by Tom Schreck
“I know what to do,” I said out loud but really just to myself.
“I’m going to find Cappy’s god damn gloves.”
I left his room and headed down the hall passing the lounge area. I noticed the smell again and somehow it seemed to get stronger. Maybe that was because I was coming up to the lounge area where a bunch of the folks had gathered. There were now some volunteers there who had brought in a couple of dogs. One was a golden retriever and the other was one of those little furry yippy dogs that I didn’t know what to call. They had scarves that said “Therapy Dog” around their necks and they were going from resident to resident to get petted and to get treats. The old folks were laughing and their eyes were bright as the dogs made their rounds. It was the first cool thing I saw at this nursing home.
I went looking for the security office to find out about Cappy’s gloves. Heading down a long corridor I took a series of right hand turns that brought me past the administrative wing where my seminar was still going on and past a storeroom and a kitchen. At the end of the hall was the security office.
There was a door with a window and there were two guys sitting in front of a series of monitors. They had MacDonald’s wrappers in front of them and they were laughing about something. I knocked and left myself in.
“Can I help you, sir?” the taller one said. He was about thirty-five and big with the build of a guy who played football a long time ago and hasn’t done much since. The other was a wiry guy with a flat top who had the look of a guy who was desperately trying to look like a cop.
“Yeah, I’m a friend of Mr. Cappielli in 117. His boxing gloves were stolen and—” the wiry guy didn’t let me finish.
“Sir, we appreciate your concern but many of our residents have dementia and they throw things out or lose them and then make all sorts of crazy claims,” he said.
“He wouldn’t have thrown out these gloves,” I said.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Are you a relative of this man?”
“No, I’m—” again he didn’t let me finish.
“Are you an employee?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t actually fill out a missing goods report. But rest assured we’ll look into it,” he said and gave me a dismissive smile.
“Will that be before or after your next trip to the drive thru?” I said.
The wiry guy stood up and rubbed his knuckles while giving me a stare that I was sure was supposed to make me quiver. “Is there anything else, sir?” he said. I stood there for a while but I couldn’t think of anything cool to say and he hadn’t really given me enough reason to hit him yet, which was too bad. I turned and headed out. I was too pissed off to go back to the office and I had made up my mind to get those gloves back, I just didn’t have any idea how.
Back at my place I came through the front door and there was Al asleep in the old leather recliner that he loved so much. So much in fact, that he had eaten the leather off both the arms until they were down to the raw wood. It wasn’t bad enough that I lived in a trailer; Al had to make sure that he gave my décor his own special touch.
Al roused himself and ran over to greet me by jumping on me. I’ve learned to receive his affection carefully because at Al’s height when he jumps on you if you’re not careful you’ll wind up singing soprano in the choir. He was confused about my early arrival and this got him excited. He sniffed me all over and then sniffed his way down to the carpet and let his nose take him all through the trailer. Inevitably these searches led him to his food dish.
I sat on the recliner and couldn’t think of anything constructive that would help Cap. I leaned back in the chair and hoped something would come to me. As usual, my concentration was interrupted by my roommate who bounded into the room with one of my boxing shoes. I’d only worn them once, they were all leather and they had the Irish and Polish flags on them. They cost me $300 and Al had ripped off the Irish flag and was going to town on it.
“Al! God damn it, give me—” I didn’t get to finish.
He ran out of the room and through the trailer. He loved this type of game and he did what he always did and ducked under a coffee table with my shoe between his front paws. The worst part was that I had to give him a treat to release my shoe.
I traded the treat for the shoe and I had gotten there too late. It was all mangled and messed up and covered with Basset spit.
“Shit Al—How do you even find this stuff!” I yelled at him while he cheerfully gnawed on the biscuit I gave him. “It’s like you got freakin’ sonar for—”
I didn’t finish. I didn’t have time too. I had just figured out how to get Cappy’s gloves back. “C’mon Al, let’s go. You’ve just become a therapy dog,” I said.
We made it over to the home in twenty minutes. I had Al on a leash and I was doing my very best to have the look and attitude of a dog therapist. Actually, now that I thought about it, the title “Dog Therapist” would be Al’s. I guess that made me “Dog Therapist Companion” or “Dog Therapist Aide.” Something told me Al would’ve preferred the latter.
I smiled at the old woman at the front desk. Her name tag said “Marsha.”
“We were with the Dog Therapy program,” I said, mustering as much Dog Therapy attitude as I could.
“Which one?” Marsha said.
“Which one? What ya mean which one?”
“We have several groups licensed by TDI.”
“TDI?”
“Therapy Dog International.”
“Oh, of course. I’ve always known it by its other name.”
Marsha gave me a look. “Its other name?” she said.
“ITDI, International Therapy Dog International,” I said.
“Oh.” she said. Marsha seemed less than convinced.
“We’re the new outfit...uh...made up exclusively of Los Basket Hounds of Normandy. This is our first visit here and we’re in an evaluation period to see if your home meets our standards.”
“Your dog is a Basket Hound?”
“Off course, from the French province of Normandy.”
“Did you say Basket Hound?”
“Yes.”
“I though they were Basset Hounds.”
“Sure they are...in America...” I was starting to panic just a bit.
“Does Janet know you’re here?”
“Of course. That Jan is quite a kick” I gave a fake laugh.
“You know she has colon cancer.”
“Hasn’t made her any less of a kick though, God lover her,” I said.
This wasn’t going so well.
Meanwhile, as I had begun to sign in I dropped the leash and Al had waddled away from me. He was sniffing around the rubber plants and it dawned on me that he was very likely to pull an AJ’s in the lobby of this nursing home.
“Do you and the Basket Hound have any ID?”
I was looking over my shoulder as Al buried his nose in the rubber plant. He loved to smell new things and he got a little too excited and knocked the plant over spreading the potting soil all over the carpet.
“Alphonse!” I yelled. I don’t know why I called him Alphonse, it just came out. When I get to lying it takes over and “Al” didn’t seem to have enough dignity for a “Basket Hound of Normandy.”
Al was startled and looked up at me and furrowed his brow as if to say, “What the hell did you call me?” He wrinkled his forehead at me some more and then shook his head as if to say, “Damn, Duffy is an asshole.” Then before anyone could do anything he relieved himself on the topsoil that had spilled on the carpet.
“Oh that’s just wonderful. Now I’ll have to smell muddy dog urine all day long,” Marsha said and slammed her pen down.
“You know, if you don’t have any ID I’m going to –”
Two residents in wheel chairs came into the lobby. Al raised his head and out of his excitement and love for humanity he charged them to make their acquaintance. It probably would’ve been okay but Al went airborne and flew into the lap o
f this frail little old lady. I ran to help but it was too late. Al was sitting on her lap stirring around and was lapping at the old woman’s face. She was giggling and kissing him back and something told me that she hadn’t been this alive in a while. Unfortunately, during Al’s landing he disconnected some sort of tube that was hooked up to the old lady and there was now a smelly liquid spilling on to the carpet.
“That’s no Therapy Dog!” Marsha yelled.
I decided Marsha and I were just never going to be friends and I thought it might be best to not waste any more time. I extricated Al from the little old lady who smiled and said, “I used to have a Basket Hound.”
I smiled back and pointed Al in the direction of Cap’s room. Al was pulling on his leash like crazy, intoxicated with the plethora of organic smells in the home and I started to trot him to Cappy’s room. Al likes to do a little roadwork and soon we were going at a good pace through the nursing home.
We got to the room and Cappy was still in bed just as we left him this morning. The Mexican lady was there.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He isn’t talking and he doesn’t respond to anyone who talks to him. He’s never been like this.”
I shook Cappy by the shoulder and called his name but he didn’t respond. I began to feel silly about my plan but I had come this far and I decided to see things through. I hoisted Al up, nearly spraining every muscle in my back, and he torqued from side to side. Al didn’t care for being lifted up but I did my best to get him to sniff around Cappy’s bed. It took a little time and I could see his olfactory computer boot up. The Nation had trained their little brother well.
I lifted Al back to the ground, grabbed his snout and looked him right in the eye. “Go find!” I said. Al knew what that meant and he immediately put his smeller to the carpet. Hopefully the scent of Cap’s gloves registered with Al and that he was programming his smell-o-meter to sniff them out. Of course, Al might take me to where they launder dirty sheets, or to where Cap kept his dirty socks or where ever his scent went.
Al started out around Cap’s closet and then spent some time in his chair and a lot of time by his sneakers. He hesitated for a second, looked up, sniffed the air, put his nose back down and headed out of the room.
He walked steadily down the corridor with his nose pressed to where the wall met the floor. Every few steps he’d hesitate, lift his snout in the air, and then ponder things. Then, it was back down to gather more information. Sometimes Al would break into a trot, other times he’d spin around and go where he’d just been. Right now, he was picking up speed and was on to something. Who knows what he was on to but whatever it was I was hoping he would get to it soon and before Marsha had gotten a hold of the security force. I kind of figured that Marsha was the type to hold a grudge.
We were in the administrative wing snaking our way around right turns and headed toward the kitchen. The kitchen was filled with smells and I wasn’t confident that Al wasn’t tracking me to tonight’s Salisbury steak dinner. He turned, though and bolted left, away from the kitchen and we were headed straight for the security office. That wasn’t going to be to my advantage but there was no stopping Al at this point.
Just before the security office he ducked down a short corridor that lead to an alarmed emergency exit. Al picked up momentum and began to hum and then growl. The growl started to escalate, Al was getting hard to control and he broke into a full sprint. I lost my grip and he was on his own headed for the emergency door.
Al jumped and attacked the door bouncing it open and smashing it against the side of the building. Immediately alarms and sirens and lights went off along with recorded announcements. I sprinted to catch up with Al and as I got through the threshold I saw the object of Al’s obsession.
Al was in a dead run, with his ears flapping violently, toward the wiry security guard. The guard was walking to his pickup truck and was carrying a big box with “paper goods” written on the side. Al was at full speed and calling to him did no good. He was closing fast.
The security guard turned and gasped at the blur of black, brown and white heading for him. The guard froze for an instant and then tried to run but the awkwardness of the big box kept him from going very far. Al was within a few feet of him when he went airborne uttering this horrible, guttural growl that was only muffled by a mouthful of the security guard’s ass.
Al was working his jaws violently like the guy’s ass was one of the arms of my recliner. The guy was screaming in pain when Al stopped and ran to the box. He ripped open the top and buried his face in it. Out came a couple of sweaters, a quilt and then an old pair of musty boxing gloves. Al managed to get the string that connected the two gloves between his teeth and sprinted right back inside the home.
The now very pissed off guard was on his feet and bleeding from the ass but he had gotten something off his belt. It wasn’t a gun, it was one of those tazer things and he was running toward me screaming like a banshee.
I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think. The guy charged directly toward me and I could see the blue arc of electrical current shining between the electrodes. He cocked his arm to hit me and that’s where he made his mistake. Instead of letting the electricity do the work for him he let instinct take over and he wound up for some extra force. That was all I needed.
I stepped inside his arms and snapped a good firm jab thats power was doubled by the fact that he was rushing in on me. I felt more than heard the familiar crackle of cartilage on my knuckles and felt it spread across the back of my hand and down my wrist. After that came the almost as familiar “Uff” of a forced exhale followed by the squealing and moaning that goes with a broken nose.
“What the hell is going on?” I turned and saw the ex-football security cop. He had a baton in his hand and was looking at me. The alarms and flashing lights caused a chaotic scene.
“Whoa, take it easy,” I said and raised my hands to show I meant no threat. “I think we know who’s been ripping off the old people.”
He had a confused look on his face. He looked at his partner who was writhing on the ground trying to contain the blood flow from his nose and not doing a very good job of it. I nodded at the spilled box of belongings and the security cop got it.
“Ah geez...” was all he said. He shook his head. “What the hell was he thinking?”
“Yeah, I’ll say,” I said. “Look, I gotta find my dog. Okay if I go?”
He just nodded. As the adrenaline began to subside it was replaced with several layers of panic. One layer was that I had no idea where Al was. If he caught the scent of something interesting he’d chase it forever—especially if he thought he could eat it. Second, he had Cappy’s gloves and they were leather and smelly so there was a good chance that he’d be off someplace eating them or maybe worse, hiding them forever.
I took off running through the home, passing some local cops who were on their way with yet another security guard to clean up the mess I had just left. I ran back through the winding corridors and past the kitchen. Somewhere in the nursing home I could here Al’s barking and as my ears picked it up I realized he was barking a lot. The panic got worse and I was praying that Al was all right.
I was coming up on Cappy’s room and the barking got closer. I whipped around through Cappy’s threshold and hoped for the best.
Cappy was shadowboxing in the mirror with his back to me. Al was on Cap’s bed cheering him on, barking louder and faster with every combination the old pro threw.
I was hyperventilating and could barely get any words out. “Cappy!...CAPPY!...Hey, CAPPY!” I finally was able to yell at the top of my lungs. The old man turned around and on his fists were two of the oldest, most beaten up gloves
I’ve ever seen. Al barked again and Cappy smiled at him. “Who the hell are you?” Cappy said. He was covered in sweat.
“It’s me Cap, Duffy. Duff Dombrowski. I used to—”
“Look Duffy Whateverthehellyour name is—I got no time for you. I’m gett
ing ready to spar with Willie Pep.” With that he turned around and went back to shadow boxing in the mirror. Al went back to barking.
I leaned against the wall and watched the 91-year-old featherweight throw the sweetest combinations I’ve ever seen.
It was also the first time I’ve ever seen a Basset Hound, or basket hound for that matter, work as a corner man. I took it in for a couple of minutes until the Mexican lady came in.
“Hey, look at Cappy!’ she said. “What the heck happened?”
“He’s back in training, that’s all,” I said. “The dog is making too much noise. You gotta take him home.” I went over and grabbed Al by the leash.
“You know, only therapy dogs are allowed here. Is he a therapy dog?” she said.
“I’ll say,” I said. “C’mon pal, this guy’s got training to do,” I said.
I couldn’t help smiling from ear to ear. It had been a long day and it was time to go home. I was tired, I wanted a beer and I wanted to sit down. When we got in the El Dorado and Elvis kicked into Memories it dawned on me that I had one more stop to make on the way home.
I had to go to the grocery store. We were out of sardines.
* * *
Cute and innocent;
the trouble they get into
can be forgiven!—Ginny Tata-Phillips
Photo Hannah by Rick Phillips
* * *
Al and the Clicker
By Tom
“You click it and the dog learns to obey,” TC had brought this thing he called a “Clicker” into AJ’s. It was a late Saturday afternoon in June. The Yankees were on the TV and the rest of the Foursome were in their designated seats, Al included.
