Murber Strikes a Pose

by Tracy Weber

  The day was gorgeous: The kind of day we don’t often get in Seattle—the kind that proves the sky actually is blue, not steel gray. On days like this, Seattle residents emerge from their caves, hang up their umbrellas, and gravitate toward the sun’s golden rays en masse. The local parks would be packed with sun-starved Seattleites and their canine companions. Unless I wanted to burn off my breakfast running away from off-leash dogs and their oblivious owners, I needed to find some place less crowded.

  We drove fifteen minutes south to Fremont and a little-used section of the Burke-Gilman Trail. Nestled between the University of Washington and the Ballard Locks, this sweet little waterfront path had the city-meets-nature feel so typical of Seattle. Separate bike and pedestrian trails meant Bella and I were less likely to get run over by a speeding bicycle commuter—always a plus.

  Even better, the trail nestled up against a steep embankment overlooking the Lake Washington Ship Canal—a river-like body of water that connected Lake Washington to Puget Sound. The beauty of this cliff was more than cosmetic. The cliff prevented dogs and people from approaching us from the south. One less thing to worry about.

  I enjoyed breathing the fresh air and watching boats make their way to the Ballard Locks. Bella enjoyed tracking the assorted critters that had traveled the path before her. The sun’s warm rays baked my shoulders. Seattle’s version of Heaven.

  I daydreamed about Michael’s and my next date. And the next. And the next. Before I knew it, my mind had created an entire life for us: gorgeous white wedding dress, beautiful house, two perfect kids. I had to laugh at that one. I didn’t even like kids. But I sure could daydream about making those kids …

  I should have known better than to let my attention wander. But in my defense, it wasn’t a dog or even a bearded man this time, and I couldn’t be prepared for everything. Right in front of us, slightly to the right, waddled a male mallard duck. Evidently, in Bella-speak, the word “duck” meant delicious.

  Bella roared with delight. She went after that mischievous mallard like a cheetah after a gazelle, completely forgetting she had a human deadweight attached to her leash.

  I wasn’t a very effective anchor. Dogs can pull two-and-a-half times their weight. So, at eighty pounds, Bella could easily pull 200 pounds of yoga teacher. Chunky thighs or not, I was nowhere near that weight. And Bella had an advantage—she was pulling me off the cliff.

  Off we went, after that damned duck, over the embankment. I slid, bumping along the ground, hanging on to Bella’s leash with all my strength. One large crashing “oomph!” into the dirt, and I lost hold. Bella took off running, much faster now that she didn’t have to drag her 130-pound burden. I continued rolling down the hill, straight toward the water below.

  I felt each and every bruise assault my body and prayed no bones were breaking. A few feet from water’s edge I came to a sudden stop—by smashing into a tree. An insane thought whipped through my mind right before impact. Isn’t this how Sonny Bono died?

  Stunned, I lay there, afraid to move. Part of me wanted Bella to keep running and never come back. Part of me wanted to catch her so I could strangle her. Then, the logical, responsible part of me realized what I’d done. I’d dropped the leash. Bella was out there on her own, without anyone to protect her from herself. What if she went after another dog? What if she got hit by a car? What if she saw Santa again?

  The first step in finding her was getting up. Easier said than done. I slowly wiggled my toes and began the other small movements typically suggested at the end of yoga class. I rolled my shoulders, turned my head, and moved my legs. Nothing seemed broken—so far.

  A blond, twenty-something biker called to me from the trail. “Oh my God! Do you need help? Should I call an ambulance?”

  The answer was yes. Of course I needed help. As for the ambulance, it could whisk me off to the insane asylum, which was exactly where I belonged for agreeing to care for this hound-from-Hell.

  “I’m OK, but thanks. Did you see where the dog went?”

  He looked around. “No, sorry. Hang on. I’ll come down and help you get up.”

  Over my “I-wish-I-were-dead” body.

  I was beyond embarrassed, and I wanted to lick my ego’s wounds in private. I certainly didn’t want that cute biker to see me flat on my back—at least not this way. What if my hair was messed up? What if I had mud on my face? What if the butt was ripped out of my jeans?

  “I’m fine, but thanks. You can go. I appreciate your help.”

  My Good Samaritan looked unconvinced, but he climbed back on his bike and rode away. Now for the real challenge. How was I going to get up? And if I did, how on earth would I find Bella? I groaned and covered my face with my hands. Even if I made it back to the trail, Santa would just sue me for Bella’s soon-to-be dog mauling. I lay back down with a heavy sigh, closed my eyes, and resolved to let nature take its course.

  A creature the size of a water buffalo came crashing through the brush, skidded to a stop next to me, and shook itself dry. Water flew through the air like a sprinkler system on high. Bella looked incredibly, insanely proud of herself. She danced, wiggled, pranced, and play-bowed, ears cocked forward with a huge doggy grin on her face.

  Did you see me? Did you see me? She looked like a kid on a bike yelling, “Look, Ma, no hands!”

  She suddenly stopped, staring at me curiously and cocking her head to the side. The look on her face clearly asked: Why in the heck are you lying here on the ground?

  I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to shake her. In fact, I think it’s fair to say I wanted to kill her. But my sense of relief was too profound. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her neck, hugged her with all my might, and sobbed into her wet fur. “Thank God you came back, Bella. Goooood girl.”

  Slowly, tentatively, painfully, I made my way back up the embankment, a completely self-satisfied Bella walking calmly by my side. That damned duck swam slightly offshore, watching our slow progression and mocking me.

  Once we arrived on the trail, I took inventory of my injuries. Not nearly as bad as I’d feared—just a couple of scrapes and a few bruises. My back felt tight, but I could take care of that with some yoga poses later. The only things really damaged in the incident were my clothes, which were shredded and filthy, and my pride, which was much more bruised than my body.

  I drove home to change clothes. Now that I had the luxury of perspective, I had to chuckle. “What a sight we must have been, Bella: careening downhill, chasing after that wily waterfowl. I’ll bet that biker tells that story for weeks!”

  I hobbled back into the studio at five-fifteen—forty-five minutes before my Yoga for Healthy Backs class was scheduled to start. My mind told me to spend those few precious minutes returning the day’s neglected phone messages, but my body disagreed. My low back had tightened up considerably on the drive back to the studio. If I wasn’t careful, it would go into a full-blown spasm. I rubbed the aching muscles along my spine and considered my options.

  Option one was by far the most appealing: drive back home, soak in a hot bath, and self-medicate with a huge glass of Merlot. I closed my eyes and mentally traveled to my cherished jetted tub. In my imagination, eucalyptus-scented bubbles eased the aches from my body. The wine’s soft hints of black cherry, cedar, and currant teased my tongue.

  Meanwhile back at the studio, fifteen angry, abandoned students pounded on the studio’s door.

  No deal.

  Option two was to ice the injured area. But somehow I doubted that my Yoga for Healthy Backs students would be impressed if I limped through class wearing an ice pack—even if I decorated it with OM stickers.

  The obvious solution was option three: ease away my body’s aches with over-the-counter pain relievers and a short dose of yoga. I scrounged around in the bottom of my purse until I found an ancient bottle of Advil, popped two of the candy-coated pills into my mouth, and rolled out a m
at.

  With less than thirty minutes to practice, I had to make every pose count. I deepened my breath, and my tightened muscles relaxed in an almost Pavlovian response. I inhaled and swept my arms out to the side and up, then laced my fingers together overhead and lifted my ribs, feeling my chest open. As I exhaled, I swept my arms down and gently lowered my chin to stretch the back of my neck.

  So far so good.

  From there I performed several kneeling poses designed to gently warm my body and stretch my low back. I groaned in delicious agony as I transitioned to my belly and did several repetitions of Cobra Pose, using my back muscles to lift my head, collarbones, and rib cage away from the floor. At first my back threatened to spasm in a show of not-so-passive resistance, but by the third repetition, even it decided to relax and join the party.

  A few minutes later, I moved to standing. My legs felt stable and strong as my heart opened in Warrior I. Sweat beaded the back of my neck when I moved sideways for Warrior II. My whole body trembled with effort as I lowered my hips halfway to the floor in several Half Squats.

  But the true test of my body’s forgiveness came ten minutes later. I lay down on my back, drew my knees toward my chest, and placed my arms out in a low T. As I exhaled, I pulled in my belly and twisted, bringing my knees to the floor on the right and turning my face to the left. I heard a delicious pop-pop-pop as vertebra all up and down my spine moved back into place. No wonder this pose was often called the Chiropractor’s Stretch.

  After two more gentle poses, I stood up from my practice, spine now completely pain-free. I greeted my students with a bright smile and renewed confidence that yoga did, indeed, work. Two classes later, I was ready for my well-deserved bubble bath, not to mention the large glass of wine. Heck, I might even finish the bottle. I’d had a very long day.

  I almost made it.

  Bella and I were halfway out the door when the phone rang. I debated letting the call go to voice mail, but I hoped it was Michael. Maybe he wanted to get together for a drink, or dinner, or to snuggle or …

  In the end, curiosity won. I should have remembered what it did to the cat.

  “Serenity Yoga, this is Kate. How can I help you?”

  “I hear you have my dog.”

  sixteen

  The drive to Federal Way took forty-five minutes in good traffic, and Tuesday morning’s traffic was terrible. You’d think Seattleites would be wet-weather driving experts, but it never fails. Whenever there’s a significant rainstorm, we drive like we’ve never seen the stuff. The ninety-minute trip in the dark, dank weather matched my mood perfectly. Even Bella seemed uncharacteristically subdued as she rested in the back seat.

  I should have been happy to take Bella back to her original home—ecstatic, even. Soon I’d be rid of my unwanted burden. I could go back to the orderly, focused life I craved. I could concentrate on feeding my new relationship with Michael and building my struggling business. But the story of Bella’s early life haunted me. I tried to convince myself that Betty was right; that George had lied to me about Bella’s origins. I tried to imagine happy reunion scenes, complete with misty-eyed adults and joyful children, screaming as they reunited with their long-lost friend.

  I failed.

  Each daydream was interrupted by visions of a lonely, howling puppy being violently kicked by a sociopath. My phone conversation with Bella’s prior owner did nothing to allay my fears. He didn’t seem concerned in the slightest about his missing pet. He didn’t ask about Bella, thank me for taking care of her, or even tell me his name. He just called, gave his address, and ordered me to return his dog. I hoped he made a better impression in person.

  I turned off the car’s ignition and confirmed the address. Bella’s Dash Point home was, as George described it, gorgeous. Most of my Ballard bungalow would easily fit in its three-car garage. The front of the house faced a large, open yard, and its abundant west-facing windows opened to a stunning Puget Sound view. For a moment, I allowed myself to rekindle a spark of hope. Maybe Betty was right; maybe Bella belonged here. I got out of the car and prepared to put on Bella’s leash.

  A low, menacing rumble froze me in my tracks. I noticed the stake first, then ran my eyes up the chain. It ended in the spiked leather collar of a large, muscle-bound rottweiler. A rottweiler with big teeth. Big, pointy teeth. The kind of teeth that would thoroughly enjoy sharpening themselves on the femur bone of a trespassing yoga teacher. The term “junkyard dog” suddenly sounded cute and cuddly. Somehow I doubted Bella would like her new brother.

  “Wait here, Bella. I’ll be right back.”

  Bella cowered, hiding in the back seat’s far corner. Frankly, I wished I could hide back there with her. Instead, I stood frozen in the driveway, debating the wisdom of entering that Rottie’s coveted yard.

  Finally, the front door opened, and a short, dark-haired man swaggered out, closely followed by a timid-looking blonde. He wore black ostrich skin cowboy boots and the facial expression of a mean-spirited long-haul trucker. She wore a tentative smile and expertly applied makeup that couldn’t completely hide the greenish-yellow bruise underneath her right eye. I had a terrible feeling that Bella wasn’t the only one this Trucker Man liked to kick around. My earlier spark of hope fizzled, replaced by a slow, burning rage.

  Trucker Man turned to the woman. “Go back inside. I’ll take care of this.” He scowled as the door closed softly behind her. “You the woman who stole my dog?”

  I glared right back at him. “I told you on the phone last night. I didn’t steal her. I’ve just been taking care of her since my friend passed away.” I nodded toward the still-growling Rottie. “I see you’ve already got another dog.”

  “Yeah, a good one this time.”

  “I don’t think you should take the shepherd back then. She doesn’t like other dogs.”

  “That’s none of your concern. Give me the dog and get on your way.”

  I stood there a full minute, staring him down, willing my eyes to turn him to stone. I didn’t want to give Bella back to this jerk. In fact, I would have preferred to dance barefoot through a football field covered in broken glass. But Betty’s orders were unequivocal: unless I had proof of abuse, I had to surrender Bella to her original owner, no matter how odious he might be. So I forced myself back to the car, hooked on Bella’s lead, and tried to coax her out of the back seat.

  Tried, to no avail. Bella dug her paws into the upholstery and leaned away from me, transforming herself from an eighteen-month-old dog to a stubborn eighty-pound pack mule. I pulled with all my might. She refused to budge.

  “Come on, Bella! You’re home now. Everything’s going to be fine.” She looked at me with large, frightened eyes. We both knew I was lying.

  “Bella, please,” I whispered. “There’s nothing I can do.” I finally enticed her out of the car with a handful of treats and a battery of empty promises. I coaxed her toward the house as she cowered, trembling behind my legs.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Trucker Man grumbled. He stomped down the stairs, reached over Bella’s head, and snatched her leash out of my hands. “Get over here, you stupid mutt.” He gave the leash, and Bella’s neck, a good hard jerk.

  Bella erupted like Mount St. Helens. She let out a deep roar and leaped forward, planting her paws on her prior owner’s chest and knocking him into the mud. He hit the ground hard, swore like the trucker he resembled, and dropped the leash. Bella wasted no time. She bolted back to the car and scratched frantically at the door, begging to be let back in.

  Trucker Man looked like a cross between Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster—only meaner. “That’s it,” he yelled, jumping to his feet and roughly grabbing my arm. “Wait ’til I catch that no-good flea bag. I’ll kick that bark right out of her.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I yelled back, yanking my arm free. I imagine I looked like a monster myself. I shoved my palm directly in hi
s face, feeling a good foot taller and at least 100 pounds more muscular than my 130-pound frame. “Stay here. Don’t you dare move an inch. If you touch that dog, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  I ran to the car and flung open the door. Bella scrambled in, whining, and tried desperately to crawl underneath the seat. I stood with her for several moments, consciously slowing my breath, willing each inhale and exhale to calm my frenzied emotions. So far, this boxing match wasn’t going well. Round one had gone to Bella and me, but no matter how tough I felt, Trucker Man was tougher. I had to come up with a better strategy than beating the crap out of him.

  The authorities would be of no help. In the eyes of the law, Bella was nothing more than a piece of stolen property that should be returned to its rightful owner. I considered fleeing, but since Trucker Man knew where to find me, making a run for it didn’t seem like a good plan, either.

  Diplomacy was my only option. I waited until my heart rate slowed to normal, then I returned to the mud-covered jerk and tried to reason with him.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve obviously gotten off on the wrong foot here. Why don’t you let me take Bella back to Seattle? You’ve already got the rottweiler, and you don’t seem to like Bella very much. Frankly, she’s not fond of you, either. I can’t believe you really want her back.”

  “You’re damn right I don’t want that dog back,” he spat. “Any guard dog stupid enough to get himself stolen from his own yard is of no use to me.”

  She wasn’t stolen, I thought. She was rescued.

  But I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “You know this dog’s a she, not a he, don’t you?”

  Trucker Man responded with a scornful laugh. “Of course I do. That’s part of the trouble. I should have known better than to expect a bitch to do a man’s job.”

  Bitch is, of course, a commonly used term for female dog. And, as Dad used to say, if you think that’s what he meant, I have some swampland in Arizona to sell you. I wanted to come up with a scathing reply, but I couldn’t. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.