Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing

by Sonny Brewer

  “I’m going to take Mr. Brewer back to Fairhope, Tara. I’ll be back down here in one hour. Maybe before I get back you’ll find the collar,” the big man said, and stalked toward the door. He stopped still in his tracks when he realized I was rooted to the floor. Lou turned, walked back to me, and bent to wrap his arms around me.

  “Maybe your dog ain’t gone for much longer,” he said, like a grandfather would say to a grandson needing a boost of confidence. I tossed in the towel at that point, and shed some tears as manly as I could, my head up, my shoulders square, my face pretty quickly turning into a wet mess. He stood back nodding, my eyes caught in his. “Not to worry,” Lou said, and we headed for the door. Tara Mitchell actually stepped forward as I passed and gave me a light tap on the shoulder.

  When we got to his truck, Lou took a minute to talk to his dog. Most of Jenny’s tail-thrashing, wiggling excitement had shifted to an interest in me, whether I was friend or foe. Lou opened his door. He reached under the driver’s seat and tossed me an oily rag. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

  “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got more at home.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  PIERRE INVITED ME to take the cordless phone back into the kitchen. “For privacy,” he said. I knew that he also intended that I leave any customers who might stop by out of this. I think he feared I might get cranked up the way I told him Lou had at the dog pound. I feared he was right.

  “You know,” I said to Pierre as I took the phone from him, “it dawns on me that the papers show this dog was handed off on the 21st of March. If it turns out it’s Cormac, that day would have been his fourth birthday. What a sorry sense of humor on the part of the Great Spirit of All Dogs.”

  “Unless you count that the dog pound didn’t kill him on his tenth day in the pokey,” Pierre added. That stopped me. I felt a shiver with goose bumps following. I stood holding the phone, staring at it as though some oracular voice would crackle from it and offer me a navigational fix in the heavens, some bright star to give me a reference point in this weird, loopy course I stumbled along.

  “You’re right,” I said, my voice low. “You know, Pierre, how I claim nine as my lucky number?” He nodded. “When I thought about this birthday coincidence I added together the string of numbers in the date of Cormac’s birthday: 3-21-2001. It comes to nine. Maybe there is some luck running here. And, maybe, just maybe, this man I’m about to call will help me sort out some things.”

  “If you get lucky, it’ll be because you’ve worked hard for it,” Pierre said. “I don’t have a dog. But if I did, and if he ran away, I’m thinking I’d say something like, ‘Fido was a good old dog.’ And that would be that. Your dog thing is different. You’re earning every drop of luck you get.”

  “And you and Lou are helping me,” I said.

  “That’s because we are your friends,” Pierre said.

  “Well, I’m grateful. You know that, I hope,” I said. Pierre waved off my remark, and said nothing. I held up the papers. “Something else here that’s mighty interesting. Suspicious, even,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The dog’s name on this paperwork is Cognac,” I said. “That sounds a lot like Cormac, don’t you think?”

  “Now that’s a lot weirder to me than that hooha about the numbers,” Pierre said. “No way that’s coincidental.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “Makes me more confident it’s my dog I’m chasing here.”

  I closed the door into the tiny kitchen, held up the scrap of notepaper that I’d involuntarily crumpled in my left hand. I unwadded it and put it on the counter beside the coffee pot. I looked around for a stool, but decided instead to stand. Stand and deliver, I thought. I took a long, slow breath, and keyed in the number for a Mr. Clyde Grossett. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hello, Mr. Grossett.”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Sonny Brewer from Fairhope.”

  “Yes. So, how may I help you, Mr. Brewer?”

  “You took a Golden Retriever from the dog pound last Monday.” My pulse was already beginning to race as my heart kicked into fight-or-flight mode. I had zero control of it.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice telling me that Clyde Grossett was proceeding with caution.

  “I have reason to believe that was my dog,” I said. “I lost my Golden about two weeks ago. I’d like to come look at him. May I?”

  “Well, Mr. Brewer, I’m afraid that’s not possible. He is not with me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m not able to provide that information, sir.”

  “Why the hell not?” I asked, trying to speak from the same platform of authority occupied only minutes ago by my friend Lou Lafitte. Only thing, my balance seemed questionable and I felt a wobble underneath me. Lou had stood tall and wide, like a pirate captain aboard his flagship.

  “Let’s keep this civil, Mr. Brewer. I am a member of a Golden Retriever rescue network. That dog was processed and interfaced with the system. He is no longer local.”

  “Processed? Interfaced? No longer local?” I was livid. I shouted into the phone, “What are you even talking about? Just tell me what you did with the dog you picked up.” Pierre walked into the kitchen, stood just inside the open door looking at me. His face was flat, serious. My hand shook.

  “I’ve already told you, sir. I don’t have the information you seek,” said the thin voice on the phone. “And I am about to terminate this call. But should I continue this dialogue, Mr. Brewer, I would have serious questions for you about why you lost him in the first place. Why are you only now taking this up? By your own admission it has been more than two weeks—”

  Pierre snatched the phone from my hand. “Excuse me, Mr.—” Pierre’s eyes found the piece of notepaper with the name and phone number on it. He touched it with his index finger. “Mr. Grossett. I am Pierre Fouchere, an associate of Sonny Brewer. Tara Mitchell at first refused to share your contact information with us. She changed her mind. The reason she changed her mind is the same reason you will change your mind. You have three minutes to call Tara Mitchell and return this call to me.” Pierre held the handset at arm’s length, and with a swirl and flourish, punched the button to end the call.

  “Now, we are three. Musketeers, we! On a mission to save Fido.” Pierre sang. He plucked a butter knife from the dish drain, and carved big curving figures in the air in front of my face. He spun and with a faltering war cry drove the butter knife into a loaf of bread still inside its plastic sleeve, which served to prevent the blunt knife from actually piercing the wrapper, more or less mashing the loaf instead. Pierre dropped his weapon and delivered a crushing karate chop, completely smushing the bread. I cannot judge whether it was the comedic content of Pierre’s routine, or the desperation choking me like a python, or some combination of both, but I doubled over in delirium and laughed so hard it seemed to frighten Pierre. As though something in me had snapped.

  I was still laughing when the phone rang.

  Pierre snapped to attention like a soldier surprised by a general, quickly putting his finger to his lips, shushing me loudly, which also blew out the flame of humor we’d kindled. I stood up straight. Pierre answered the phone.

  “Pierre Fouchere.” He kept his eyes on me as he listened into the phone. “Hold on, I’ll ask you to repeat that.” Pierre asked me to write some things down. I took out my moleskin journal and opened it to a clean page. I told him to go ahead.

  “Boulevard Animal Clinic in Mobile,” Pierre repeated, and called out a phone number. I took dictation. “Golden Love in Danbury, Connecticut,” he continued, and called out another phone number. Pierre listened for another minute, and then said, “You saved yourself a great deal of trouble, Mr. Grossett. And here’s some advice: rewrite your rescue mission statement, pal, and add a first line in all caps about making an effort to reunite pets with owners. If I need anything else, I’ll call.”

  Pierre stood, silent, shaking his head. “I
t’s a Golden Retriever pipeline,” he said, and told me that Clyde Grossett had picked up the dog Tiffany Hale told me about, and had taken him to Mobile to a veterinarian clinic where his processing amounted to a checkup, shots, and neutering.

  “And, then, because of some, what, supply agreement with a Golden Retriever outfit in Connecticut, shipped him there for adoption.” Pierre said he couldn’t figure that one out. “Grossett said you’d find out that the dog he ‘put through’ was too young to be yours,” he said. I’d told Tara Mitchell my dog was four.

  “Was the dog carrying a license?” I asked, my anger still simmering. “How do they know how old it was?”

  “You’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Sonny,” Pierre said.

  “At the bottom of this is getting my dog back. That’s all,” I said. “I’ve got no interest in some kind of suburban intrigue swirling around ‘the woman in the red truck’ or even knowing one more thing about this goofy Grossett and whatever deal he might have with the dog pound.”

  “Well, I do!” Pierre said. “And Lou does. We’ll be your Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Sounds like these rescuers might rescue a dog from the edge of its own yard.”

  “You two go for it. And keep me posted,” I said. “I just want Cormac back home.” I told Pierre I wanted to take this one step at a time, with one goal in mind: find Cormac. And that the next step was a phone call to this Boulevard Animal Clinic, then Golden Love, a Golden Retriever ‘adoption’ agency in Connecticut.

  “Okay,” Pierre said, “let me leave you to your work.”

  What I learned at the clinic was pretty clinical, that they performed routine exams on “rescues” for a number of organizations, that they gave shots, neutered, and spayed. When I asked about the specific Golden Retriever they had on March 21, one week ago, they put me on hold, found the paperwork, then read to me from his chart, tellling me the dog was called Cognac. I had this flash that if this was Cormac, then there was at least some measure of familiarity for him in the name by which he was being called. It wasn’t much, but it gave me a bit of a lift.

  The dog they’d seen was a healthy young male. He was treated to a round of appropriate shots, neutered on the 21st and released on the 23rd to “authorized individuals” who processed him to the next step. Easy for you to say, I thought, but where’d they get their authority? I thanked the receptionist.

  I punched in the number for Golden Love and got a recording.

  “Thank you for calling Golden Love, an adoption agency for Golden Retrievers, and Golden Retriever-mixed dogs. Please leave a message, or call back to arrange an appointment to visit with one of our adoptable Goldens. We will return your call right away. You may drop in at our office at any time, of course, but our special dogs are not on the premises. They are in the loving care and keeping of temporary foster families while they wait to find their forever homes. Thank you and have a golden day.”

  The knot in my stomach did not digest well the syrupy sweet message on the phone. I chose not to leave a message and would call again in half an hour. I put away my cell phone and went to the front of the bookstore. Pierre was with a customer, showing an album page of baseball cards at the counter. I put my hand up as I walked past. He excused himself to the customer, and asked, “No luck?” He could read the answer on my face, but I still said no.

  “I’ll be back in a bit to catch up with Lou, see what happened on his second trip to the pound,” I said. “If he’s got the collar, that’ll end the speculation about whether or not Cormac’s in Connecticut.”

  I had promised Belle I’d let her know as soon as I found Cormac or got news of him. I decided to go to her clinic and talk to her. I sat in her waiting room, visiting with a big Old English Sheepdog, whose owner introduced him as Newton. After a few minutes, Belle stuck her head around the corner and invited me back. When I’d told her the whole story, all that I knew so far, I asked her a question. “What’s with shipping the dog to Connecticut?” I told her Grossett had used the phrase put through, to describe his handling of the dog he picked up.

  “That’s the problem, Sonny,” she said, and went on to tell me she didn’t think there were bad guys in this, no dog Nazis, she said. “I think you’re dealing with people overcome with zeal to rescue a certain breed. When they keep a dog from dying at a pound, that’s good, of course. But, there should be a matching effort to return dogs to their owners.” She told me the expense and effort to “process” dogs could also include trying to reunite lost dogs with owners.

  “I mean, look at this dog they ‘put through.’ He was sporting a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar collar,” Belle said. “Does that sound like an abandoned animal? But the rescue outfits never call me at the clinic. Not once has the likes of this Grossett fellow phoned us hoping to put a dog back with its owner. It really tees me off.” I’d never seen Belle so upset.

  “And why Connecticut?” I asked. “That’s a long ride for a dog from Alabama.”

  She told me she could only guess. “If they’ve got expensive fines for having pets that aren’t neutered or spayed, and, on the other hand, a breeder’s license is also expensive, then one consequence of those laws could be a shortage of some breeds. Maybe Golden Retrievers are a scarcity in Connecticut.”

  She told me I could research the internet for other ideas, but I told Belle I didn’t want to write a paper. “I just want my dog back.”

  I knelt to pet one of the office cats wandering around, a big Calico female. I looked up at Belle. “You know,” I said, “the woman on my road who thought she saw Cormac in the back of a red pickup also said she’d heard of people who will take a dog from its own yard and turn it over to a rescue network. Pierre has the idea that the driver of the red truck might be someone who collects dogs and turns them over to the pound.”

  “A person who would do that has some pretty serious problems,” Belle suggested. “Did you try to find out who was the owner of the red truck?”

  “No,” I said. “Not yet. But, I’ve seen a million red trucks this morning. I wouldn’t know where to start. Pierre said he and Lou will find her before they drop the case.”

  Belle smiled and held out her hand as I stood. She called my attention to the bulletin board behind me. Push-pinned there were more than a half-dozen flyers for missing dogs, even another Golden Retriever, last seen two months earlier. She told me she didn’t hold out a lot of hope for good results from flyers. Belle patted my shoulder. “You just stay on the trail of your dog,” she said. “That’s the best use of your time now.”

  I told her I thought she was right, and I had one more question. “The vet in Mobile doesn’t believe they had Cormac. They said the dog they saw had teeth too clean and white for a four-year old.”

  “Oh, poppycock,” she said. I’d never heard anyone say that except in movies. “Cormac had beautiful teeth because you fed him a proper diet and kept him supplied with chew toys. A dog’s teeth,” Belle said, “are a good tool for estimating age. Same with horses. But that’s all. This fellow with the shiny white teeth could still be Cormac.”

  Then she asked me if I was going to fly to Connecticut to identify the pooch.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If I have to I will. I’ll ask for some digital images, have them emailed to me tomorrow from this Golden Love agency. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any more certain it’s Cormac by looking at a picture than the vet can be certain of his age from looking at his teeth.”

  Belle agreed. Then she became more the doctor. “When you get him back—and I think you will, even if this isn’t him—you’ll bring him to the clinic and let me put a chip in him.” It wasn’t a question. She was giving me instructions. I told her I would without hesitation. She didn’t lecture me about having asked me once before to get Cormac chipped. Belle was gracious like that, probably knew this was on the list that added up to the load of remorse I felt.

  “Oh,” I said, getting up to go, “you know what name they used for the Golden they put through?”
She shook her head. “Cognac,” I said. “Doesn’t that sound suspiciously like Cormac? What really bothers me, Belle, is the possibility that the collar Tiffany Hale mentioned still had his ID tag on it. If someone read Cormac there, called him that and it was heard as Cognac, that would explain where they got the name. Right?”

  “Sounds like a fair call,” she said. “But who would have removed Cormac’s tag from the collar? And, why?”

  “Why I don’t know. Who could be anyone, even Tiffany at the pound. I don’t want to make accusations, but it bothers me, naturally, that someone could have also read my name and phone number on the other side of that tag and Cormac could have been spared all this.”

  “That would bother me, too,” she said.

  “Maybe even make you really angry?” I asked. Belle nodded. “And so am I. But, I’ll get over it when I get Cormac back with me.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  I THINK ABOUT CORMAC carted off by strangers. I think about those words on the cover of the book from Mr. Bennett: I will take care of you. I think of those words fading beneath some sorcerer’s wicked grin, his bony hand waving over the book. And if by magic I could know what was in Cormac’s head, it might go like this:

  There is pain, but there is not room inside this box to turn. I cannot lick the wound, but the pain is less each day, and so it will go soon. There are others like me, in other boxes like mine. It is dark inside here, and the box moves and shakes as we go. The one who feeds me and walks with me and calls out to me, the one to whom I run, he does not put me in a box. I could see him beside me when I rode before and I could see trees and the world and I could smell a thousand smells in one breath. When I rode before we would go and come back to my bed and bowl and the hand that put the food touched my head and his voice called in the morning. The hands and voices and the smells are not the same now. My muscles tremble and I wait.