by Ball, Donna
And that was, more or less, how I ended up five days later sitting in a butter-soft white leather seat on a private plane with a golden retriever panting in my ear, gazing out the window at an ocean so clear and so blue that the only word for it is Caribbean. Vacation. What a concept. Island vacation? Not in my vocabulary.
I had not capitulated to Miles. I was not stressed. I was not overworked. I did not have issues. I was fine. But it seemed that everyone I knew had ganged up on me over the past week, conspiring to make certain I did not miss this opportunity. My friend Sonny, who was building an animal sanctuary of sorts on her property outside of town, had invited Mischief and Magic to stay with her while I was gone. My part-time kennel help worked overtime in hopes that, if he got caught up on all his chores, I would change my mind and go. My clients offered to rearrange their schedules. My Aunt Mart even volunteered to move into my house to look after both the dogs and the kennel. The very thought of my elegant Aunt Mart slogging through the mud in work boots to exercise dogs and sanitize kennel runs every morning brought a blush of shame and horror to my face. Was I that desperate? That pathetic? That obviously in need of being taken care of?
Apparently.
In the end, though, it was the phone call from Melanie that did it. Melanie reminds me a lot of myself when I was her age—wild, untameable black curls, big ugly glasses, a little overweight, and completely obsessed with dogs. Of course she’s a lot smarter than I was at age ten— or even now, I sometimes think—and is certainly more well-traveled.
Her eight month-old golden retriever, Pepper, was recovering from spay surgery and, while cleared to fly, was strongly advised by the vet against climbing, running, romping on the beach, or swimming, and that was what she had called about. “Dad says we should leave her with the pet sitter,” Melanie reported glumly. “He’s probably right. But what’s the point of going if I can’t take her? Maybe I should just stay home. At least I’d get to be with Pepper.”
I knew how much Miles valued these rare getaways with his daughter, and I knew how disappointed he’d be if she bailed. On the other hand, there was nothing worse for a well- meaning parent than a disgruntled kid who’d rather be anywhere but with them; I knew because I had been that disgruntled kid more than once.
And I knew how to fix it.
I said sympathetically, “That’s tough. But Pepper’s stayed with the pet sitter before and you said she had a great time.”
“Yeah, but…”
“And I was kind of counting on you to keep Cisco company at the beach. You know, while I’m catching some rays.”
“Really?” Her voice lit up like sunshine. “You’re coming? You’re bringing Cisco? You better believe it! Say, I’ve been reading about how Homeland Security trains bomb-sniffing dogs. If we could find some accelerant and some fuses, I’ll bet we could train Cisco in no time!”
Cisco was a certified search and rescue dog, a therapy dog, a Canine Good Citizen, and an agility champion—all hard won accomplishments that had taken years to achieve. But Melanie had ambitions in dog training way beyond my own, or Cisco’s. And accelerants were out of the question.
I suggested, “Or we could just let him play Frisbee on the beach. After all, it’s his vacation too.”
She thought about that for half a second, then agreed cheerfully, “Sure! I can’t wait to show him the town. Do you know they let dogs in restaurants there? It’s French!”
And so it was settled. The Aussies moved in with Sonny for the duration, I closed the kennel for a week, and the next thing I knew I was loading Cisco, his crate, his bed, his toys, his dog food, his backpack, his leashes and his grooming supplies—along with my meager suitcase filled with shorts, sundresses and swimsuits—onto a private plane at a small airport midway between Atlanta and Asheville. Melanie could hardly contain her excitement. Miles was looking very self- satisfied. I began to wonder if I had been manipulated. And by the time our plane circled the small landing strip on the tropical island of St. Bart’s, I didn’t care.
I secured Cisco in his crate at the back of the plane for safety’s sake on landing, and when I returned to my seat the co-pilot was chatting with Miles and Melanie about landing procedures. Miles’s eyes were twinkling as he fastened his seat belt and told me, “You’re about to see why most people prefer to fly into St. Martin and take the ferry over.”
I saw what he meant when I looked out the window and saw the plane lining up to approach the world’s shortest runway. I gasped and closed my eyes when the wheels touched the ground, convinced we were going to end up in the ocean, but before I could even wonder whether the plane carried life vests for dogs among its emergency equipment, we had come to a complete, if rather abrupt stop.
“That was cool!” declared Melanie, eyes big as she wrestled out of her seat belt and climbed over her father’s feet to the aisle. “I’ll get Cisco.”
“That was not cool,” I told Miles, my heart still pounding as I unfastened my own seatbelt. “I thought the point was to get away from stress.”
“Starting now,” he promised with a wink. He grabbed my hand as I plopped my sun hat on my head and we made our way toward the exit.
~*~
TWO
There was very little activity at the small air strip, although most of it did seem to involve Rolls Royces, Land Rovers and limousines with blacked out windows, and far fewer people than I might have expected—which I assumed was a by-product of the death-defying runway. Ours was the only plane at the airport and we were the only passengers, so it took a matter of moments to get our passports stamped and Cisco’s travel documents checked. By the time Melanie had taken Cisco on a bathroom break, our luggage was loaded into the waiting car, leaving me with barely enough to time to absorb the delicious tropical breeze and brilliant aquas and greens of the island before the driver was opening the back door of the car for me. “Welcome, mademoiselle, to paradise.” He spoke with a slight French accent and had an affable sparkle in his eyes. He turned to Melanie, “And young mademoiselle, and…” Cisco, never one to ignore an open door, bounded into the back seat in front of Melanie. Our driver was completely unruffled. “Monsieur la chien.”
“That means dog,” Melanie informed me, in case I didn’t know, and climbed in after him.
I have to admit, up until this point I had been practically bursting with pride in Cisco. True, he’s pretty unflappable in most situations, but he had never been on a plane before — although he had ridden in a helicopter and discovered it was not his favorite thing to do—much less a private plane with leather seats that cost more than my sofa and a buffet of croissants, muffins and cheeses that was left fully accessible throughout the flight, along with the fine china in which they were served, and a frost-white carpet with a gold logo emblazoned in it. Clearly whoever had designed the interior had not intended it to accommodate dogs. But he hadn’t torn one seat with his claws, or knocked over one dish with his tail, or stolen a single croissant. And the way he bounded into the back of the limousine and took his seat just like any celebrity on Rodeo Drive made me wonder why I had ever been nervous about how he would do on the trip.
Pride, as they say, goes before a fall, and fall is what I almost did when, just as I was ducking to get into the car, Cisco’s ears suddenly went forward, his muzzled swiveled, and before I could stop him he barreled past me and across the parking lot, trailing his leash behind.
“Hey!” Melanie exclaimed.
I cried, “Cisco!”and lunged after him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Miles, who had been consulting with the driver about our route, look around and put out a hand to stop Melanie, who was climbing out of the car after us. He was too late. Melanie and I raced across the parking lot in an almost-single-file with Cisco in the lead, hot on the trail of a large white sea bird that swooped far too close to the ground for a dog who had been bred to retrieve birds.
Running is Cisco’s best thing; that’s how he became an agility champion. I couldn’t keep up with him on
an obstacle course, and I had no illusion of catching him in an open parking lot. What I did hope to do was to keep him in sight until I was close enough to make myself heard over the low roar of engines and equipment that were the background noise of the small airport. He was maybe twenty feet ahead of me when we came around the corner of the compact terminal building and into another section of the parking lot. Immediately I saw the car that was waiting at the curb with its engine in gear while a woman in a big hat, dark sunglasses and a long chiffon scarf obscuring her face hurried from the shadows on the building and into the back seat of the car. She was in such a hurry that something fluttered from her pocket as she ducked into the car and she didn’t even stop to pick it up. The car started to move before she had completely closed the door. And Cisco was racing straight toward its path.
At moments like this, a kind of supernatural calm comes over me and everything Maude had ever taught me about dog training becomes a simple matter of instinct. Dogs respond to panic with panic, she had always said. They respond to calm with attention. I stood stock still, extending an arm to stop Melanie as she drew up beside me, and I called with loud, firm authority, “Cisco, halt!”
He stopped dead. Before he could change his mind I shouted, “Down!”
He dropped to the ground a few feet behind the car just as it pulled away from the curb at a high rate of speed—a lot higher, if you ask me, than was safe in a parking lot. As far as I could tell, the driver never saw any of us.
Okay, so we had practiced that particular maneuver every day of Cisco’s life, and he’d performed it perfectly, under a variety of circumstances, ninety percent of the time. Still, I couldn’t help thinking about that other ten percent, and wondering whether this time might have been one of them had not the bird long since flown out of sight by the time I gave the command. And I didn’t completely relax until Melanie, trotting ahead of me, had Cisco’s leash in hand.
Melanie was a good dog trainer, and she waited until I reached them, praised Cisco calmly for his quick response to my command, and released him before she took a dog biscuit from her pocket and tossed it to him, ruffling his ears while he gulped it down and then grinned happily at her, wanting more. It may seem counterintuitive to reward a dog who has just bolted across a parking lot and almost gotten run over, but one look at Cisco’s panting face and happily wriggling body confirmed that he had no memory whatsoever of any wrongdoing, so what good would it do to yell at him about it? Dogs have a remarkable way of only remembering the things that have brought them the most recent joy. If only people could do the same.
I reached down and picked up the paper the woman had dropped just as Miles jogged up. “Everything okay?” he asked. He wasn’t even winded, but he hadn’t just chased a golden retriever at top speed across the parking lot.
“We’re working on impulse control,” I muttered, embarrassed.
“Say, Dad, guess who we just saw?” Melanie said excitedly. “Beyonce!”
I looked at her, surprised, and Miles said, “Is that right?”
She reconsidered. “Maybe it was Taylor Swift. She had a scarf over her face.”
“Could have been J.K. Rowling,” Miles suggested.
Her eyes lit up. “Hey! Yeah!”
“Celebrity watching,” he explained to me. “It’s one of our favorite things to do here on the island. What have you got there?”
I showed him the slip of paper I’d picked up. “J.K. dropped her boarding pass,” I said. “She was in such a hurry she didn’t even notice.”
He glanced at it. “Or care. That’s a ferry ticket, and it’s been cancelled. She was probably throwing it away.”
I looked back at it curiously and discovered he was right. The ticket was for the 10:30 a.m. ferry from St. Martin, and it had already been used. “Huh. I wonder why she was at the airport if she came over on the ferry.”
“Who knows why famous people do anything? Come on.” He dropped an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll stop in town for lunch. There’s a place I know that has the best pizza this side of Italy.”
“And they allow dogs!” exclaimed Melanie. “Come on, Cisco, let’s race!”
The two of them took off at top speed before either Miles or I could object, which was probably just as well. We were on vacation, after all.
~*~
The driver, who Miles explained was part of the concierge service he used whenever he was here, took us through the island shopping district where some of the most exclusive designers in the world had shops. I did not think I’d be doing any shopping on this street while I was here, but Melanie had a good time pretending to spot celebrities. I was surprised by the way the luxury villas—hundreds of them, it seemed— crowded the lush green hillsides in staggered layers, their tile roofs glittering in the sun, all of them vying for the best view of what had to be the most spectacular array of beaches and bays I had ever seen. The tranquil aqua waters were brilliant with the white prows of luxury yachts and sailboats, and I have to admit I twisted my neck once or twice to get a better view of the beautiful people sunning themselves on the gleaming teak decks of some of those yachts.
“We’ll take the boat out to the Pain du Sucre islet before we leave for some snorkeling,” Miles said. “I like to dive there when I get a chance. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, absolutely gorgeous.”
Snorkeling sounded like fun, but diving would have been better. I wondered if there was time to get certified while I was here.
Melanie echoed my thoughts. “Say, Dad, didn’t you say I could start diving lessons this year?”
“I seem to recall saying something like that. Of course, that’s bound to cut into your time playing on the beach with Cisco.”
Miles winked at me while Melanie considered the trade-off, and I smiled back. Given the choice, I’m not sure what I would have decided either.
“Pardon, monsieur, if you’ll permit me…” The driver glanced at us in the mirror. “If you will let me know the day you plan to dive in the Pain de Sucre area, we will be pleased to check availability for you. Unfortunately, the authorities have closed off access to certain areas while they complete their investigation.”
I said, “Investigation?” and Miles leaned forward toward the driver’s seat.
“What happened?” he asked. “I haven’t heard about any storms since I was here last. Is there some environmental concern about the reef?”
“No sir, nothing of that nature. There was, I’m sad to say, a tragic diving accident yesterday and the matter is still under investigation. I am surprised this has not yet been reported on the American news.”
Miles said, “Stupid people go diving every day and get themselves into trouble. Why would it have been on the news?”
“Pardon, monsieur, what I meant to say was that the victim was the American television actress Rachelle Denison. Sadly, she did not survive.”
Miles sat back, looking disturbed, and murmured, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I have to admit I had never heard of her, but a questioning glance at Melanie, our resident television expert, saw her frowning with concentration. “You mean Helen from Wolftown? The werewolf queen,” she explained to me. “You know, werewolves— they’re like vampires only meaner.” I admitted I did not know much about werewolves, and she went on, “Anyway, the show was about this pack of werewolves living in the suburbs and Helen was their queen… I don’t think it’s on anymore. Wow, too bad she’s dead. She was pretty.”
Miles said, “Is her husband here?”
“Oui, monsieur. It is my understanding they were diving together when the accident occurred.”
Miles frowned. “That’s rough.” He explained to me, “Alex Barry. I know him. We’re neighbors here on the island. I should stop by, I suppose.”
I said, “Did you know his wife?”
“I may have met her once. I don’t think they’d been married long. I haven’t even seen Alex in years. We’re not usually here at the same time. What a shame.
”
I placed my hand over his, and he let the melancholy fade. He smiled at me, clearly unwilling to let our vacation get off to such a maudlin start, and threaded his fingers through mine. “I’m sure they’ll get it all resolved soon,” he said. “But the snorkeling is great anywhere you go around the island. We’ll make a day of it, maybe sail over to St. Martin if you’re in the mood.”
I liked the sound of that. Imagine, being able to do whatever you wanted, just because you were in the mood. I felt a grin tug at my lips that was as big as Cisco’s.
Melanie said, “Say, Dad, are there sharks in this ocean?”
“There are sharks in every ocean, honey.”
“Do you think the lady might have gotten eaten by a shark?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Yeah, gross.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe I’ll wait until next time to start the scuba lessons. After all, we have company.” She draped a companionable arm around Cisco’s shoulders and he obligingly licked her face.
Miles winked at her. “Good call, Champ.”
We stopped at an outdoor café where I had the best caramelized onion and goat cheese pizza I had ever tasted—which I later learned was probably due to the shaved truffles on top—and Cisco had grilled salmon, hold the lemon butter. I’m not at all sure what Melanie had, and she probably wasn’t either, because, with the possible exception of the three and a half seconds it took Cisco to gulp down his salmon, she spent the entire time trying to distract him from his fascination with a yappy little bichon two tables down. It was good dog-training experience for her.
It was exciting, being this far from home, but also a little unsettling. The sky was so blue it hurt my eyes, even with the sunglasses, and I kept looking around for the mountains. Without them I felt exposed. The air smelled different and the sun was hotter. The voices around me spoke in half a dozen different accents, and none of them were familiar to me. But what struck me the most was how different the people were —svelte, sophisticated, beautifully groomed and perfectly put together, but for all that they were in what was arguably one of the most beautiful places in the world enjoying an exquisite gourmet meal with companions they presumably liked, none of them seemed particularly happy. I, on the other hand, am I lot like a golden retriever in that respect: when I’m having a good time, people know it. When I’m not, people know it.
