The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

  A place for everything, and everything in its place.

  She liked Stewart’s apartment, and while he was by far the neatest man she had encountered in some time, she liked the neatness and order in her apartment more. The coffee cups were lined up in two rows. The drinking glasses took three rows. Cereal boxes in her small pantry were lined up by height and/or thickness. The clothes in her one large closet were ordered as well: all darks on one side, all other colors to the other side, short tops in the middle, growing longer as you moved to the end of the closet rod.

  How can you operate when things are messy?

  She put on an old sweatshirt (bottom drawer) and a pair of track shorts—her standard bedtime attire. The outfit she had worn today went carefully into her laundry hamper, with the fabric bag forming the liner, so when she went to the Plenty O’ Suds Laundromat all she had to do was grab the bag and head out.

  You save a lot of time not having to pack a laundry bag.

  She positioned her phone on her nightstand and plugged it into the recharging cord.

  As she did, it danced and vibrated in her hand.

  She did not recognize the number, but it was in the 412 area code—the original area code for Pittsburgh.

  “Hello?”

  “Well, if it isn’t our star reporter. Hi, Lisa, this is Heather Orlando.”

  It took a moment for the reality of that to sink in, and another moment until Lisa had found the wherewithal to answer the phone in a cogent manner.

  “Ohh…sure. Hello.”

  She didn’t do a great job of assembling herself in a cool, collected manner.

  “I have been following with great interest the ongoing saga of the bandit dog of Wellsboro. Seems like no one is any closer to catching him, are they?”

  “No,” Lisa replied, getting her bearings now. She related the latest incident of thievery.

  Heather was laughing as she told the tale.

  “I’ve been following your stories, Lisa. They’re good. Very good.”

  Lisa wanted to demure and say that they were only puff pieces and they weren’t that good and that the Gazette is an awfully small paper, but she held her tongue.

  “Thank you,” she said instead.

  I read that declining a compliment is like insulting the person who gave you the compliment—like they’re not smart enough to see the real truth.

  “I get the feeling that you don’t think Bill Hoskins is telling the truth about the dog.”

  “And you would be right.” Lisa hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to share. “This is between us, right? Off the record, as it were.”

  Heather laughed again.

  “Of course.”

  “He’s lying through his teeth.”

  “I got that impression from your last article.”

  “It wasn’t that obvious, was it? I didn’t mean it to be obvious.”

  “No, no, not at all,” Heather replied.

  Lisa thought she sounded more blonde and more pretty on the phone than most normal people.

  “But after a while, Lisa, you get a sense about people. And you get a sense about good reporting. I’m just reading between the lines, that’s all.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  “No, that’s a compliment. And I’ve shared your work with a few people in the newsroom here—and with a few people I know over at the Post-Gazette.”

  At a loss for words, Lisa felt her mouth hanging open in surprise.

  “So when are you coming to Pittsburgh? There are people here you should meet. And who want to meet you.”

  “I…I don’t know. I don’t have anything planned.”

  “Tell you what, Lisa. Plan on coming down. Whenever. Just for the day, even.”

  “Well, sure. I could do that.”

  “Great. And you promise me that you’ll call me right away if something exciting happens with the dog, right? We had such a great response to the last story. I want to be able to give the audience at least one more installment. They’re all pulling for the dog, you know. The pictures just set off a flood of calls saying they would adopt him.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, perhaps not a flood. But more response than most stories ever get. The station manager even said it was a good piece. And he hates everything that smacks of human interest.”

  “Well…I’m glad that people liked it.”

  “So you’ll plan on coming down, okay? And make sure you call me before you come,” Heather said in a very authoritative reporter’s tone.

  “I’ll call. I will. Promise.”

  “Good,” Heather said, putting her stamp of insistence on the request.

  And that evening, even though the clock on her phone blinked 12:30, Lisa was no closer to sleep then than she had been at 9:30.

  And she continued to note the clock until a few minutes after 4:00 A.M.

  And this was with the alarm set for 6:00 and the start of the early shift at the Wired Rooster.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  MR. ARDEN flapped out of the Wired Rooster, his arms aflutter, as if attempting to fly back to the Tops Market in indignation.

  City council members Kevin Connelly and John Stricklin sat at their usual table, in the back, where it was a little more private, all but dazed mute by the early morning tirade from Mr. Arden.

  It began as most typical citizen tirades began, by his claiming to be a taxpayer and, thus, the boss of whomever was being addressed.

  “I pay your salary,” was the one sentence most often repeated by irate city members—especially when no one was paying attention to them as they preferred to have attention paid.

  “And the agreement is most often made moot,” Kevin often said, “when they learn how little we get to attend each meeting. Barely covers the coffee I have to buy to stay awake.”

  Today, Mr. Arden held forth on the city’s responsibility to track down the horrid “dog bandit of Wellsboro” and put him behind bars—or worse.

  “I’m losing valuable merchandise. This has to be stopped.”

  Mr. Connelly and Mr. Stricklin assumed their “earnestly listening” poses, and both of them knew it was indeed simply a pose to put people at ease. It wasn’t that they weren’t listening, but people with complaints needed to see head nods and hear a few “I see”s as they rambled on and on.

  Both councilmen did that this morning.

  Both councilmen knew that they had little authority to rein in a stray dog—a very clever and resourceful stray dog that had already eluded Wellsboro’s finest on several occasions.

  “Mr. Arden,” Kevin began, in response, waiting until Mr. Arden’s volume had lowered and his velocity had peaked somewhat. “You are an upstanding citizen of Wellsboro and Tops Market is a key employer in the city. We are all aware of the outstanding contribution Tops has made to the local economy and to the town as well—what with the float in the Fourth of July parade and all. We want to make sure that you hear us hearing you. We understand your frustrations and we are doing everything in our power as city council members to alleviate the problem and find a solution with some alacrity.”

  Mr. Connelly was also a devotee of “word-for-the-day” calendars.

  “Alacrity” had been last Tuesday. Even though he wasn’t sure he was using it correctly, he plowed forward.

  “And as a result of your concerns for the safety and well-being of your customers, also citizens of Wellsboro, Mr. Stricklin and I, this very morning, have discussed issuing a ‘special council order of enforcement’ concerning this specific stray animal. The special order will endeavor to keep the animal, this menace as you call it, off the streets.”

  Mr. Arden looked at first puzzled, then almost gratified at being heard. Mr. Stricklin, a fellow councilman, also appeared puzzled at first, then leaned back in silent admiration of what the brilliant Mr. Connelly had just performed.

  Mr. Arden puffed himself up, like a pigeon, then said, loudly, “Well, good. See that you do.”

  And
then he glanced at the large clock over the condiment table.

  “Good heavens. I’m almost late for the frozen delivery.”

  And he took off, out the door, tilting sideways as he made the turn onto Main Street.

  In the silence that swallowed up the two councilmen in his absence, Mr. Stricklin—or John Jay, as most people in town referred to him, seeing as how Jay was his middle name—brought his hands together in a very exaggerated clapping motion, without really making a clapping sound.

  “And just what is a ‘special council order of enforcement’?”

  Kevin shrugged.

  “I have no idea. But doesn’t it sound officious and puissant?”

  “If ‘puissant’ means really smart, then yes.”

  Kevin drained the last of his coffee.

  “I need to get to the office. I’ll call the city manager later and see if there is anything like a ‘special council order of enforcement’ on the books. If anyone would know, it would be him.”

  John Jay stood as well.

  “And if there isn’t?”

  “Well, Mr. Arden would probably need to hire an attorney to find out. And we both know he’s not going to do that, is he?”

  John Jay held his smirk. After all, the Wired Rooster did lie in his district and he did not want to go overboard and offend anyone—if anyone had been eavesdropping, that is.

  “No. He won’t,” he replied, then added in a whisper, “but it did calm him down. Maybe he won’t be sending me so many angry e-mails this week.”

  “Maybe. Good thing he lives in your district and not mine,” Kevin added with finality as the two councilmen walked out and on to their real, paying jobs.

  Despite having only a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep, Lisa felt great this morning.

  Superb. Outstanding.

  She almost wished she had taped the previous evening’s conversation—but she had been replaying the salient parts of it over and over in her mind.

  Especially the part about coming to Pittsburgh.

  “There are people here you should meet. Who want to meet you.”

  I know that doesn’t mean I’ll get a job offer or anything like that. But they know who I am. They read what I’ve written. This is just so wonderful.

  She had daydreamed her way into three mistakes this morning: using whole milk instead of soy in a chai latte, using regular coffee when decaf was requested, and spilling an entire large frothy something or other onto the floor.

  What sobered her up, what brought her back to reality, and her normal professional self, was the thought: What about Stewart?

  At the same time Lisa was on her hands and knees mopping up the caffeinated spill, Stewart was on his way to work—walking, of course.

  One of these days, I’ll have enough saved up to fix my car—or, better yet, buy a new one. That would be great. To have a car that actually starts all the time.

  As he turned the corner onto Main Street, he noticed one of several posters tacked to the telephone pole.

  Bargain Bill had indeed upped his offer to $750—still in the form of a credit, of course.

  But that, with the few hundred dollars I’ve saved, and a few hundred dollars for my old Nissan—I could almost swing something newer.

  As he considered that, he knew what it entailed.

  And then Lisa’s face popped into his thoughts, stern and almost angry.

  “You can’t even think about that. Hubert has to stay with you. He has to. He loves you.”

  And while Stewart agreed with her, or at least he agreed with the image he had of her in his mind that morning, he also added, with just a dusting of bitterness, But you don’t have to walk to work every day. And try dating without a car. It’s not easy.

  That evening, the Wellsboro City Council debated, with not a single member cracking a smirk or a knowing smile, the “special council order of enforcement” concerning the nefarious dog bandit of Wellsboro.

  Even the city clerk, an acerbic and dour man originally from Schenectady, went along with the charade.

  “Everyone has endured the same e-mails, multiple times. If this works,” he said quietly, in a hallway aside to Councilman Stricklin, “then I will write it into the city charter…somehow.”

  The motion passed seven to zero.

  And just as the gavel sounded, Hubert was leading Stewart and Lisa into a darker section of the residential area south of town.

  “It feels like Hubert has been here before, doesn’t it?” Lisa said. “Like he knows where he’s taking us.”

  Stewart nodded. He had not said much for the last four blocks, ever since Lisa took his hand in hers, at the end of their block. Stewart wasn’t really sure where they were going. He wanted to look over at Lisa as they walked, but wasn’t sure that was proper, so he tried to focus on just walking and not thinking about how small her hand felt in his and how delicate her fingers seemed in comparison to his calloused and meaty appendage.

  Hubert took another turn, away from town, where the only lights were from houses. The moon was out, not quite full, but buttery and gibbous that night, so the absence of street lamps was not as perilous as it would be when the moon was hidden.

  Stewart thought Lisa actually moved closer to him the darker it got. And as she did, it appeared that Hubert had a bigger bounce to his step, as if his master plan was falling into place and that made him happier—at least as happy as a dog could be in the dark on a leash without eating.

  The trio stopped at a small rise that opened up to the south. The moon hung just an inch or two off the horizon, as if skipping off the ridge of mountains that ran south from the city, all the while illuminating the hills and fields in a pale light, turning the landscape sepia.

  Lisa slipped her arm into Stewart’s arm and pulled him close to her.

  Stewart was aware that in certain situations, the male of the species should take charge of things, sort of, and make the proper moves. But Stewart was at a loss to know exactly what those proper, preprescribed moves might be.

  Stewart had dated some in college.

  Well, to be honest, he would never describe the number of dates he’d had as “some.”

  “Infrequent” would be the term he would use to describe his dating past.

  It was not for lack of interest. It was for lack of confidence.

  What do I talk about? Grams always said I was “backward” with girls. Because of my mother, she said. She blamed a lot of stuff on my mother. Maybe she was right.

  That question of ease of conversation seemed to have worked itself out with Lisa. Even though the subject of Hubert was their first and primary focus of conversation, they also talked about all sorts of other things. Conversation came easily with Lisa. Stewart wondered if that would have been the case with other women, but decided it would not have been.

  Only certain gears mesh, he thought.

  They stood there, the three of them, staring to the south, marveling at the brilliance and the distance and the size and the luminosity of the moon, hanging like some sort of ripe peach, just out of reach.

  Peach isn’t the right fruit—but I don’t know any white fruit. And cauliflower just doesn’t work.

  He felt her move and he turned to her, just as she turned to him.

  Now what do I do? This is so difficult.

  Lisa tilted her head back, just an inch or two.

  That must mean something. Right? But what?

  Stewart felt Hubert butt against his shin, and that caused him to look down even more, bringing his face and her face closer together.

  That was when Lisa closed her eyes.

  Okay. Okay. Okay. I can do this.

  He leaned in closer to her, closing his eyes as well, but first making sure of the proximity of lips and noses and all the rest.

  And then he kissed her.

  It was not the sort of mad, passionate kisses that occur in the movies, in which one partner appears hungry and intent on devouring the other person.

&
nbsp; This kiss was more delicate, more chaste, more refined, more meaningful than any kiss Stewart had ever seen on TV or at the movies.

  It was a perfect kiss.

  An absolutely perfect kiss.

  It did not last for multiple moments. There was no groaning or murmuring.

  It was simply the most perfect kiss that Stewart could ever imagine sharing with another person.

  And when the kiss stopped, and they both returned to their normal heights and positions, that’s when Hubert barked loudly, three times, almost shouting with joy, and then bouncing, like a kangaroo, in the moonlit darkness before them, as happy as an animal could ever expect to be.

  And that’s when Lisa hugged Stewart, and that’s when Hubert barked again, and that’s when two porch lights snapped on, from opposite sides of the street, and that’s when Lisa whispered loudly, “Run!” and that’s when the three of them took off, two of them giggling and laughing and one of them woofing with great canine joy, through the dark neighborhood south of town.

  Stewart had read somewhere that a gentleman remains a gentleman at all times. He wasn’t sure what that entailed, but when he said good night to Lisa, instead of another kiss, which perhaps would have been anticlimactic, at least for this one particular evening, he hugged her. It was a soft hug, tender and gentle, and as Lisa closed the door she kept her eyes on Stewart until the last moment. And he read that as her reluctance to say good night and that she had had a good time on their walk.

  This is all so confusing, he thought to himself. Happy, but really confusing. For a novice. I guess I’m doing okay. Despite what Grams said. Despite my mother.

  Stewart did not see the small sliver of apprehension in Lisa’s eyes as she closed the door, thinking that this night had been magical, and wonderful, and memorable, if only the word “Pittsburgh” hadn’t kept popping into her thoughts.

  And for Stewart, all that emotion times two, but he also worried as he closed his own door behind him.