Play Dead

by Leslie O'Kane

  “I just realized. I got a new thing of tofu in the fridge.” She began rifling through her refrigerator and said over her shoulder, “Can I see if Sage’ll eat that?”

  “Uh, sure,” I answered, wondering what feeding a half-starved dog tofu would do to his digestive system. “Just give him a small portion, though. His stomach has to be extremely sensitive at this point. It isn’t used to having any food in it.” Let alone tofu. Beth slid the white, rectangular block of tofu out of its plastic container. It landed with a wet-sounding shwock on the gray Formica countertop. She sliced off an inch, which she offered to Sage on her palm. He gobbled it up. Watching him, I could only think how ironic this scene was in a town sometimes referred to as the tofu-eating capital of the world. Boulder, Colorado, where even the dogs eat bean curd.

  “Don’t give him any more,” I said. This angelic dog had already been conditioned to think dog food was bad. This was going to further program him to think only tofu was good. I glanced at my watch. I had plenty of time left on Beth’s hour, and I needed to make sure Sage got a decent meal as soon as possible. “Let’s go to PetsMart and get him some dog food. The key is going to be to give him small, frequent feedings and to gradually nurse him back to his full weight.”

  Beth returned the tofu to the refrigerator, then dried her palms on her black pant legs. Not exactly Martha Stewart, I thought, averting my gaze.

  “Should we just take your car?” she asked.

  “Sure. I want you to purchase a small bag of both Sage’s brand and a second brand. We’ll mix the two together, so that you won’t cause too much upset to his digestive system by switching brands, yet the food will smell different so he won’t associate it with the Bitter Apple. But before we go, I think you should call your vet and explain Sage’s situation. I’ve never worked with a dog this undernourished before. Your vet undoubtedly has.”

  Beth nodded, chewing on her lower lip as she watched Sage. “This just kills me,” she murmured, then grabbed a once-white phone off its wall mount. She dialed and was soon speaking to who I gathered to be the receptionist. Beth hung up and said, “My vet’s gonna call me back. He’s always slow with that. Let’s go now.”

  She led the way out her door, letting the screen door bang behind her before I, followed by Sage, could reach it. I stepped out onto the porch, quietly closing the door on Sage. “Don’t you want to lock this?” I asked.

  “Nah. I never lock anything. I always figure, if someone wants to get in, they’re gonna get in, so you may as well save yourself the broken glass.”

  A philosophy which, in this case, left her dog and his food vulnerable to trespassers. So far, Beth had struck me as a nice, caring person. Yet she also seemed to be a kibble or two shy of a full serving in the firm-grasp-on-reality department.

  “Beth, I think you should consider changing your habits, now that you’ve got Sage.” Ironic, I realized even as I spoke, that I was suggesting she be more careful to lock her house, now that she owned a watchdog. “What if you’ve got some neighbor who hates dogs? He or she could have waltzed into your house while you were out and ruined his food.”

  Beth, standing on the sidewalk, stared up at me on her porch. “Jeez. I hadn’t thought of that.” She glanced at the houses on either side of hers. “I’ve never even met my neighbors.”

  I looked back at the house, where Sage was watching us, his long nose pressed against the narrow window alongside the door. Though my rational side assured me I was just being paranoid, I had visions of his being nabbed in our absence. “Let’s take Sage with us.”

  Beth stared at me blankly for a moment, then shrugged. While I unlocked the car and opened the door to the backseat, Beth jogged back to her house and got Sage, but did not lock the door afterwards. Good thing much of my work with Sage’s eating problems would be with her collie and not with Beth Gleason. The dog seemed more trainable.

  Beth jogged down the steps, and Sage came bounding alongside her with surprising energy. This, after all, was a large dog operating solely on a slice of tofu and a few dog biscuits. He hopped in and immediately settled down on the pink blanket spread across my backseat. The blanket was so embedded with dog fur it looked like angora.

  Beth clicked her tongue as she looked at him. “Riding in the car is the only time Sage shows any liveliness. I really think he always expects me to take him to Hannah’s house.”

  That was probably exactly what Sage was hoping, I thought. Beth crammed her long legs underneath the dashboard though her seat was all the way back, while I slipped easily into my seat, all the way forward. Must be awful to have to bend down as far as she had to whenever she picked something up off the floor.

  I gave myself a quick check in the rearview mirror, glad to see that my short, wispy, light brown hair and slight touches of makeup maintained a reasonably professional appearance. I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, comforted by the familiar soft sounds of a large dog panting in the backseat.

  It seemed quite possible that some disgruntled, oddball neighbor of Beth’s was behind the food tainting. Yet, if that were true, Sage’s reaction should have been to mistrust Beth; she would be the variable that had changed from the last time Sage had good food. Therefore, Sage should have shown much more reluctance to eat her tofu or the biscuit she’d fed him at my office. Sage’s actions had been more in keeping with a dog that knew his dog food tasted bad, not that all food Beth offered him tasted bad.

  “Did Sage ever eat any of his food? On the first day you got him, at least?”

  “Not even once,” Beth answered firmly. “The very first thing I did when we came into my house was to pour him a bowl of food, but he wouldn’t eat it.”

  That effectively put the neighbor theory to rest, I thought. “You met Sage at this cooking class taught by Sage’s former owner. What happened next?”

  “I read about Hannah’s death in the Daily Camera. I called Hannah’s house and left a message on her machine that if nobody else wanted Sage, I sure did.”

  “And somebody from her estate called you to let you have him?”

  She shook her head. “No, no one ever called me, but the shelter did when he was brought in. See, I’d also left my name at the animal shelter as wanting to adopt a collie.”

  “And the people at the shelter also gave you the name and number of the person who’d been watching Sage?”

  “No, I...found that on the piece of paper I gave you. It was in the bag of dog food.”

  This was more than a little bizarre. Fortunately, we were at a stoplight, because I hit the brakes to face Beth. “You found a man’s name and number inside the bag of dog food? The food that had been tainted with a repellent?”

  “Uh, yeah. Right on top. So I, um, called the number out of curiosity, and a lady answered and told me they’d been taking care of Sage.” Her cheeks had colored and she picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on her black T-shirt as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She reached back to stroke Sage’s fur and avoided my gaze. Why was she acting so uncomfortable on the subject of Hannah’s neighbors?

  “Did they say why their number was in with the dog food?”

  “She said they cared a lot about Sage and wanted to keep track of him. But I wouldn’t give them my address. It just...felt wrong to me. Kind of like telling your kid’s birth parents where you are and everything, once you’ve already adopted him. I mean, what if they change their minds about giving Sage up?”

  “Hmm.” I was starting to feel more and more suspicious about all of this. Traffic eventually allowed me to make a left at the intersection, and we passed the round, windowless, white stucco structure that was appropriately named the “Toadstool” playhouse. “I have to say that it seems a bit strange that this Ms. Jones, who was so devoted to her dog as to take him to class with her, would commit suicide and not make any arrangements for Sage.”

  “I know,” Beth said, nodding vigorously. “That’s why I don’t think she committed suicide in the fi
rst place. Especially shooting herself in the head like that, while Sage was in the house with her.” She leaned over and whispered to me, “And wait’ll you see how he acts around men in raincoats. He turns ferocious.”

  Beth’s not wanting Sage to overhear made her theory about her collie having witnessed a murder all the more difficult to take seriously. Why, then, was I battling this mental picture of Sage barking helplessly as a man in a trench coat shot his owner to death and doused his dog food in Bitter Apple?

  “Once we restore Sage’s diet and health, I’ll look into his behavior around men. Is it any particular type of raincoat, or just any man in any type of coat?”

  “Oh.” Beth narrowed her eyes and stared out the windshield thoughtfully. “I guess I’d have to say it’s any type of long coat on any man. Just not, like, suit jackets or ski jackets. Good thing the weather’s so nice today, or we couldn’t even trust Sage not to go ballistic at some guy while we’re at PetsMart.”

  I turned on the blinker and drove through the parking lot to the opposite end of the Albertson’s shopping center where PetsMart was located. PetsMart encourages customers to bring their pets into the store, but Beth announced that she hadn’t brought Sage’s leash, then headed with long strides into the store, oblivious as to whether I was following. The collie looked completely settled in anyway, his body taking up every inch of the backseat, the same way Pavlov’s did. I cracked the windows but locked the car, then joined Beth in the store.

  By the time I caught up to her, Beth’s cart was half filled with dog bones, chew toys, and two big bags of food despite my suggestion that she start small in case Sage didn’t care for these brands. While we waited in line at the cash register, Beth pulled out a thick wad of twenties, and I asked, “What do you do for a living, Beth?”

  “Huh?” Beth did a double take at me, then said, “I’m a student at CU. I already have a couple of degrees, in fact, but I haven’t found any careers that speak to me.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that. Beth gave me a puzzled look. I held up a hand in apology and said, “I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just that I got this image of a voice from the clouds calling down to you, ‘Beth. Become a dental hygienist.’”

  She grinned. “Actually, I gotta admit, a career would probably speak to me a lot sooner if I didn’t have such a big trust fund. My father’s getting a little tired of all my changes in majors.” She led the way outside, pushing the cart at what I’d begun to realize was her typical, impressive clip.

  “Maybe he’ll speak to you about that,” I commented as the automatic doors opened.

  “I’m half expecting him to...to...”

  Her voice faded as we heard a dog’s frenzied barks. I immediately scanned the parking lot for my car. Sage was going wild, clawing at the window on the far side of the car.

  “Oh, my God,” Beth cried. “He must have seen a man in a raincoat or something.”

  She tore across the lot, her cart making a tremendous clatter as she shoved it ahead of her over the bumpy asphalt. I followed as fast as I could in my tight skirt and stupid high heels.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Sage, it’s me,” Beth called as she ran around to the window on the far side of the car where Sage was still clamoring.

  I grabbed the box of dog biscuits from the cart Beth had deserted near my car. I ripped the box open and unlocked the door opposite to Sage. “Sage, come,” I called. After a few more seconds of barking, he looked at me, and I repeated the command. He came over to my side and I gave him the biscuit.

  A frumpy middle-aged woman parked directly across from me got out of her car. She wagged a finger at me and said, “You need to get that dog of yours under control, young lady! He scared me half to death!”

  “He started barking at you?” I asked, noting that she was wearing a miniskirt and blouse, which was not at all flattering, but more significantly, could in no way be misinterpreted as a raincoat.

  “No, not at me, at some man. But I had to sit here and listen to that racket for the last five minutes!”

  “Was the man wearing a coat?” Beth asked, rounding the car toward us.

  “Why would I have noticed what the man was wearing? I was just sitting here, minding my own business, waiting for my sister to finish her grocery shopping.”

  Beth got into my backseat and cuddled Sage. He seemed to have completely reverted to the calm behavior he’d displayed at my office and at Beth’s home. “Where is this man now?” I asked the woman.

  “He drove off.” She waved her hand in the air as she spoke, her brow still knitted.

  “Did he just happen to be walking past my car?”

  “How should I know?” She whirled on her stiletto heel. “All these stupid questions! No wonder nobody wants to get involved these days.” She stomped back to her car, got in, and slammed the door shut.

  Beth, in the meantime, emerged and pushed the cart to the back of my car. “Sage seems fine now. Let’s throw this stuff in your trunk and get going.”

  “Sure wish I could ask our Good Samaritan over there to answer a few more questions,” I muttered as I unlocked the hatchback. Technically, I didn’t have a “trunk.”

  Beth shrugged. “Bet you anything some guy in a coat walked by. That’s the only thing that could get Sage so upset.” She hurled a bag of dog food into the back of my car. I was impressed. I can lift a sack that heavy, too, but not without whimpering and looking truly awkward. “Believe me,” Beth went on, “I’ve seen Sage do this four or five times now.” I loaded the lighter dog paraphernalia, while she moved the second bag of food in beside the first.

  She struggled with one bag that was, for Sage, a new brand of kibble. “Know how to get these open?”

  “It’s one of those string things that seem to start working the moment you give up on them. I just save myself the time and slice it open with a knife.”

  “Okay. In that case, allow me.” Beth pulled something out of her fanny pack. With an effortless flick of her wrist, a gleaming, five-inch-or-so blade emerged.

  Incredulous, I asked, “You carry a switchblade around with you?”

  “Gift from my boyfriend,” she replied with a shrug.

  A switchblade as a lover’s present. And they say romance is dead, I mused.

  Beth promptly cut a hole in the bag, but also let out a cry of pain as she sliced her thumb.

  “Let me see that.”

  “It’s nothing,” Beth said, shutting the knife and dropping it back into her pack as she grabbed a tissue, which she wrapped around her thumb. The tissue didn’t seem to be soaking through, so I took her at her word. “Let’s see if Sage’ll eat a little.”

  She grabbed a handful of dog food with her good hand and offered it to Sage as we got in. Sage eagerly gobbled it down. “Thank goodness,” Beth said under her breath.

  We drove back to Beth’s house. Though deeply concerned about whatever had caused his reaction in the parking lot, I was tremendously relieved to know that Sage wouldn’t starve. I helped Beth carry her food and supplies inside, then supervised Sage’s initial feeding. He wolfed down a cup of kibble, then stood at the ready for more. I reminded Beth to check her messages for instructions from the veterinarian, but also said that my recommendation would be to wait an hour for a second feeding.

  We set an appointment for Monday morning at my office, and I broke my own newly established procedures and gave my home phone number, telling her to call any time if Sage was having any serious troubles over the weekend.

  What if Hannah Jones had been murdered? I asked myself as I got into my car. Sage might have been barking because he recognized the killer in the parking lot. My stomach knotted at the thought. That was crazy, I decided. Even if it were true, there was no reason to think that person could have staked out my office and followed us to Beth’s and then PetsMart. And yet, something was tugging at me—a memory that wouldn’t quite return in full color.

  It was after five, and I was beginning to feel anxious to be
with my own dogs—especially Pavlov. It was terribly hard to own such a wonderful, intelligent animal as my shepherd and only have weekend visitations. Yet I had the slip of paper from Sage’s dog food bag burning a hole in my pocket. I decided to stop into my office and call the number.

  Russell’s Volvo was already gone. That was unusual. He tended to work long hours. The door to our joint entrance—the only access to Russell’s office was through mine—was locked. Curiously, the overhead lights in both offices were off, but the small reading light on my desk was now on, though I hadn’t used that lamp all day. I made my way over to the lamp. It was angled so as to shine on a ticket to a CU Buffs basketball game, along with the note:

  Dear Miss Babcock,

  I happened to have an extra ticket to tomorrow’s 11:45 A.M. game. (It’s the early game on national TV and supposed to be a great match.) Use it, don’t use it, give it away to an attractive female friend. Whatever. No pressure. I’m including my business card with my home address and phone number, just in case you’re concerned about pollution and want to ride over there with me.

  Yours always, (and I mean that in a friendly, casual sense)

  Russ

  I smiled and shook my head, thinking: No thank you, Russ. And I mean that in a friendly, casual sense.

  I dialed the number on the piece of paper Beth had given me and held it up to the light as I waited for someone to pick up. There were some telltale translucent areas, as if the paper had been soaking up the additive for some time. A woman answered. I identified myself, then explained that I got this phone number from Sage’s new owner.

  “Oh, yes! You’re the dog psychiatrist lady,” the woman cried, her voice filled with awe as if she were talking to a celebrity.