Ruff Way to Go

by Leslie O'Kane

  All three of my dogs—I considered Sage mine, though he was technically Mom’s—pricked up their ears, only Sage badly trained enough to disobey my stay command and sit up. With this being such a little dog, the trouble wouldn’t come from the dominant dogs, but from the lowest-runger, currently Sage, who had the least seniority in the house but was rapidly gaining esteem because of Mom’s clear preference.

  Shogun shrank back against the already closed garage door and began to assert his presence the only way a little dog can—with loud barks. Meanwhile, I said, “Pavlov, okay,” releasing her only from her position in the center of the kitchen; then I greeted Pavlov with a big hug around her strong shoulders. As top dog, if she accepted Shogun, the others would likely follow suit.

  With Doppler watching her every move, Pavlov sniffed at Shogun and lay back down in her spot. Sage, too, seemed willing enough to let him join the group, and Doppler was generally gregarious with other dogs. They knew him already, to an extent. Edith had been over with him yesterday and they had met one another a few times during our walks through the neighborhood.

  I decided it would be best to leave the dogs alone for a minute or two and went out front. I remembered then that I still hadn’t spoken to the Haywoods about the notepaper of theirs and crossed the street to head to their home.

  The curtains parted and Harvey looked out the second time I rang the doorbell, his lips set in a frown that didn’t fade once he saw me. After a long pause, Mrs. Haywood came to the door. She left the screen door shut and said, “Yes?”

  I could see Harvey behind her, sitting at the kitchen table in the background reading the paper, wearing his usual sleeveless undershirt and brown slacks.

  “I was wondering. This morning, you gave me your daughter’s address on a magenta sticky pad sheet. Do you happen to remember where you got that paper?”

  “Harvey!” she hollered over her shoulder.

  “What?” he responded, equally loudly, not looking up from his reading.

  “The Babcock girl wants to know where you got the paper you wrote that note on.”

  “What note?”

  Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Harvey wants to know why you want to know.”

  Actually, that wasn’t at all what “Harvey” wanted to know, but I wasn’t about to challenge her on the point. Nor did I wish to divulge that their paper matched the note on the Cunninghams’ door, so I said, “I just liked the color and would like to get a couple of pads for myself, but haven’t been able to find it at any of the stationery stores nearby.”

  “You hear that, Harvey?”

  “I don’t know what she’s yappin’ about,” he called back, rattling his newspaper in irritation.

  “We wouldn’t know where to tell you to go. We don’t do our own shopping no more. Susan does that for us.”

  “So she bought the notepad for you?” I asked, knowing full well that Susan had said she hadn’t bought it.

  “Must have,” Betsy said with a shrug. “It just showed up on our counter.”

  “Recently? Did you ever see it prior to yesterday afternoon?”

  “I don’t remember.” She gave a heavy sigh at the overwhelming inconvenience of it all, then asked, “Harvey, you ever see that pad of paper in a drawer or something before the Babcock girl come over here asking about Susan?”

  “I don’t know, Betsy! I got better things on my mind than pads of paper!”

  “So do I, Harvey! It’s the Babcocks that want to know!”

  This was getting me nowhere. Over the sound of the Haywoods’ continued bickering, I called, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Haywood.”

  Frustrated, I returned home and took the dogs out for their exercise and training, which was one of my favorite parts of the day—theirs, too. I decided it might be fun to include Shogun and see how he could do against their standards of training. I played a game of fetch with each dog in turn.

  Sage still had some catching up to do as far as his training went; he hadn’t been with us for long, but he was such an intelligent dog that he was making fast strides. Shogun would immediately run out after the ball, not understanding that he had to wait for his name. He would glance around nervously, eyeing the other dogs, understanding that there was something he wasn’t getting about this game, but not sure what it was.

  During his chase of the tennis ball, Shogun ran through a muddy puddle by the fence, which immediately gave me an idea. Knowing Mom would forgive me, I ran all four dogs through the mud, then up onto the back deck. I was studying the tracks they made when Mom arrived. She slid open the back door and, without comment, watched me studying the muddy mess I’d encouraged the dogs to make.

  Finally I looked up at her. She smiled and said, “You found Shogun?”

  “Yes, and I’ll give him back to one of the Cunninghams in another day or two.”

  “I see we’re studying animal tracks.”

  Seeing the deck anew, I realized what a muddy mess the dogs had made, thanks to me. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll get the hose and rinse off the dogs’ paws before I let them back in.”

  “Did this teach you anything?”

  I laughed and said, “I hope you’re not expecting me to answer, ‘Neatness counts.’”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “I meant about the paw prints you saw the other day. Were they Shogun’s?”

  “No. The paw prints over at Edith’s place weren’t Shogun’s. They were from a larger dog, Doppler’s size. Only they weren’t Doppler’s, of course. He was inside the house or our fence all day.”

  “Does that mean it was one of the puppies?”

  “Could be, but I don’t think so. The tracks didn’t strike me as having come from an unsteady young puppy. I might know for sure once they’re here.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Once they’re here?”

  Oops. I gave her a sheepish smile. “Is it all right if we foster the husky and her puppies for three weeks?”

  She spread her hands. “Just let me know if you’re going to turn my bedroom into a kennel, so I’ll have time to pack up a few mementos.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate your being so understanding.”

  “Ah, comes with the turf. Muddy though it may be. Let’s get these dog paws washed off.”

  Mom was unusually aloof when John White arrived with Suds and her puppies. I didn’t know if that was because she took some sort of instant dislike to John, or if she was feeling put out by suddenly finding herself with ten dogs.

  Prior to their arrival, Mom and I had set up a nice area for them in the basement, giving them the run of the laundry room, and the three of us now watched them settle in. Suds was obviously a little worse for the wear, having been moved so frequently in the past couple of days. Her puppies, however, seemed complacent, quickly curling up against one another to sleep on the fleece blankets we’d laid down for them.

  “They seem to be happy enough,” John said to me. “Are you still up for going out for a drink together?”

  “Sure.” I tried to feign more enthusiasm than I felt. Though he hadn’t changed a bit with his rugged, tanned features and his hair somewhat in need of a trim, he somehow didn’t seem to be as handsome as he had been just a couple of hours ago. He was still wearing the same casual clothes he’d worn at work, sans the forest-green employee vest he’d worn earlier over his striped shirt. Strangely, I was finding myself thinking about Russell, wondering how his concert was going. And what this woman his friends had wanted to fix him up with was like.

  As we started up the stairs, Mom said to John, “My daughter tells me you’re the kennel supervisor up at the shelter in Loveland.”

  “Yes. Have you seen our facilities?”

  “No, though I’ve given substantial financial donations to it.”

  He gave her one of his brilliant smiles. “Then I’m a major fan of yours. Come on up anytime, and I’ll take you on a personal tour.”

  “I’ll take you up on that sometime.” Mom wore a feeble smile that faded quickly.


  “Great. I promise we’ll roll out the red carpet.”

  We reached the front door, which we’d left wide open. As John started to open the screen door, Mom said, “I’m concerned about the coincidence between Suds’s previous adoptive owner getting murdered the very day she got the dogs. Did you ever meet Suds’s owner?”

  “No, he, or some concerned citizen, had just called animal services, and they contacted us.” He hesitated as he looked at Edith’s place, kitty-corner to ours, where the yellow police tape was still in place. He pointed with his chin. “That must be the Randons’ house, hey?”

  “No, that’s the Cunninghams’ house.”

  “Really? I assumed...” He didn’t complete his thought, but turned toward my mother, who was standing back, watching us with crossed arms. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Babcock.”

  “You, too.”

  “Let us know if you have any questions or concerns about the puppies.”

  She nodded, but frowned at me. Her expression made me finally take stock of what I was doing. “Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have dropped all these dogs on you, then be immediately leaving you alone with them.”

  She chuckled. “Think nothing of it. My house is your... kennel.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said, feeling guilty.

  “Don’t worry.” She gave me a friendly wave and closed the door behind us. I instantly worried about her.

  My date with John had all of the typical awkwardness of a first date. He was the opposite of Russell in terms of interests, a man who appreciated dogs every bit as much as I did and wasn’t into rock climbing. Yet I found myself thinking of Russ and wondering what he was doing now. Probably enjoying his concert, with the bimbo date of his hanging on his every word. I spent some time considering the reasons that Russell was better off without me and quickly came up with a new one: I was selfish and unfair. It had been my decision, not his, to go out with someone else tonight.

  John ordered us a pitcher of beer and we sat in the dark bar, the smoke stinging my eyes. Secondhand smoke was one thing I didn’t have to deal with in Boulder, with its anti-smoking ordinance. I shot John an occasional question—“How did you get involved with dogs?” “What’s your job like?” “How long have you lived in Fort Collins?”—and he would go on at great length.

  He said several times how much more comfortable and better he was at communicating with dogs than people, which was a sentiment I could relate to, but seemed odd considering how loquacious he was. At least when it came to talking about himself. It occurred to me that I’d told him next to nothing about myself, but decided that that was okay.

  As I’d expected, John eventually brought up the subject of the Randon family and the puppies. “I wonder why Cassandra was killed at your neighbor’s house,” he said. “That strikes me as strange.”

  “Me, too.” I wanted to volunteer as little as possible to gauge how anxious he seemed to be to pump me for information.

  He held my gaze as if waiting for me to go on, then said, “Your mom isn’t superstitious, is she? She isn’t worried about the puppies being cursed or something, is she?”

  “Of course not. But we’ll both feel a lot better once the killer is behind bars.”

  “Just assure her that there’s no way anyone from the animal shelter will give out any info regarding Suds and puppies’ new whereabouts. So you’ll be perfectly safe from him.”

  “I’ll tell her that.”

  He studied my face, then asked, “Did you know Cassandra very well?”

  “No, just to say hello to.”

  “You didn’t know who she hung out with? That sort of thing?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just curious. This is the first time I’ve ever met someone who wound up being murdered. Must make you feel real... tense. Living so close to where it happened.”

  He flashed me what might have been intended as a casual smile, which I didn’t return. Once again, I was getting strange vibrations from John. Now all I wanted to do was leave. He finished the last swig from his glass, then asked if we should get a refill. I declined and we left.

  It was later than I’d thought. By the time we arrived at home, the porch light was on but the house lights were off.

  We shared that miserable awkward pause as John walked me up to the porch. “This was fun,” he said. “We’ll have to do this again soon. Can I call you again?”

  I studied his handsome features and assured myself that I’d merely been hypersensitive; he hadn’t said anything at all to justify my suspicions. “That’d be nice.”

  “Do you need me to come in and check on the dogs or anything?”

  That was the exit line I needed. “No, I’m sure they’re fine. Thanks, though. I’ll give you a call in another day or two to let you know how they’re doing.” I let myself into the house and gave John a goodbye wave instead of a kiss.

  Doppler was in his carrier, which doubles as his bed, but I had to shush Shogun—loose in the kitchen—and Suds, who’d run upstairs from the basement to bark at me through the front door. This, in turn, got Pavlov and Sage barking. If Mom had managed to sleep through my opening the door, she was certainly wide awake now.

  Once they’d finally quieted down and I’d closed Suds and pups downstairs, I tiptoed to Mom’s bedroom and peeked in, glad to see that she appeared to be asleep, after all. I settled down on the living room couch, stroking Pavlov’s head while Sage lay down at the opposite end of the couch. Too wound up to go to bed myself, I flipped on the TV, keeping the volume low.

  I was only half paying attention to a late-night talk show when I heard a noise in the kitchen. It sounded like the click of metal against glass. This was where Doppler’s kennel happened to be, so he immediately started growling.

  Beside me, Pavlov snapped to alert. I hit the mute button on the television.

  There it was again. A metallic sound, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  My pulse started to race. I assured myself that it was probably nothing. A tree branch scraping against the window, perhaps.

  Sage, who hadn’t been trained not to bark, let out some loud woofs and raced off in the direction of the sound. Shogun began yipping at the top of his lungs and galloped after Sage. Meanwhile, Pavlov stood up and looked at me.

  There was another noise, too metallic and deliberate-sounding to be a tree branch. A neighbor recently murdered, now someone was outside our house? Shit!

  “Pavlov, guard!”

  She instantly raced out of the room, giving her guard dog barks as she went to join Sage and Shogun.

  Doppler was whining, while I, heart pounding, crept around the corner into the kitchen. It was ludicrous to expect my cocker spaniel to be quiet in his kennel, and I didn’t want to take the time to lock him in now. “Doppler, okay.” My command put him in charge of his own behavior, and he immediately rushed out his unlocked kennel door to join the other two.

  Leaving the lights off, I scanned the room. The dogs were barking at the window. The moment they saw me, they rushed to the door to be let out.

  Should I release them? What if this was just a raccoon? Mom had had more than a little trouble with raccoons over the last several years.

  I stared at the window, trying to decide why something about it struck me as wrong. I realized with a start that the screen was now absent.

  Mere inches from mine, a man’s face popped into view from outside the kitchen window, then dropped back down.

  Chapter 9

  Startled out of my wits, I jumped and let out a little scream. My heart thumped so hard that I could barely breathe. The man’s face had been dimly lit and he’d ducked down so quickly that I barely caught sight of his features, except to see that he was bald.

  The dogs were barking at the back door, desperate to get out and at the man, Shogun adding his high-pitched yip to my dogs’ more intimidating barks. Their noise had roused Suds as well, who’d run up the basement stairs, her
loud woofs audible through the door. She, at least, was closed off in the basement, and I decided to leave her there with her puppies.

  Despite his vociferous protestations, I swept Shogun up into my arms and slid open the back door. Doppler, too, would only get in the big dogs’ way, but there was no time to grab him.

  Baying, the dogs raced around the corner. Led by Pavlov who, though normally gentle, was a formidable watchdog, the dogs would put fear into any trespasser’s heart.

  What if this was the killer? And what if he was armed?

  Standing to one side of the glass door, I listened fearfully for a gunshot. I’d never be able to stop myself from rushing out there to protect my dogs if the man actually were to open fire on them.

  My hand was frozen on the handle of the sliding glass door, my other arm clutching Shogun tightly against me.

  I heard the soft footfalls of my mother as she padded barefoot into the kitchen. Mom was pale, her braids undone so that her long brown hair hung loose around her shoulders. “Allie,” she said in a half whisper, “what’s going on?”

  Outside, from the direction of the window over the sink, a male voice cried, “Hey! Get away from me! Get back!”

  I was too scared about the possibility of the dogs getting hurt to pay attention to my mother. Still carrying Shogun, I raced back to the window over the sink and caught sight of a man running awkwardly toward the front gate. He was thrashing wildly at the air with some object.

  “Oh, God,” I said in a half whisper. “Please, don’t let that be a knife.”

  “Who’s out there?” Mom asked, now at my side.

  Fortunately, the dogs were keeping a few feet back from the man, pursuing him and barking in wild excitement, but not preventing his progress as he made his way toward the gate in the front.

  “I don’t know. Some man. He was at the window just a moment ago.”

  The man slammed the gate shut. “Thank God. They chased him off. But maybe we should call nine-one-one anyway.”

  Mom rushed to the phone. “I’ll call.”