Dog Gone, Back Soon

by Nick Trout

  She waits a beat, but then her eyes target Charlie.

  “As a doctor and as a mom, for far too long I’ve been guilty of valuing appearance over substance. It’s bad enough to look and not really see, but it’s far worse not bothering to look at all.”

  I catch the glint of a fat tear rolling down Charlie’s left cheek.

  “So let me answer this way. The reason we’re here is to let you know you have a choice, and choice is a good thing, but choose to look, to ask, to dig, and please, dig deep, because what counts, what really counts, you won’t find floating near the surface.”

  Ethel looks perturbed, whereas Dorkin looks like his head is about to explode.

  “Yes, but to your point about choice,” says Dorkin. “By definition you are making a comparison. Shouldn’t we talk about what’s on offer? Dr. Mills, perhaps you’d like to say a few words. Dr. Mills?”

  Everyone turns my way, and the moment I have been dreading has finally arrived. I get to my feet, say, “No, I think Dr. Honey summed it up perfectly,” and sit right back down. From the front, Lewis nods his approval—not exactly a knockout, but definitely brief.

  All eyes turn back to Dorkin.

  “Well… okay… but I’m sure Dr. Honey would love to tell us about some of the—”

  “Actually I’m good. So, if that’s all the questions, Healthy Paws thanks you for coming, wishes you and your pets the very best of health, and please, grab all the freebies you can on the way out.”

  There’s another round of applause, the audience stands, and it’s hard for me to see what’s going on up front.

  “What have you been up to, Dr. Mills?”

  The question comes from Amy, who, like me, waits in the back row, letting the room clear enough to watch the action unfold. It’s not exactly a silent movie, given that the melodramatic piano soundtrack has been replaced by the babble of people and the occasional canine yip, but it’s obvious who’s the villain and who’s the heroine.

  “I’m not sure,” I reply as Dorkin jabs an index finger in Honey’s face before pointing toward the exit. That’s when Lewis steps between them, his habit of close talking finally coming in handy, as Dorkin is accosted by Greer and served with a mysterious document.

  “Oh no he didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what?” asks Amy.

  I don’t reply, imagining Lewis in his card shark bow tie, prepared to use skill and deception to win, handing over the confidential spreadsheets to Greer. I see Greer’s double pat over his breast pocket, their unspoken exchange that said, “Only if things get ugly.”

  “Didn’t what?” Amy insists.

  I shush her even though I can’t hear a thing as Dorkin shoves the papers away, turning to leave as they flutter to the floor. Greer ignores them, reaches out with a big hand, and yanks, Dorkin spinning around, visibly shocked by the assault. For a second I think we might be in for a skirmish, but Greer has him by the lapels of his suit, lifting up, forcing Dorkin onto his tiptoes. I watch as the manager’s body goes limp, hands thrown wide open in surrender. Greer releases his grip, rounds up his evidence, and hands it over.

  The English editor has his back to me (I hope he’s saying something facetious like, “Someone’s in a spot of bother”), but I have a great view of Dorkin, eyes flitting back and forth, the recognition of being caught in his deceptions causing him to buckle at the knees. The Dorkin who addresses Greer is quite different—grievously wounded, submissive, and possibly begging for his life.

  “If you don’t tell me what’s going on I’ll—”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” I maintain, distracted by the way Greer whispers in Dorkin’s ear, producing vigorous acquiescent nods from the Healthy Paws office manager. Whatever passed between them, Dorkin appears inordinately grateful and in a hurry to leave, storming up the aisle and past us toward the exit. “But it looks like it’s all good.”

  A fist pummels my left upper arm.

  “You are the most annoying, cryptic man I’ve ever—”

  “He is, isn’t he?” says Greer to Amy, suddenly next to us and looking pleased with himself.

  “What did you do?” I ask, sotto voce, pulling him aside.

  “All fine and dandy, old boy. Lewis insisted I only use your… discovery… as an insurance policy, just in case. When Honey went off message, I couldn’t stand by and watch her career go into free fall. I made Dorkin an offer—to make this go away, you go away. No one knows about the embezzling of funds, Healthy Paws backs off Eden Falls, and Doc Honey gets to run the Patton office the way she wants it run.”

  “And Dorkin agreed?”

  “What choice did he have? The only person who lost out is me. First decent scoop in years.”

  Greer winks at me, nods a chivalrous “good afternoon” to Amy, and follows the stragglers out of the hall.

  Amy has her arms folded across her chest. I jump in before she can say, “Well?”

  “We blackmailed Dorkin to make sure Doc Honey kept her job.”

  She appears totally unfazed by this revelation.

  “Huh, see, wasn’t so hard. But then you’ve still got competition?”

  “What?”

  I’m not really listening, preoccupied by the action up front: Doc Honey, arms wide open, rushing over to embrace Charlie Brown. They bury their faces in each other’s shoulder, their grips tight.

  “You’re smiling, Dr. Mills.”

  “Sorry?”

  I turn to face Amy, and she’s looking up at me with those hypnotic heterochromic eyes. The rest of the room—and all its intrigue—falls away.

  “Perhaps I’ve misjudged your Dr. Honey,” she says, a smile toying with her lips, “but sometimes it’s easy to bark up the wrong tree, if you know what I mean.”

  I can’t tell if she’s talking about herself or me. Is this flirting or taunting? What married person acts this way? This whole thing doesn’t sit right because there’s obviously something between us. I can tell I still have a chance.

  “So, this might be a little last minute for a woman with your hectic social life, but how’s tomorrow night for…”

  My sentence trails off as soon as I see the change in her eyes.

  “Look, Cyrus… right now… I can’t,” she starts.

  I don’t even let her finish. I raise my hand in defeat; it’s time for this roller coaster to stop because I need to get off.

  I turn and head for the exit, trying to extinguish the hope that Amy will call my name.

  No need to worry. She never does.

  Sunday

  19

  THERE ARE TWENTY STATES IN THE UNION, including Vermont, where there are no regulations regarding dogs riding loose in the back of your truck. If the dog falls out on a fast corner, you might get a ticket for failure to secure a load, but for the most part, legislation hasn’t caught up to children, let alone pets. That’s why I’m not too worried about Crispin, snug under a fluttering nylon tarp secured by bungee cords to the flatbed. Not that he’s going to bark or complain about the cold.

  My cell phone rings.

  “His name’s Seth Pickrell,” says Lewis, sounding mighty pleased with himself.

  “Your mystery man. Stash’s owner.”

  “How?” I ask. “And more importantly, does Devito know?”

  I can’t hide the element of panic in my voice. Does this mean I’m going to have to return Stash?

  “Don’t think so,” says Lewis. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve covered my tracks. I got to thinking about what your doodle can do and came across this nonprofit called NEADS that offers assistance dogs for combat veterans, the hearing impaired, children with autism, people with physical disabilities. I called them up, asked them if they ever trained a dog named Stash. Turns out they did, only Stash has been missing for the past three years. Dropped out of their system.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Your doodle was partnered with a fellow named Al Pickrell. Al lived alone, a little nothing place in the woods outside
of Patton. Poor guy had Lou Gehrig’s disease, and Stash was by his side to the end.”

  “And Seth is Al’s son?”

  “Bingo. A son who left home at sixteen, a son who, decades later, only returned to pick up his late father’s dog. Seth wasn’t a sick man when he took Stash. He didn’t need a service dog. He needed a link to his dad. I guess it’s just a little extra bit of grace that Stash could also help Seth when he got sick. ”

  “Wait a minute. You couldn’t have gotten all this from one phone call. Is Gabe helping out again?”

  “Please.” Lewis scoffs. “Even though the family’s from across the valley, I have a far better grassroots source.”

  Ah, Doris.

  “I told the folks at NEADS we got suspicious when a service dog named Stash showed up with a guy who refused to give us a name or address.”

  “So they want him back?”

  The line goes quiet for a few seconds. “That’s up to you. They asked me to describe him, and, well, I might have left out the bit about his orange mustache. I figured you could call them back and correct my mistake or… maybe invest in a little hair dye to keep him all black. Either way, I told Devito we’d had no luck tracking down John Doe’s service dog.”

  I eventually came home, only you got this practice and I got this dog.

  Was Seth like me, another lost son looking for redemption? Was Stash his only and best connection to a father he never knew, a living link to a past he wished he could do over?

  “And one more thing,” says Lewis. “NEADS told me the magic words.”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “The command that will finally give that poor dog a chance to relax and let his hair down.”

  Lewis repeats the phrase, and I swear Stash glances my way as though he’s heard what was said.

  What a human hears at twenty feet, a dog can hear at eighty feet.

  I hang up, pull off Eden Falls’s main strip, and locate my destination, a goldenrod yellow doll’s house with a wraparound farmer’s porch. Looks like Trish came from humble roots. If she married up, I’m betting Lionel needs the inheritance money because they’re overextended.

  Snow-encrusted cars line both sides of the narrow street, but Mavis Peebles’s driveway is a short, steep slope, so I pull straight in, praying a neutral gear and gravity will let me roll my way back onto the road when I’m ready to leave.

  “Stash, come,” I say, inviting him to exit on my side. He’s coming with me because the flicker of a small orange dot on the dashboard tells me I need more gas. If I leave him in the warm cab with the engine idling, the Silverado won’t make it to the nearest station.

  The “toughest glue on Planet Earth” appears to be living up to its name. Crispin’s tail is restored to its horizontal former glory, and with a little comb-over, you can barely see the join. I grab the back feet and associated castors, ready to pull the faithful Labrador off the back of the bed when I think back to my one and only meeting with Mavis Peebles.

  “Thanks, Bobby,” she said, accompanied by a conspiratorial wink. A senior moment or a secret communiqué?

  For now I leave Crispin to guard the truck. Time to find out what my late father was up to.

  Following a snow-blown path I take two steps onto the wooden porch, where a sturdy wrought-iron door knocker allows me to announce my arrival. Stash stands by my side, attentive but patient, doing a fine impersonation of Crispin sans castors.

  I hear a TV being muted, a rustling movement inside, and the creak of floorboards.

  I knock again.

  “Just a minute,” says a soft female voice as though from the other side of a powder room, attending to last-minute details in order to appear presentable.

  The door swings open, and Mavis Peebles lurches forward in sturdy sheepskin slippers and a hand-knit woolen cardigan over a minty blue nylon housecoat.

  “That’s not Crispin,” she says, pointing with her knotty arthritic index finger.

  “No, Mrs. Peebles. This is my dog.” I hesitate, the “my” still feeling conspicuous but pleasantly invigorating. “This is Stash.” I look down and do a double take. Stash’s perfect impersonation of the dead dog himself has been spoiled by an aberrant behavior new to this particular labradoodle—he’s wagging his tail.

  “I didn’t want to leave him alone, if that’s okay with you.”

  Mrs. Peebles looks more flustered than confused.

  “Where’s Crispin?” she asks.

  I glance back at the truck, feeling guilty, tempted to allay her fears, but this is about far more than fixing her dog’s broken wag. “Maybe we could come in?”

  Mavis swivels around, full body, not just neck, like she’s taking stock, making sure the coast is clear prior to opening the door wide.

  Before I can say thank you and step inside, a certain canine has barged past me in order to nuzzle and methodically lick Mavis’s right hand as though saliva might be the breakthrough cure for rheumatism.

  “Friendly, isn’t she?” says Mavis, hobbling over toward a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs gathered around the heat from an old cast-iron radiator. Her gait is a side-to-side rocking motion, like an Emperor penguin’s. “Can she have a cookie?”

  “Of course,” I say, taking in a small sitting room that’s clearly been converted into a bedroom. Aside from the high twin bed underneath the window, there’s an armoire, a series of built-in bookshelves, and a small TV. The sound has been turned off, but based on the overacting and the plethora of beautiful people this has to be a soap opera. The handsome stubbly face of a swarthy Casanova pops up, and unfortunately I’m reminded of Mr. Marco Tellucci.

  On a table next to her chair (at least I assume it’s hers because it’s the only one covered with thick cushions) Mavis decapitates a ceramic yellow Labrador cookie jar, reaches in (accompanied by the sound of an electronic yap), and removes a small Milk Bone. Stash meets her eyes, waits for a nod of approval, gently takes it on his tongue, trots off to the other side of the room, and eats it slowly and methodically, lying down.

  “Tea? Coffee?”

  “No thanks,” I say, as Mavis waddles off through an open door that appears to lead into a kitchen.

  “Can I help?”

  “No,” snaps Mavis. “Sit,” she commands, and I wonder if Stash’s presence has made the old woman flash back to her days of training Crispin.

  Dutifully I take the matching chair without the cushions. Now I see why Mavis chose them—rigid, upright, easier to get in and out when your joints are trying to rust stiff.

  The items on the table next to the Lab cookie jar tell me how Mavis must spend her days: two balls of wool tangled around knitting needles (remarkable given the deformity of her hands), the remote control, and, surprisingly, a Kindle reader.

  Stash, having finished his treat, races past me to see what’s going on in the kitchen. What’s gotten into him? In his hurry, he broadsides one of the cushions on Mavis’s seat, exposing the edge of a small book. I reach over to tuck it back in, but the cover title gives me pause—Wicked Hard Sudoku. It’s not the Boston slang that strikes me as strange; it’s the notion of a senile geriatric having the mental capacity for complex mathematical games.

  Leaning back in my chair I glimpse part of a galley kitchen, red cabinets, white appliances, and, disturbingly, Stash with his front feet up on a counter as though he’s begging for more to eat. I hear the whistle of an electric kettle coming to a boil and the chink of mugs (guess I’m having tea). There’s still time. I adjust the cushions to hide the Sudoku and turn on the Kindle. I don’t have an electronic reading device and sometimes I wonder if they’re only good for curious men to read Fifty Shades of Grey in total anonymity, but up pops Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. Not exactly mindless pulp. And then there’s the “last” button on the remote—a travel show on PBS. Quickly I flick back to… whatever they call this show—Days of Our Guiding Hospital—apparently television for the mentally infirm.

  “Thanks,” I say as Mavis
returns, handing me a trembling mug.

  She carefully places hers on a coaster on the side table prior to easing down into her chair. Stash stands off to her side but out of reach for petting. Strange, I think, him keeping his distance, until I notice the four circular depressions in the plush blue carpet, spaced at the corners of a dog-sized rectangle. It’s as if he’s showing deference to the senior dog, not wanting to stand in Crispin’s spot.

  “You fix the tail?” asks Mavis, her focus on my lips, avoiding eye contact, as though she needs to prove how mentally infirm she has become. I am convinced it’s an act, or at the very least, an exaggeration. Lewis would be all over me, insisting I tread cautiously, but the clinician in me needs the backstory while the movie geek can’t help but think about David Mamet’s House of Games, Joe Mantegna saying, It’s called a confidence game. Why? Because you give me your confidence? No. Because I give you mine.

  “What if I said no, Mrs. Peebles?”

  Slowly her eyes ascend my face.

  “Do you have doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “But you’re not my…” I hesitate. “Sure,” I say, “nothing leaves this room.”

  Mavis sighs, eases back in her chair, hands flopping down on the rests. “This was your father’s idea. He knew I’d rather be crippled here at home than trapped in some hospital bed or my daughter’s… space station.”

  “Idea? You mean having Crispin stuffed?”

  Mavis leans over and picks up her mug with both hands, relishing the warmth.

  “I’m not crazy or senile, but how can I care for a new dog? Most of the time I’m too sore to walk to the kitchen, let alone out of the house. I’m eighty-three years old. Who’d look after my dog once I’m gone? It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Hold on, Mrs. Peebles. You’re saying my father told you to act a little… kooky?”

  “No. I just improvise every now and then. It’s not hard. Stare off into space, say something senseless or based on a childhood memory. Just enough to keep them guessing. No, Doc Cobb suggested taxidermy—low maintenance, quiet company, and guaranteed to look scary mad. The ban on pets at local nursing homes was a bonus.”