Magic City

by Paula Guran

  Three days. That’s how long they give them at county. Three days for their owners to find them if they’re lost (which, trust me, they usually aren’t), or for them to find a new home. Jeremy, my buddy over there, sends me likely candidates for adoption whenever we have space. Good dogs, adorable puppies that all have the potential to be great companions, if only they get the chance to try.

  I don’t know what he’s thinking with this latest one, though.

  There has to be some sort of mix-up. Jeremy’s voice mail described her as a young golden retriever mix, but when I arrive at the shelter, the crate waiting for me outside the back door does not have a golden inside. What it contains is the most bedraggled, patchy-coated, pathetic creature I’ve ever seen. The dog’s twelve if she’s a day. What’s left of her fur is a stained and dingy white.

  Her eyes are bloodshot, her chocolate-and-pink nose is dry and cracked, some kind of mite’s been gnawing on her floppy ears, and she’s got a big old infected scrape on her belly oozing pus into the remaining mats of her hair.

  Adoptable? Not in this state. I wonder what Jeremy was thinking, sending along a hopeless case like her.

  I grab a leash and open up the crate door. “So you’re the one who they caught out wandering on the highway, huh?” Highway dogs are the worst. This one was probably dumped by her owner because she was too old, or because she was diagnosed with some terminal illness and they didn’t have the heart or the money to watch her get put down. Happens all the time out here. I guess people just delude themselves into thinking their pets are going to live out their days in a nice country farmhouse. People think this is the land of milk and honey for unwanted dogs.

  Wrong. It’s the land of roadkill and pound euthanasia.

  The dog crushes itself against the far corner of the crate.

  Typical. I see a dozen cases like this a week. Usually they’re terrified, and they have a right to be.

  “I’m just going to take you inside and get you some nice kibble.” I grab her by the scruff of the neck and tug her out into the light.

  And darn it if she’s not a golden retriever. I’m so shocked, I let go of her, and she shoots off. Or tries to, anyway, as I know that trick well. I snatch up the end of the leash before it disappears, and her flight stops short. She whimpers as I haul her back, and I blink my eyes to clear them, for she’s the old white dog again. Strangest thing ever.

  She slumps and stops struggling as I lead her inside. The dogs in the cages start up the second I flick on the lights. I lead the newcomer to crate nineteen. “Welcome to Shelter from the Storm. I’m your host, Malou.”

  She beelines for the blanket in the darkest corner of the kennel and curls up, resting her head on her paws and looking at me dejectedly. Those big brown eyes are just about the saddest I’ve ever seen—and I work in a pet shelter, so that’s saying something. Must be the eyes that got to Jeremy, though he’s a pretty tough sell after eight months volunteering at county.

  He fits there, though. He wants to be a vet, and they’ve already taught him how to spay kittens. I just do this to get my dog fix—we can’t have pets at home since Carson’s allergic. At least, that’s what Cynthia, my stepmother, says, but my baby half brother never sneezes when I come home from the kennel covered in fur. I appealed to my dad, but since he’s gone most of the time, he lets Cynthia have the final say in all home matters. So if I want to play with puppies, I have to do it at the shelter.

  I guess it’s better this way. I know if she’d let me I’d bring them all home. “You’re going to be fine here,” I say to the new dog in that high, soft voice they all like.

  No I’m not. I’m doomed.

  She might as well have spoken the words aloud. I swear some days I can read their thoughts—not that most of them have thoughts other than “play with me, pet me, feed me.” Dogs aren’t simple, but their needs are. They don’t ask for much, and even then most people let them down.

  “I know what will make you feel better.”

  Doubt it.

  “Some kibble.” I wonder what brand Libby, the shelter manager, managed to find on sale at the supermarket this week. The food here’s not great, but it’s better than nothing—which is what a lot of these dogs are used to getting.

  I fill a bowl for the newcomer, then start the routine of changing papers and feeding the others. I let the socialized ones out to run around in the yard for a bit while I process our latest arrival. Libby says they adopt better with a cute name, rather than something like “Old white dog” or “Crate #19.” I check on the new dog, who hasn’t eaten her kibble yet. Sometimes they come in starving and will wolf down whatever they can get, and sometimes they come in too scared or too depressed to eat, especially if they think you’re watching.

  “What would be a good name for you?” I tap my fingers on my mouth, considering.

  My name is Goneril.

  The dog doesn’t lift her head, but her eyes are glued to me.

  “Pearl?” I ask. Something stately, I think. This is not a goofball dog.

  Goneril. The thought’s more insistent this time. Goneril Aurelia Boudicca Yseult, to be exact.

  I write “Gaby” on the chart and hang it from the hook at the top of the crate.

  The dog lifts her head. Wait . . . Gaby?

  I swear, sometimes it’s like they’re really talking to you. “You should have seen some of the names they gave you guys before I came along. Really cheesy stuff. Cuddles. Punkin. You probably would have ended up a Snowball. I guess it helps to get you adopted, but you’re too dignified for a name like that, aren’t you? No matter what you’re looking like now.”

  Wait, you can see me? The real me? She stands and bats her paw against the bars.

  “Are you thirsty, girl?” I kneel to undo the crate door and grab her water dish. Gaby throws herself against it, but I hold it closed. See? I know all their tricks.

  You understand me! She sits and her whiplike tail flops once on the concrete floor. I let go of the door. There’s something seriously weird going on with this dog . . .

  And you see the real me, too. Gaby stands now and moves into the thin shaft of sunlight that slices across the back corner of the crate.

  I fall back on my butt. This can’t be real. There’s the old white dog, but then, in flickers like a broken filmstrip, I can see bits of golden retriever, hanging in scraps. I watch in shock as the dog hoses her golden flank back into place. As soon as she moves, it slips again.

  It’s the glamour. It’s fading. Every spell my master put on me is breaking.

  “The glamour?” I whisper, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth. I am answering the dog. Because . . . she’s talking to me.

  Gaby bounds back over to the door. Her tail comes out from between her legs, and her eyes aren’t quite as filled with despair.

  “What are you, Gaby?” I ask.

  Goneril.

  “Goneril.”

  I’m a dog.

  A talking dog. A talking dog who sometimes looks like a young, well-groomed golden retriever, and sometimes . . . doesn’t. “You’re not like most dogs I know.”

  I’m my master’s dog. His . . . special dog.

  Poor, deluded pooch. They all think they’re special, until they’re dumped on the side of the road.

  And I’ve lost him.

  “You mean you’re lost? You wandered off?”

  No! One second I was in the car with him . . . and then I wasn’t.

  A highway dump. I knew it.

  I lost him.

  And I might just have lost my mind. “How are you doing this?”

  The dog—Goneril—snorts. I told you. It’s a glamour. I have all these pieces of magic I got from my master. But now that we’re separated, they’re falling to pieces.

  I crawl toward the kennel, too flabbergasted to speak. The dogs nearby are transfixed, too. None of the usual barking, whining, scratching, or even snoozing. Whatever’s happening here, they’re witnesses, too. At least
the dogs prove I’m not hallucinating.

  And when they’re gone, Goneril continues, I’ll die.

  “Mary Louise,” Jeremy singsongs into the phone when I call.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “What kind of game are you playing?” I snap.

  Goneril paces at my feet, jabbering away. My master—he’s been using his magic to keep me alive for a good fifteen years.

  “What do you mean?” Jeremy asks. “Didn’t you pick up the golden?”

  “There’s no golden.” I watch as another shred of the weird golden-retriever filmstrip disintegrates off Goneril’s back.

  “It’s . . . something else. And if this is some kind of practical joke, it’s cruel.”

  Without him I’m done for.

  Jeremy sighs. “Not another one of your ‘No pit bull’ speeches. Because first of all, you sound like a broken record, and second, there’s no way that’s a pit mix. Golden and collie maybe, or golden and spaniel—”

  “It’s not a golden at all!” I cry. “And it’s not my fault that Libby is prejudiced against pits.”

  Would you believe I’m thirty?

  I press the mute button on my phone and look down at Goneril. “Really? That you’re two hundred and ten in dog years—that’s the part you think it’s hard for me to believe?”

  Good point.

  Jeremy’s still on mute, so I feel free to talk to the dog. “You’re saying all this stuff—the talking, the golden retriever disguise—it’s a result of some kind of spell your owner put on you? ”

  Goneril starts to pant. Her tail flops twice. My master, yes. He’s a witch.

  “I thought witches kept cats.”

  She snorts. Not mine! Cats suck.

  “Whatever breed it is,” Jeremy is saying, sounding annoyed. I turn back to the phone. “She has a sweet disposition, responds well to voice commands—seems like an excellent adoption candidate.”

  The talking 210-year-old dog is still going strong. I need to find my master to mend the spells. The glamour is unimportant—what I really need is to make sure the spell on my heart is still working. This is why you need to let me out.

  I shake my head at her. I’m not about to let this dog back on the streets—Jeremy would have my head. “I’m sorry,” I say aloud. “There’s no way that can happen.”

  Goneril sighs.

  So does Jeremy. “If you don’t think you can place her, I’ll take her back to the pound . . . ”

  Is that manipulative or what? Jeremy knows darn well that I won’t give up a dog I can save.

  But I have to get back to my master! At the rate this magic’s failing I’d guess I only have about three days.

  “But you know what that means. She’ll only have three days.”

  “Three days,” I say to both of them. “That’s a tall order.”

  That afternoon, I focus on making Goneril look as good as possible, cutting the mats out of her hair, smearing ointment on that scrape on her belly, and cleaning up her paws.

  She’s unimpressed. This is a waste of time. I can’t be adopted by just anyone. I need my master. My master fixed my leg, he propped up my heart, he stalled this tumor I’ve got in my neck. She blinked her eyes at me. See these peepers? No cataracts, thanks to my master’s magic.

  Dogs have the most ridiculously misplaced sense of loyalty.

  Libby was on a raid with Animal Services last month and she brought back horror stories. A bunch of abused animals, starving, with broken bones and open sores, and they still responded to their master’s call.

  I want to tell Goneril that her precious master dumped her by the side of the road, but I don’t have the heart. If she really is going to die in three days, isn’t it better that she dies thinking he loved her?

  It’s tough to groom her, because I keep catching sight of her glamour. It’s hanging in strips all over her body. I wonder if there’s some way I can arrange it better. I reach for a strip, but it slides through my fingers like smoke. I try again and just barely manage to catch hold of the end. As gently as I can, I twist it with another strip of glamour, hoping to conceal the gaps and make it look smooth and unbroken again.

  Goneril watches me, her eyes narrowed. You shouldn’t be able to do that.

  I mend another shred. This would be better. All the grooming in the world wasn’t going to make her real skin look right.

  “Do what?”

  Manipulate my glamour. I wonder if that’s what happens when the magic breaks down.

  “You don’t know?”

  Goneril hangs her head. I never bothered much with anyone who wasn’t my master. He was all I ever needed.

  I bite my tongue. What a jerk her master is, throwing her away like garbage. I always suspected that the dogs who came in here depressed or despondent knew they’d been abandoned.

  I always wondered if every time their ears perked up or their tails started going at the sound of a car on the driveway, it was because they hoped it was their owners coming back for them.

  Now I know for sure.

  I sit back and study my handiwork. She looks a little worse for wear, but at least now she resembles the young golden retriever Jeremy said she was. “This is as good as it’s going to get,” I say. “Try not to move around too much. I don’t want it to slip off again.”

  Goneril plops down. Okay, but I’m hungry.

  “Because you didn’t eat your kibble.”

  She cocks her head. Kibble? Oh, you mean those desiccated little brown pebbles of meat-scented grain? I wasn’t aware that was food.

  “What did you think it was?”

  She considers this for a moment. Potpourri?

  I shake my head. “No, it’s kibble, and it’s all we can afford around here.” I wonder what her precious master had been feeding her. T-bones?

  Oh. Her head goes back down. Well, perhaps I can wait to eat until I reunite with my master.

  When pigs fly. Then again, if dogs can talk, who knows what else is out there?

  She covers her nose with her paws. And if that doesn’t happen, I won’t live long enough to starve.

  Libby’s out of town for the weekend, so it’s just me holding down the fort. It’s fine, though. Gets me out of the house and away from Cynthia’s lectures. By the time I return to the kennel the next day, Goneril’s nearly frantic. She paws at the cage, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and hope.

  Did you find my master? I’ve been calling for him all night but he won’t come.

  I rub my temples. Judging from the way the dogs in the crates nearby are hugging the sides farthest away from Goneril, it’s been a tough night for everyone. “Look, Goneril, I think it’s possible that you might not ever be reunited with your master.”

  All four paws hit the floor and she droops her head.

  I can’t stand it. “What about another witch? What if we found a witch to help you?”

  Until my master comes back for me? Her tail starts wagging.

  “Sure,” I lie.

  That would work. Wag, wag. For a little while at least. You know any witches?

  Not really.

  After I do some socialization work with the puppies, give a few unfortunates their baths, check on the stitches of some of our recently spayed inmates, and redistribute the chew toys in the common space, I sit down at our ancient hulk of a computer and try to write up a description for Goneril.

  Naturally, I call her Gaby. The name of a murderous Shakespearean princess just doesn’t scream “adopt me” to your average pet lover. And then my hands hover over the keyboard. Breed? Should I say golden retriever? I squint at Goneril, trying to guess what lies beneath the age and glamour.

  Age? If I put thirty, people will just think it’s a typo. Height and weight are easy enough to fill in, and I upload the picture I took right after I arranged her glamour. But then I get to the description, and I pause again.

  Finally I type:

  A very special dog in need of a good home. Gaby is quite affection
ate, and seems to have been much loved by her previous owner. She is well trained, responds amazingly to voice commands, and is in search of a new owner as special and unique as she is. Please contact ASAP as Gaby cannot stay in the kennel much longer.

  “Much loved,” that is, until he dumped her. I scroll back to unique. Should I just lay my cards out on the table and write magical?

  “Hey, Goneril, is there a word witches use when they mean magical?”

  She cocks her head to the side. Her tongue’s hanging out a bit. They just say magical.

  “I mean when they’re trying to keep it a secret. That they use in front of nonmagical people.”

  She scratches at her ear, which just has the effect of messing up her glamour again.

  Right, because she never spent much time dealing with anyone who wasn’t her master. I feel a fresh wave of rage at her cruel owner as I start over:

  Gaby is the most unusual animal we’ve ever had in this kennel. It’s almost like she can communicate with you.

  Exactly like it, in fact.

  Well trained, with excellent response to all voice commands.

  And a few voice commands of her own.

  She needs a very special owner who can attend to her unique—

  Particular? Peculiar? Extraordinary?

  —needs. If you can help Gaby, please respond ASAP.

  What are you writing about me? Goneril puts her front paws up on my legs and arches to see the screen.

  “Hey!” I say. “Off.” She hops back down. “Besides, it’s not like you can read.”

  Her tail stands straight in the air, indignant. Of course I can! What good would I be to my master if I couldn’t read?

  I stare at her, agog. “What do you mean? Were you a service dog? Was he blind or something?”

  She cocks her head at me. Not blind. But yes, I was in service to my master. I explained that part to you.

  “Explain it again.”

  She stretches her front legs out before her, sticking her butt in the air, then lies down, her head up and alert.

  I was my master’s special dog. I was his eyes and ears in the outside world. I spied on his neighbors, I gleaned information from his enemies, I walked among his cohorts, unseen and unnoticed, and I observed all. She yawned. I also fetched his slippers.