsewhere.

  “Breathe in calming energy with every inhale,” I continued. “With every exhale, send that same calming energy to your pet.”

  The Chihuahua’s owner rolled her eyes at my woo-woo imagery, but the Doberman stopped goading the terrier and Bandit turned back to Dale, which were my primary goals.

  After several lengthened breaths, I asked the class to come to hands and knees. “Keep your dog in a down-stay but hold onto his leash, just in case. Place your hips on your heels, reach your arms forward, and rest your forehead on your dog.”

  The positioning took more shuffling than I had anticipated, but the class eventually found the right place. “With each inhale, come to hands and knees. With each exhale, fold back and bring your hips to your heels again in Child’s Pose. Touch your forehead to your dog.”

  The mastiff closed his eyes and sighed in pure pleasure. The Chihuahua tolerated two repetitions before it jumped up, shook its entire body, turned, and barked at the Bunny Lady. His beady little eyes stared hungrily at her pant leg.

  Time to shift tactics.

  “Tell you what—let’s come to standing and try some balance postures instead.” I looked pointedly at the Chihuahua’s owner. “If your dog is small, pick it up and hold it in your arms.”

  I asked the class to watch as I demonstrated several variations of Tree Pose. “Shift your weight to your left foot and place the sole of your right foot on your left inner thigh.”

  “Are you kidding me?” the elderly woman asked.

  I smiled. “Or you can keep the toes of your right foot on the grass for balance. There are three options for your dogs. Option one is to keep your dog in a sit next to you. Option two—for those of you with small dogs—is to cradle your pup in your arms. If your dog is tiny, you can try option three, which is to reach your arms up like this, holding your dog overhead.” I pantomimed holding a tiny dog between my palms and lifting it up.

  Bunny Lady, of course, chose option three.

  She grasped Alfalfa between two chubby palms and thrust him up to the sky. Alfalfa didn’t appreciate his new view. He squirmed, he lurched. I would have sworn that he frowned. When that didn’t get Bunny Lady’s attention, he thrashed his body weight forward while forcefully kicking two bunny-sized feet back, straight into her nose.

  “Hey!” she yelled.

  To be fair, Bunny Lady gave that balance pose one valiant effort. She weebled and wobbled and wove and warbled. For an insane, hopeful moment, I thought she might remain standing. But the piranha-

  Chihuahua couldn’t withstand the temptation. He spied her flapping pant leg, dove from his owner’s arms, and chomped onto the fabric.

  Bunny Lady yelled, “Get it off of me!” and dropped both Alfalfa and his leash.

  The terrified rabbit skirted away from the falling monolith. Dale somehow managed to hang on to Bandit, but that didn’t stop the other terrier. The little black monster slipped his collar and tore after Alfalfa. The Doberman broke free and chased after them both.

  All of Green Lake seemed to erupt in an explosion of barking, chasing, howling, and lunging as hare and hounds zipped through the crowd, ducked under the rope, and tore across the main soccer field toward the hot dog stand. Bouncing cellulite, flopping bunny ears, and deep-throated growls ripped through the air. And that was just from the Bunny Lady.

  The animals collided in front of the condiment table.

  Innocent bystanders dove in all directions, some trying to escape the melee, others trying to stop it. I stared in horror at the Tasmanian Devil–like vortex of fur, teeth, ketchup, and hotdog buns. When the food stopped flying, a triumphant-looking teenager cradled the bunny; an an
gry-looking, ketchup-covered man wrestled the terrier. Michael, having come from lord only knows where, held onto the collar of the still-lunging Doberman.

  Michael was the first to arrive back at my yoga area. He handed the Doberman’s leash to its handler, who apologized and quickly skirted off into the crowd. The terrier’s owner ran to the food truck and ineffectually dabbed napkins across the shirt of his dog’s rescuer.

  The rabbit-carrying teen arrived last. Bunny Lady marched up to him imperiously, her rabbit-ear hat askew like a poorly fitted toupee. She grabbed Alfalfa from the teen without so much as a thank you.

  I should have felt bad, and honestly I did. But that didn’t stop me from getting the giggles. I bit my lower lip and tried not to laugh.

  Michael didn’t look amused. “Kate, what in the hell happened here?”

  Bunny Lady spoke directly to Michael, but she pointed an accusing finger at me. “This … ” She paused as if unable to spit out the words. “This so-called dog trainer let those vicious mutts chase my rabbit out of yoga class.”

  Michael’s face turned so red it was almost purple. He gaped at me. “You allowed a rabbit in class with that many dogs? What were you thinking?”

  “It’s not my fault. I—”

  “Not your fault?” Bunny Lady yelled. “You’re supposed to be a dog trainer!”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a yo—”

  Michael tried to shush me, but he was too late.

  Bunny Lady almost burst an aneurysm. “You’re not a dog trainer? No wonder you’re so incompetent! You had no business representing yourself as an animal expert.”

  “I didn’t. I—”

  She didn’t give me a chance to finish. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer about this.” Her lips wrinkled as if she’d bitten into a not-so-fresh carrot. “And the owners of those vicious dogs will be hearing from Animal Control!”

  My face burned with embarrassment and unspoken retorts, but I couldn’t think of a single reply. At least not one any self-respecting yoga teacher could utter in public.

  Fortunately, Maggie and Sally arrived before I could say something I’d later regret. Maggie rushed up to the agitated woman and placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry about this incident, Mrs. Abernathy. Is Alfalfa okay?” The bunny cuddled deep inside his owner’s ample bosom, appearing none the worse for wear. “Please don’t be angry, especially not with the dogs. Chasing after prey is their nature. Would you be mad if a cat chased a mouse?”

  “Well, no … ”

  “And Kate is just a volunteer yoga teacher.”

  I bristled at the word “just,” but Maggie’s eyes begged me to remain silent. “She isn’t one of the trainers at the shelter. In hindsight, dog yoga obviously wasn’t the best idea. Maybe next year we can arrange for a rabbit show.”

  Maggie must have been some sort of Bunny Lady whisperer. With each soothing assurance, I could feel more of the agitated woman’s anger melt away.

  “I promise you, this won’t happen again,” Maggie finished.

  We all waited for Bunny Lady’s response. After what felt like a century, she sighed and adjusted her hat. “Well, as long as Alfalfa wasn’t hurt, I suppose I can let it go this time.”

  Maggie smiled, I assumed in relief more than pleasure. “Thank you, Mrs. Abernathy. That’s very kind. If you come with me, I’ll have one of our volunteer veterinarians examine Alfalfa.” She turned to me. “Kate, I think we’ve had enough Doga for today.” She faced the crowd and raised her hand. “Everyone, thanks for your understanding. Please—”

  We never heard the end of her sentence.

  Five

  The shouts that drowned out Maggie’s words were impassioned, if a little misguided.

  “Break down the cages!”

  “Close the dog warehouses!”

  “Animal ownership is slavery!”

  Over twenty people, all wearing black shirts with the orange flame insignia, cut a swath across the grass, waving picket signs and yelling at top volume.

  Two teenage girls held onto opposite ends of a banner that read Humans for Ethical Animal Treatment. Turn up the HEAT!

  Raven—the woman I’d seen arguing behind the paddleboats earlier—marched next to them, holding a sign in one hand and a leash attached to the neck of a handsome, thirtyish, olive-skinned man in the other. Eduardo, I assumed. I shaded my eyes with my hand and examined the object of Raven and Dharma’s confrontation.

  Even from a distance, I could understand Eduardo’s appeal. With broad shoulders, deep cocoa eyes, and wavy black hair that curled under his earlobes, this man would easily make more than one woman’s heart go atwitter. His one glaring fault was the sandpaper-thick layer of dark stubble covering the lower half of his face. No amount of shaving would keep that beard-in-the-making under control. Even thinking about it made my skin itch.

  His dark leather jacket and matching motorcycle boots contrasted hypocritically with the sign that he carried: Animals Are Sentient Beings, Not Possessions! His face wore a trapped, agonized expression, though that might have been part of the show.

  I scanned the area behind him, looking for Dharma and Goth Girl. I didn’t see either.

  The dog walkers stopped talking, stared at the ruckus, and scowled. No one seemed to be having fun anymore, which was probably the protesters’ intention. A short, rail-thin young woman stomped away from the picket line, knocked a hot dog out of a child’s hand, and yelled, “Meat is murder!”

  Michael pulled out his cell phone. “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and sighed. “I can’t believe she’s actually going through with this.”

  “You know them?” I asked.

  She shuddered, but her eyes never left the protesters. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Sally, take Mrs. Abernathy to the pet first aid tent and … ” Her voice trailed off. She glanced left and right. “Where on earth did Sally go?”

  The Bunny Lady wrinkled her nose, ill humor back in full force. “Sally wandered off a few minutes ago, which is exactly what I should have done. You obviously don’t have control over this fiasco.” She slipped the rabbit into her bag and stomped several feet away before turning back to spit out two final sentences. “Don’t bother cashing that check I gave you earlier. I’m putting a stop payment on it as soon as I get home!”

  Maggie cradled her face in her hands. “Can this day get any worse?”

  She shouldn’t have asked.

  The words had barely escaped her lips when Dale’s head jerked up. “Do you smell that?”

  I did. I would have recognized that smell anywhere. Gasoline.

  I heard a loud swoosh, punctuated by a louder explosion. New, significantly more frightening, words rang out across the field.

  “Fire! Somebody help! The dumpsters are on fire!”

  Dale’s face turned as white as his beard. “Oh no! The goats!”

  “I’ll grab the fire extinguisher!” Michael yelled.

  Michael and Maggie ran toward the registration desk, while Dale, Bandit, and I tore off to the goat petting zoo. Picketers and dog walkers scattered in every direction.

  By the time we rounded the corner, the fire was already spreading. Hot yellow flames licked from the dumpsters to the loose hay that surrounded the petting area. Within seconds, the entire line of straw bales had ignited, creating a flaming, Hades-like fence.

  The teenage volunteers had already rushed the children outside the fenced area, but the goats were still trapped, huddled together in the corner farthest away from the fire. Michael skidded to a stop behind me a few seconds later. He blasted the straw bales with the extinguisher, but the fire was spreading too fast. He may as well have been spraying the Towering Inferno with a garden hose.

  Dale tossed Bandit’s leash to a gawker. The blond teenager held the
gate open while his brother, Dale, and I scrambled inside. Michael kept spraying the extinguisher, holding the flames back as best he could.

  The goats refused to move.

  “Force them to the entrance,” Dale yelled.

  I channeled my inner Goth Girl, waved my arms, and yelled, “Go, you stupid goats! Run! Get out of here!”

  The three of us screamed and clapped and pushed and stomped until the terrified animals bolted from the enclosure and charged onto the field, straight past the onlookers, who were too transfixed by the flames to do anything but watch.

  Dale gathered the final fear-frozen spotted kid in his arms and carried it away from the flames. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  “Get the truck,” he said to the blond teen. He handed the baby goat to the other.

  It seemed like a century passed, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before firemen started dousing the area with cold water. Dale kept a watchful eye on his skittish herd, which was huddled several hundred feet away. A few people broke off from the crowd and tried to approach them.

  “Stay back!” Dale yelled. “Just block them from the road. And for land’s sake, don’t chase them.”

  Michael came up behind us. “Shouldn’t we try to round them up somehow?”

  Dale’s expression was grim. “They’re too riled up. Give them a few minutes to calm down. They’ll come to me.” His voice didn’t sound confident.

  The blond teen drove a livestock truck onto the field and parked. He jumped out of the cab, opened the back, and pulled down a wide ramp. Dale grabbed a metal pail from inside and filled it with grain from a five-gallon bucket.

  “Hope this works,” he muttered. He walked halfway to the goats, vigorously shook the metal bucket, and yelled “Grain!” at top volume.

  As if in one motion, twelve goat heads turned. After a split second’s hesitation, the entire herd galloped toward Dale, bleating happily about their unanticipated snack. I couldn’t help but smile.

  Dale greeted each goat with a vigorous neck scratch, a handful of grain, and a murmur of encouragement. He shook the bucket, made clicking noises with his tongue, and slowly backed up to the truck. Forty-eight hoofs clanked up the ramp and followed him inside.