by Jim Kraus
“Maybe it’s better this way. The longer the dog stays loose, the more publicity I get. And the editor over at the Gazette did say that if the dog isn’t in jail by Monday, he’ll send a reporter over to talk with me.”
Bargain Bill eased himself into his executive-style leather chair that groaned every time he sat down, or moved.
“I should probably come up with a good story of why this is my dog and how he got away and why I’m so heartbroken.”
He looked out the window to his lot filled with cars under a canopy of red, white, and blue pennants, the spring breeze making the pennants flutter and crinkle like synthetic leaves on a plastic tree.
“And I’ll have to tell the little woman to back me up on this. She can’t go off on her own—like she normally does. No, this story has to sound convincing.”
With that, he took a pen that had Bargain Bill’s Dynamite Used Cars imprinted on the barrel and began to doodle, trying to think up a story that would make sense.
At nine fifteen the canine bandit struck again.
Stewart knew it was exactly nine fifteen because he had just completed his first break of the day and managed to down his first cup of coffee for the day from the communal coffeepot in the break room. It was hazelnut flavored, which Stewart hated, but it was free coffee, after all.
That pleasant spring morning, the dog now named Hubert sauntered into the store, as he had done before, not slowing or stopping or hesitating at any one spot. As Hubert passed by Stewart, he grinned up at him, but did not slow. He quickly turned the corner to aisle five and hurried down to the display of rawhide bones, grabbed one, and was on his way out before anyone, with the exception of Stewart, had noticed his appearance.
This time it was Lucinda, a cashier on register three whom Stewart had never yet seen without chewing gum in her mouth, who sounded the alarm.
“Hey! Stewie! Call Mr. Arden! That dog swiped another bone. Or is swiping another bone. Present perfect tense.”
Lucinda was attending college online.
At that moment, Hubert looked back over his shoulder and locked eyes with Stewart. Hubert managed to grin, despite clenching a rawhide bone in his mouth. He had to wait, for just a second or two, until someone stepped on the “in” door opener—and then he charged out.
Mr. Arden thumped down the steps, shouting, “Stewart! Go after him. Now!”
Stewart shrugged, put Mrs. Weaver’s tin of kipper snacks back on the belt, and headed outside at a trot.
“You better get him this time!” shouted Mr. Arden as the doors slowly whooshed shut behind Stewart. He saw the tail end of Hubert heading around the corner on Main Street, heading back to where he lived.
What if someone tails him and connects him with me?
By the time Stewart made it to Main Street, the dog had vanished.
Stewart’s steps slowed, then stopped.
“That is one fast dog.”
A pedestrian down the street waved to Stewart.
“He went that way,” the man called out and pointed to the east, to Maple Avenue.
Stewart mentally shrugged to himself and set off at a trot.
I have to make it look like I’m chasing him, don’t I? I don’t want to raise any suspicions or anything.
By the time he made it to the corner of Main and Maple, there was no trace of any canine.
The man who’d signaled to Stewart, Mr. Ralph Dickers, commiserated with him.
“That pup can sure run, Stewie. I say that if a dog don’t want to get caught, you ain’t catching him. I think I said that before, but if I didn’t, I plumb sure should have. That was one fast pup, if you ask me. How many times has he gotten away with it? A bunch, I bet. That dog is one slick operator, for sure. Reminds me of a dog I had when I was a kid. I think I was five. Or maybe I was eleven. That’s when we lived in Coudersport. I think I was eleven. Maybe the dog was eleven. It was a big dog. Brown. Or black.”
Stewart knew it would be better if he didn’t engage Mr. Dickers in conversation, or else the two of them would be there for the better part of an hour. Mr. Dickers was well known in town for carrying on long-winded monologues with a surplus of uncertain details, often with just himself as an audience.
“Gotta get back. Thanks, Mr. Dickers. ’Preciate it.”
Stewart left him still talking about the dog, or his dog, or both, and hurried back to the store. He didn’t feel that he had the time to stop by the Rooster and let Lisa know about the most recent burglary. He would catch up with her this evening.
Mr. Arden had composed himself by the time Stewart returned. Standing beside him was a uniformed officer from the town’s police department.
“You didn’t catch him, did you?”
Stewart shook his head no.
“See,” Mr. Arden said, “that’s why we need an armed police officer on site. The dog has stolen seven rawhide bones so far.”
From Stewart’s vantage point he could see the officer roll his eyes, just a little. The sun glinted off the revolver he had in his holster, resting casually against his hip. The gun had a lot of area on which to rest.
“Mr. Arden, I know it must be an inconvenience, but we simply don’t have the manpower to spend on a stakeout waiting for a dog.”
Mr. Arden sputtered, “But I pay taxes in this town. So does the store. Don’t we deserve protection, too? Maybe the dog isn’t as easy to catch as speeders on Main Street, but… the dog poses a danger. What if he bites a customer? What if the beast has rabies? Then who’s responsible?”
“He won’t bite anyone,” Stewart said, surprising himself. Both men turned to stare at him. Mr. Arden glared more than stared.
“And how would you know, Stewart?”
He felt his face start to redden.
“Well…I mean, if he hasn’t done anything other than steal so far…I mean, I don’t see why he would start biting. And if he were sick, or had rabies or whatever, he would have already starting acting weird. He doesn’t. He just walks in, takes a bone, and walks—or runs—out. He’s probably a stray and is hungry, that’s all.”
The police officer opened his palms, turned them faceup, and made a gesture as if to say “Well, there you are.”
Mr. Arden kept his glare and tried to intensify it.
“Still. No reason for the police to ignore the request of a citizen.”
“Tell you what. I’ll have the patrol car swing past a few times in the morning. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
That seemed to mollify Mr. Arden, although it was apparent it did little to make Stewart feel better.
Mr. Arden put his hand to his cheek.
“Now, just so we’re on the same page. If one of your men catches him—the dog, that is—as police, they wouldn’t be eligible for the reward, would they? I mean, as a public employee and all, I would think that taking gratuities, like a reward, would be against some sort of code of police ethics. Am I right?”
The police officer, a Lieutenant Vardish, exhaled, as if trying to clean an unpleasant odor from his lungs.
“No. They couldn’t take a reward…”
Mr. Arden beamed.
“…but they might ask you to donate the reward to the Tioga County Human Services. They always need groceries for the county’s food pantry.”
And with that, the smile left Mr. Arden’s face, to be replaced by a glare directed at Stewart.
Chapter Ten
WORKING THROUGH the rest of his shift that day, Stewart felt Mr. Arden’s glare on the back of his neck the entire time. Usually, the store manager spent most of his day hidden in his upstairs office, but today Mr. Arden patrolled the front of the store, making sure that the cashiers and bag boys accomplished their jobs with “Speed, Accuracy, and a Smile.”
Hand-lettered on a sheet of white poster board, Mr. Arden had tacked the sign up in the break room a few days earlier. Every time he returned from a managers’ meeting, he brought with him a new motto. Usually, the company had them printed—but, perhaps due to budget
considerations, they’d left this one to each individual manager. Mr. Arden did not have a good sense of space; the word “Smile” had to be smooshed in tight to make it fit. Any number of less than enthusiastic employees—especially those who worked on the loading dock—had threatened to deface it. But each time someone with a smirk and a Sharpie came close to the sign, they were shooshed away by a long-term employee who did not want anyone to make waves—not even a ripple.
So the badly drawn poster had remained unpocked by graffiti, and Mr. Arden remained convinced that the words were helping inspire his entire crew.
As inconspicuously as possible, Stewart checked his phone a dozen times during the last hour of work. Quitting time seemed to grow more distant, rather than closer, every time he flicked on his phone.
But finally the hour came, and he hurried to the time clock and punched out, hoping to avoid Mr. Arden, hoping to avoid any possible repercussions of his assessment of the bandit dog’s health and motives.
I don’t know if I should try to keep the dog. I mean, I have no business owning a dog. I barely make enough to pay the rent and buy food. And I bet Hubert can eat a lot of dog food. Maybe I’m not allowed to have a dog. I don’t remember seeing that on the lease. And did I even sign a lease? I might have. And dogs might be off-limits. If I turned him in, I could get that reward from the car dealer guy. I could use a new car and $500 would be a nice down payment. I wonder if I could get both rewards? I don’t see why not.
As he walked, he also thought of the dog looking up at him with a trusting look in his eyes, the look only two lost souls would truly understand.
If I turn him in, he’ll probably get sent to the pound. And I guess most dogs don’t make it out of there.
He turned on Rectory Lane, expecting to see Hubert bound out of the brush at every step. But he saw no dog. He knew that he shouldn’t call out. And he knew that Hubert probably would not recognize Hubert as his name.
He made his way up on the rear porch, taking each step slowly, looking over his shoulder as he did.
That’s where he came from yesterday. From the backyard.
Stewart heard a scuffling, shuffling noise, much closer than the backyard. He looked down and saw a black-and-white snout appear from under the porch. And then the rest of Hubert wiggled into view.
Looking over the edge, Stewart saw a small sliver of opening in the lattice that covered the space between the porch floor and the ground.
Hubert grinned and appeared to be suppressing a dancing hello.
“Hey, Hubert. You listened to me. That’s so cool. Like an obedient dog. I mean, not ‘like.’ An obedient dog.”
My grandmother’s voice is way too loud in my head—sometimes.
“Come on up, Hubert. And let’s be quiet, okay?”
The two of them hurried upstairs. Stewart poured a generous portion of Paws Premium Meaty Crunchy Kibbles for the Active Dog.
“It was on sale, too, Hubert. Our lucky day.”
No one had questioned Stewart when he’d bought the bag of dry dog food. If they had, he had prepared a story that he was buying the food for his neighbor who had a bad leg and couldn’t get out—Mrs. Kreger, and her miniature schnauzer, Rudy—no, Randolph.
But no one stopped him, questioned him, or even paid attention to him as he hurried through the checkout line after work.
Before Stewart put the food down, he refilled the water bowl. The back of the dog food bag said always to have fresh water nearby. The food did look a little dry and dusty, but Hubert did not seem to mind in the least. Again, he ate in a most dignified manner—for a dog, that is. He ate slowly and chewed thoroughly and stayed bent to the food bowl until the entire cup of kibble was consumed. He had a long, loud drink, then backed up and looked at Stewart, as if to say “Is that all there is?”
“Hubert, I can’t give you more. That is supposed to be a full serving for an adult dog. A full cup. And I gave you a rounded cup. The package said just one cup. And if you eat too much after being skinny, you could get sick. I read that somewhere…or saw it on a TV show.”
Hubert seemed to be paying attention to the explanation, almost nodding in response.
“Was it good? The kibbles. Being a store brand and all.”
To answer, Hubert walked over to Stewart and pushed his head against his kneecap, in an almost intimate gesture.
“Good dog.”
Hubert watched carefully as Stewart made coffee. Stewart thought he might wait until later to eat, since someone had brought an accidentally torn “Valu-sized” bag of Tops brand potato chips into the break room and Stewart had it timed perfectly and managed to eat nearly a third of the chips during his second break. It had been enough to dull the hunger. And he liked chips.
Stewart went to his favorite chair and sat down. Hubert walked with him and sat by his knees. Once Stewart seemed settled and situated, the dog stood on his back paws, his front paws on Stewart’s knees, jumped, and, in a quick untangling of legs, managed to sit in Stewart’s lap, facing him.
Stewart was pretty sure that he never had a dog in his lap, not once, so far in his life. It was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one, actually.
Hubert stared into Stewart’s eyes. The dog’s eyes were deep and apparently thoughtful, the centers the color of black coffee, a deep cup of strong, black coffee.
“Hubert. What do you want?”
Hubert remained still, staring, memorizing, confident, at peace.
Then he stood on all four legs, a little wobbly because of the unevenness of Stewart’s thighs, adjusted his stance a little, and then lay down, his eyes never once leaving Stewart’s.
“You’re really going to lie here?”
Hubert responded with a rusty growl, coming from deep in his throat—not an angry growl, not at all, but a growl that tried to convey contentment, and perhaps happiness. Stewart was not yet versed in reading a dog’s emotions, but this emotion seemed easy to translate. Then Hubert laid his head down, his eyes still open. He wiggled once more, then closed his eyes and, in another moment, he was snoring softly, making his nibbling rabbit noise again.
Stewart reached over and stroked the crown of his head. He thought he could see a slight smile on the dog’s face but wasn’t sure if dogs could smile while they were asleep or not.
But it sure looks like he’s smiling.
As Stewart stroked Hubert’s fur, his finger ridged and fell where a dog should not be ridged—on his back and on his head. Stewart peered closer. Between a part in the dog’s fur, two lines, puckered and jagged and uneven and twisted and discolored, on his head and shoulders, each running for many inches.
They must be scars. Big scars.
Hubert blinked his eyes open, just a little, and looked back at Stewart.
Stewart felt that he should whisper. He knew that a whisper would be understood.
“Are these scars, Hubert?”
Hubert appeared to nod. At least Stewart would have sworn the dog appeared to nod.
“Did some person do this to you, Hubert?”
Hubert shut his eyes for a long moment, as if he were trying to prevent a bad memory from invading and destroying the pleasant moment of the dog’s “right now.”
But he did let that memory come up on him, just a bit, and he nodded again, and kept his eyes closed and bowed his head as if he were trying to make himself small to avoid the blows that caused the deep and long and jagged and angry scars that snaked along his back and head.
“Someone was mean to you, Hubert?”
Hubert sat still, as if awaiting another blow.
“It’s okay, Hubert. It’s okay. You’re safe, now.”
Stewart leaned in close.
“I will never do that, Hubert. I will never hit you. I will never let anyone hit you again.”
And the dog hesitated a moment. Then his stiffness disappeared, and he snuggled in closer to Stewart, tight into his lap.
“You and me have a lot in common, Hubert.”
Huber
t kept his eyes shut.
“We have pain in our past. I don’t think I have any scars like you, Hubert, not real ones…I mean not ones that you can see or feel, but there are scars. Words hurt people more than they hurt dogs, I guess. And sometimes not saying a thing hurts just as much. Like people who leave without saying good-bye.”
They did that, Hubert. They both just left. I remember watching them both storm out of the house, yelling and shouting and throwing things.
“I didn’t see my mother for five years after that,” Stewart said in a whisper.
He rested his hand on Hubert’s shoulder.
“Maybe we all have pain in our pasts, Hubert. But maybe some of it is worse than others.”
And with that, Stewart closed his eyes.
Like two peas in a pod. Two peas in a pain pod.
Just before Stewart nodded off for a short nap, he chided himself.
It’s probably not healthy to make fun of it—the past, I mean.
Then he stroked the fur on Hubert’s back.
And maybe that’s why we have to stick together, me and Hubert. We are sort of like brothers.
Then Stewart chided himself once again and shook his head.
Doesn’t that sound just so pathetic? Good grief. Maybe my grams is right.
Perhaps an hour later, Stewart blinked his eyes open, almost startled, but not quite.
Was that a knock?
Hubert had not moved. The snoring continued, softly, like an intermittent power saw three blocks away.
The knock repeated. It was less of a knock and more of a gentle rolling of knuckles against the door—a fabric-soft knock, as it were, designed to alert almost no one.
“Who is it?” Stewart said.
The voice on the other side was as soft as the knocking.
“Stewart, it’s me. Lisa. Can I come in?”
What do I do? What do I do?
In that instant, Stewart’s thoughts raced as he tried to plot out a half dozen different responses and different scenarios and different plot lines that might sound plausible.
