by Tracy Weber
John pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. “How’s that?”
“George, the victim, mentioned once that he had family. I got the impression that at least his daughter is local. Can you get me her phone number? I’d like to offer my condolences and see if she’s willing to take Bella.”
I didn’t fool him, at least not completely. He remained standing and peered at me through narrowed eyes. “Katy, what are you up to?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to look innocent.
“You know exactly what I mean. You have a bad habit of sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. It used to drive your father nuts. He always said you took after your mother that way: nosy, argumentative, and stubborn.”
“Very funny, John.” I held back a smirk. My temperament may have driven my Dad nuts, but I clearly inherited it from him. But I didn’t share that insight with John. Instead I gave him the Scout’s Honor sign. “I swear. I’m not up to anything. I just want to get this dog off my hands.”
John crossed his arms and gave me the look—the same look Dad used to give right before he caught me in a lie. Seasoned psychopaths couldn’t hold up to the look. How could I be expected to fare any better?
“But you’re right. I wouldn’t be averse to learning more about what happened to George. He was a friend of sorts, and I don’t buy the detectives’ theory of what happened.”
John leaned against the edge of his desk. “I’m not working the case, but from what the officer told me last night, your friend was killed in some drunken brawl. Sorry, Katydid. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s probably what happened, all the same.”
I was afraid he’d say that. John and Dad might have solved George’s murder in the old days, but I wouldn’t put money on Henderson today. Seattle’s priorities had changed. In this time of deep, city-wide budget cuts, Seattle barely had enough money to keep convicted criminals in prison. The city had zero resources to waste on low-profile cases that would likely go unsolved. I envisioned George’s cold-case file covered in dust, buried in a warehouse full of forgotten boxes.
My voice grew a tad louder than I intended. “But John, that doesn’t make any sense! I told Henderson last night. George didn’t have a violent bone in his body. And he always had Bella with him. His being alone has to mean something!”
John actually had the nerve to pat me on the shoulder. “Katydid, leave crime fighting to the professionals. I know you mean well, but stick to stretching hamstrings or whatever it is you do in those yoga classes of yours. Keep your nose clean and safe. I promised your dad that if anything happened to him, I’d keep you out of trouble. And that’s a promise I intend to keep.”
“I’m thirty-two, John, not thirteen. You don’t need to keep promises you made to my dad when I was a teenager.”
“It doesn’t matter. A promise is a promise is a promise. And you’ll always be the same cute little brown-eyed girl to me.” He stood up and looked at me squarely, without even a trace of a smile. “Stay out of this. That’s an order.”
I knew that look, too. I didn’t respond well to edicts, but arguing was pointless, at least for now. “OK, John, you win. I won’t talk to George’s daughter about his death.” At least not until I meet her in person. “But I still need to find out if she’ll take this dog off my hands. Will you please get me her phone number?”
I didn’t exactly lie, but I don’t think John believed me, either.
He sighed. “Go home, Kate. I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll call you if I find anything. But if you want my advice, take the dog to the pound and go on with your life. Nothing good can come from your snooping around in this. Nothing good at all.”
eight
I drove away from the precinct with more questions than answers, but for now, I was forced to wait and hope that John uncovered some useful information. In the meantime, I needed to clear my head. My mind felt sluggish from lack of sleep and the residue of last night’s trauma. Bella’s digestive system, on the other hand, wasn’t sluggish in the slightest. She needed to do some clearing of an entirely different nature.
Discovery Park would meet both of our needs perfectly. Full of wooded trails, open beaches, and scenic picnic areas, the park seemed like the perfect place to gather my thoughts and let Bella do her business. The sun peeked through the clouds and provided a welcome contrast to the chilly morning breeze. A damp, earthy smell permeated the air, left over from the prior week’s rain. The universe seemed to be offering me hope—reminding me that after every dismal storm, the sun eventually reappeared. I turned toward the warmth, closed my eyes, took a deep breath—and gagged.
In the name of all that was holy, what was that smell?
Bella had relieved herself of her digestive burden. Without going into too many details, suffice it to say that Bella’s late night dog chow dinner had not agreed with her.
“Sorry, pup. Looks like we need to find a new brand of dog food. I’ll add that to our list.” Bella looked at me gratefully. A trip to Pete’s Pets was definitely in order.
But not now. Now, I needed to think. I wandered through the park, oblivious to my surroundings. Instead of living in the present or even planning for the future, I obsessed about the past. Where had George gone for those missing days? He hadn’t volunteered much information about his time away, and I’d been much too busy harassing him to ask. I mentally kicked myself for not listening—for not being a better friend. George might still be alive, if only I’d acted differently.
A sudden tightening of the leash interrupted my guilt trip. Bella froze in her tracks. She stood stock-still, muscles tense, leaning forward. I turned to follow her gaze. What was she glaring at?
I saw them too late.
A jogger exercising a golden retriever ran right at us. Bella and I had no time to escape; they were only a few feet away. I wrapped the leash around my hand, pulled Bella in close, and braced myself for the inevitable explosion. Bella lunged, pulling forcefully on the leash. She snarled, snapped her teeth, foamed, and growled. Cujo would have been friendly in comparison. I planted my feet and did my best impression of a 130-pound anchor.
All things considered, I thought I did pretty well. The leash held, my wrist remained intact, and Bella’s teeth touched nothing but air. The jogger, however, was not impressed. “What’s wrong with you, lady? Control your dog!”
“She’s not my dog, sorry!” I replied, as he ran off into the blessed distance. If I were him, I’d have kept on running. No good could come from tempting Bella again. But that crazy jogger did a one-eighty and charged right back to us, yelling.
“Yeah, right! Sure she’s not your dog. People like you drive me crazy. You know, if you didn’t starve that dog, she might not be so vicious. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
People like me?
What was his problem? Bella certainly wasn’t going to win Miss Congeniality, but she hadn’t gotten anywhere near him, or his dog for that matter. And how could he think I was purposefully starving her? Who would be cruel enough to intentionally starve a dog, but responsible enough to take it for a morning walk?
If Jogging Man wasn’t going to keep running, Bella and I would. One quick left turn and off we ran down a different path, the jogger’s ranting echoing behind us.
“That’s right. Run away and keep on running! I ought to call the Humane Society. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to own animals!”
I used to smile, nod, and pretend to agree when George said, “You know how people are.” I didn’t know what he meant then, but I certainly understood now. Fostering Bella was going to be a lot harder than I had originally anticipated.
After that, we avoided other dogs. When we saw one, we’d jump off the trail or run full-speed in the opposite direction. I even found a sort of rhythm to it. Not a soothing rhythm, certainly not a relaxing rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless. See a dog
, run for your life. See another dog, run for its life.
But dogs were easy. Bella’s reaction to other dogs was consistent and predictable. Her reaction to people—not so much. Most, she treated like long-lost friends or at least potential dog food providers. But occasionally she’d see someone and go crazy, snarling and lunging like she’d done with Detective Henderson.
I was both confused and intrigued. On the surface, Bella’s behavior toward people seemed random, but I suspected she reacted to something specific. I simply needed to figure out what. John might not want me looking into George’s murder, but even he couldn’t object to my solving “The Case of the Cantankerous Canine.” And as a yoga teacher, I had the right skill set. Each time I worked with a student, I watched, reflected, and looked for patterns: patterns in movement, patterns in breath, even patterns in thought. How much harder could it be with a dog? As we continued walking, I closely observed, trying to solve the riddle of Bella’s aggression.
First we ran into a woman with a toddler. “What a beautiful dog!” she exclaimed. “Is she a purebred?” Bella sat down and offered to shake hands. “How cute! She gave me her paw!” The red-haired munchkin-child giggled uncontrollably while Bella covered her face with wet German shepherd kisses. I opted to keep Bella’s toilet water drinking habit to myself.
Later, we encountered a groundskeeper on lunch break. He relaxed in the shade, preparing to take the first bite of his tuna sandwich. “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” he said, smiling. He stood up, leaned forward, and held out his hand. “I used to have a shepherd like that when I was a kid. They’re great dogs. Can I pet him?” Bella pulled toward him, suddenly drooling profusely. “Hey there, big guy … Whoa!”
Bella ignored the empty hand he offered and snatched his sandwich from the other, swallowing it in two large gulps. Then she nudged, licked, sniffed, and flirted, clearly hoping for seconds. I sheepishly apologized before dragging Bella away.
I continued making observations, and Bella continued introducing herself to new friends. All went well until I spotted an overweight man with a long white beard. “Look, Bella,” I whispered, pointing in his direction. “That guy looks like Santa! All he needs is a red hat and a black belt and—”
That’s all I got out before Bella went berserk. She barked, danced on her toes, and waved her tail straight in the air, attempting to look as large and menacing as possible.
There was no jolly “ho ho ho” from this Santa. Instead, he yelled unrepeatable phrases, waved his cane in the air, and threatened to bludgeon Bella if she took even one more step toward him.
“Seriously, Bella,” I whispered as we hurried away. “Who doesn’t like Santa?”
Bella had no comment.
And so it went. Women and kids were never a problem. Men, however, were a conundrum. Although Bella generally liked men, occasionally she’d see one and go berserk. I looked for commonalities, to no avail. It didn’t matter how close or far they were, how short or tall, how fat or thin. It didn’t matter if they limped, jogged, or sat in the shade. It didn’t matter if they wore a backpack or carried a bag. It didn’t even matter if they were eating a tuna fish sandwich.
I wondered if there was some sort of “bad man” stench only Bella could smell, but that seemed unlikely. The answer, when it appeared, practically slapped me in the face. How could I, of all people, have been so blind? Bella calmly explored the trail about twenty yards behind a tall blond backpacker. He turned around, and Bella went crazy. I could barely hold on to her. The difference? When he turned, Bella saw his face. He had a beard.
If I’d ever needed proof, I had it now. This was one smart dog.
“Bella, it’s not that I don’t agree with you,” I whispered. “But sometimes you have to keep your opinions to yourself. If you want a new home, you’ll have to change your attitude.” She looked at me stubbornly as if to say, you first.
I needed help.
_____
I strode purposefully past the brand-new “Help Wanted” sign in the window of Pete’s Pets, grabbed a basket by the door, and started filling it with the bare essentials. Water and food bowls, check. Extra large pick-up bags, check. On second thought, grab two boxes of those. Chew toys. Do I really need those? I turned away until I envisioned Bella dismantling my dining room table. Better get several kinds of chew toys.
Next up was food. What to do about food?
Obviously, last night’s dining disaster couldn’t be repeated. I scanned the mind-boggling array of choices cramming the shelves. Bags of kibble vied for space with foods that were canned, dehydrated, freeze-dried, and frozen. Some contained the meats of my childhood, such as beef, chicken, lamb, and fish. Others were made of more exotic ingredients, including rabbit, venison, buffalo, and brushtail—whatever that was. I even saw one made of kangaroo. Gross!
As if that weren’t bad enough, the next aisle contained yet a different choice. Evidently, once you figured out what you wanted in your food, you had to decide what you wanted out of it. That aisle boasted foods that were soy-free, corn-free, gluten-free, and grain-free. I was beyond confused.
I searched the store looking for someone who could make sense out of the chaos. I found Michael stocking designer cat litter.
One look at the glorified bags of soon-to-be-garbage, and I could see where all those missing dog food ingredients had gone. This display featured cat litters made of corn, wheat, peanut shells, and pine. Non-politically correct cat owners could also go inorganic. Then they could choose between clumping, non-clumping, or something called “crystal.”
Whatever happened to using a good old sandbox? Obviously the pet industry had gone as crazy as the yoga industry. I was pretty sure cat owners needed fifty-five kinds of kitty litter as much as yoga students (who practiced barefoot) needed yoga shoes.
Michael looked surprised to see me, but he left his stack of cat box accouterments to talk.
“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened last night. I heard you found the body of the Dollars for Change vendor that was killed.”
I shuddered. “Yes, it was pretty awful. I still can’t believe it.”
“The building manager came by and told me. Somehow violence seems worse when it happens to someone you know.”
“Jake the Jerk was by? Glad I missed him.” Oops. Did I actually say that out loud?
Michael smiled. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? I don’t know what Alicia sees in him. Most people seem to like him, though. I guess you and I have better taste.”
I changed the subject before I said something else I’d regret. “I need some help. I’m taking care of George’s dog until I can find his daughter, and I don’t think the food I bought at the Super Mart is working for her.”
Michael flinched as if slapped in the face. “You fed her grocery store food? That stuff is nothing but fillers and trash. I wouldn’t feed it to a cockroach.”
“Yes, I get that. But it was an emergency. Besides, I think Bella may need special food. You know, the kind you feed sick dogs.” I looked at Michael expectantly.
“Sorry, Kate, I’ll need more information than that. Does she have food allergies?”
“No, I would remember that. Bella has a disease, but I can’t think of what it’s called.” I looked away, trying to recall what George had told me about Bella’s illness. “All I can remember is that it has lots of letters, German shepherds get it, and she needs special food or she’ll starve.”
“Bella has EPI?” Michael asked.
“That’s it! I can’t remember what it stands for, though.”
“Exocrine pancreatic insufficiency. That’s too bad. EPI is serious. One of my customers has a shepherd with it. I think you’ll need more than special food for Bella, poor thing. No wonder she’s so skinny.”
“So, what do I do?”
“I’m not sure, but my customer will be. Let me call her.” He went to the de
sk and started typing. A minute later, he grabbed his cell phone and went into a room marked “Private.”
While Michael made the call, I killed time looking at the “Pet Services” bulletin board. A few dog training flyers caught my eye. One who guaranteed results with issues ranging from separation anxiety to aggression sounded promising. I pulled down the flyer and put it in my pocket. I wouldn’t need this information, but Bella’s next owner might.
Michael returned with a sheet of paper and a determined look. “OK. Here’s the scoop. Bella needs enzymes to digest her food. They’re prescription, so you’ll have to buy them from a vet.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Michael pretended not to notice. “My customer agreed to help you out in the meantime. She recommended a food, and she’ll donate enough medicine to last a couple of weeks. But she said you can’t just give Bella the medicine. You’ll have to prepare her food a special way for it to work.”
“That sounds complicated,” I complained. “I’m not going to have Bella long. Can’t her next owner deal with all of this?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, without hesitation. “Until Bella gets the enzymes she needs, you may as well not feed her at all. You wouldn’t starve her until she got a new home, would you?”
Of course I wouldn’t. But I also remembered what George told me about the price of that medicine. A couple of weeks wasn’t much time to find Bella a new owner.
“Tell you what,” Michael said. “Let’s ring up your supplies, and I’ll throw in a five-pound bag of food to get you started. I’ll call you when I have the enzymes. In the meantime, is Bella here? I’d like to say hi to her.”
I looked at Michael’s bearded face. The mental movie of Bella saying hi to him was a cross between The Three Stooges and Friday the 13th. “Sorry. Not a good idea. She doesn’t like men with beards.”
