4 Woof at the Door

by Leslie O'Kane

  Perfectly harmless. Those were the same words Larry Cunriff had used to describe his wolf. And I was equally skeptical about Beverly’s neighbors.

  I made a decision. Tomorrow I would make a thorough evaluation of Doobie, and of Ty and Cheshire’s ability to control him. If I still felt there was a serious possibility of someone getting hurt, I would notify animal control immediately. It would break my heart to play such a key role if the end result was that Doobie was put to sleep, but I would have no choice if Ty was unwilling to rein in Doobie’s deadly potential.

  The Atkinsons probably didn’t need me to warn them off of Doobie in the meantime, but there was no sense in taking chances. I trotted past my car and knocked on their door. This time, no wolf greeted me, but rather, Paige Atkinson. She flung her inner door open, put her hands on her hips, stared at me through the screen and demanded, “What?”

  The wolf had been more pleasant.

  “Mrs. Atkinson, we haven’t been introduced. I’m—”

  “I know who you are and what you do for a living. Why are you here?” Up close, I couldn’t help but notice how oddly shaped her nose was. It was thin until just above the nostrils, where it rounded out noticeably. Not unlike the long, skinny beakers we would heat over Bunsen burners in high school chemistry labs.

  “I just wanted to make sure you understood not to take Ty Bellingham’s threat about his dog too lightly. I’m going to—”

  “Oh, please!” Paige said, giving her dark hair a haughty flip. “That dog is every bit as impotent as his owner. He’d never actually attack a human being.” She looked me up and down. “I’m surprised that, as a dog psychologist, you couldn’t recognize that for yourself. You musn’t be very good at your job.”

  She shut the door on me.

  Chapter 5

  “I hate these people!” I said under my breath as I marched down the sidewalk to my car. Poor Beverly, having to live in this neighborhood! And to think, she’d summoned me because of a barking dog. Noisy animals were one thing, a minor irritant that can be resolved. Bitter, hateful humans were quite another matter. Beverly’s house may be lovely, large, and expensive, but give me my mom and her little ranch-style house out in the sticks of Berthoud any day.

  As I got into my car, I glanced toward the mountains, where huge gray clouds now loomed, rapidly overtaking the sky. My appointment was on the southwest side of Boulder with a seven-year-old yellow Labrador named, ironically enough, Sunshine, who was afraid of thunder. This fairly common problem is one of the hardest behavior problems to cure, and Boulder has more thunderstorms than any place in the country. To make things worse, Devil’s Thumb, the pricey neighborhood in the foothills where this Labrador was located, tended to get the very worst of the storm fronts. Last fall, Sunshine had been in the room when a windstorm had caused one of their large picture windows to implode. Since then, Sunshine had jumped through windows twice, desperately and blindly trying to “escape” from the storm.

  I arrived at Sunshine’s house and spoke to her sweet, elderly owners. As I’d predicted, the desensitization program we were using was meeting with only partial success. I’d given Sunshine’s owners an audio tape of thunderstorms, which they were playing at increasing volumes, counterconditioning Sunshine by offering her treats when the taped noises began. We needed a good month or two without full exposure to a storm for the treatment to work, but we didn’t have that luxury. I’d decided to try a homeopathic treatment as well and came armed today with phosphorous pellets.

  A thunderstorm began just a few minutes after I arrived. Sunshine went berserk, and her owners opted for the pellets. I showed them how to drop the pellets into the back of Sunshine’s throat, the important aspect being to “wear gloves when handling the phosphorous” and “radiate confidence” when handling the dog. Sunshine was drooling and an emotional wreck after the first dose, but calmed down after the second.

  By the end of our appointment, Sunshine’s owners were singing my praises—enthusiasm which I tempered with warnings about relapses and a rehash of instructions for how they should do this on their own next time.

  As I pushed out the door, they thanked me profusely, which normally made me feel better than it did now. Although the storm front had passed and the sky was clearing, my mind was clouded with thoughts of Doobie and Sammy, and with the inexplicable behaviors of their human counterparts.

  By now, I had so many things to think about that my head was spinning. Next I wanted to drop into my office and call Damian Hesk, even if I’d only be able to leave a message. No doubt, my tattle-telling wouldn’t sit well with Hank Atkinson, but then, his breeding a wolf without the owner’s knowledge didn’t sit well with me.

  To my surprise, Russell Greene was leaning against my cherry-red Subaru. His Volvo was directly behind my car, which I’d parked in the circle a short distance from my clients’ home. I wasn’t expecting to see him and had no idea how he’d found me here.

  I’d become more and more physically attracted to Russell over the last several weeks that we’d been dating. I now thought of him as possessing a “compact” build, rather than his being short—and my being guilty of the pot calling the kettle black. He was five-six, with shiny dark brown eyes and hair, and he’d recently shaved his mustache, after I’d told him that I wasn’t especially fond of it. He was wearing dark shorts and Birkenstocks, and a light yellow Izod shirt, but he’d stitched a cloth Band-Aid over the alligator. Although he’d explained to me the last time he wore this shirt that the Band-Aid was to avoid the preppy look, to me it just looked as if he were announcing an injured nipple. But it was his shirt, not mine.

  “Surprise,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Hi. Weren’t you going to go rock-climbing this afternoon?” This was an avid hobby of his that held no interest for me, but then, my acrophobia balanced my love for dogs, which he did not share. His loss, of course.

  He looped his arms around my waist and kissed me. I felt the familiar and wonderful stirrings and quickening of my heartbeat whenever he held me. “Yeah, but I cancelled. It’s our three-month anniversary. I thought we’d get an early start celebrating.”

  “Three months?”

  “Since our first date. Remember? The basketball game in Denver?”

  “Of course I remember.’ I ran my hands over the bumpy fabric of his shirt, taking care to avoid the Band-Aid, and teased, “The Nuggets won easily. The final score was ninety-eight to seventy-six.”

  He chuckled and brushed an errant lock of hair back from my forehead. “And is that all you remember about our first date?”

  I shrugged. “What else was there? Like the fact you were wearing jeans, a white Oxford shirt, and a red tie? That you bought me a hot dog, popcorn and a flat Pepsi? That you impressed me with how insightful you were as we discussed why we were both still single? That you wanted to meet my cocker spaniel afterwards and were appalled when I told you that I also own a German shepherd?”

  He merely chuckled again, his eyes riveted to mine, his breath warm against my cheeks.

  “Who notices stuff like that?” I continued. “I was just into watching the game.”

  “I see.” Russell was still smiling, but for the first time in my recent memory, he was blushing. He dropped his gaze, which drew my attention to his sexy, thick lashes, and said shyly, “So, can I maybe convince you to come over to my place now? We’ve got six hours till our softball game tonight, and that might be just enough time for what I have in mind.”

  Automatically, I stiffened and pulled away slightly. It was all I could do not to blurt out an “Oh, shit!” at Russell’s unfortunate timing. We’d discussed the fact that neither of us were the bed-hopping type, and, furthermore, I’d told Russell straight out that I would never sleep with someone I wasn’t also seriously considering spending my life with, which was why I’d had only two lovers and was single at age thirty-two. Such an old-fashioned stance tends to cut down on one’s repeat dates. But Russell was such a great guy and had bee
n so loving toward me that lately, I’d recently admitted to myself that I might be ready. Soon. Just not now when I had my mind full of wolves and potentially vicious dogs.

  Russell studied my expression, and his face fell. “I knew you’d say no.”

  “I’m not saying no. I’m just saying not yet. I can’t right now. I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

  “Really?” His tone sounded disbelieving. “Because I called your mother, and she told me this was your last appointment for the day.”

  “Since when did you stop taking me at my word and start double-checking with my mother?” I straightened and grabbed my keys out of the front pocket of my dark blue slacks. “It’s true that I don’t have any more appointments, but I do have phone calls to make, and I need to put my thoughts together regarding a new client.”

  “I could go back to the office with you and wait.”

  Though he was an electrical engineer and our professions were vastly different, we shared as office suite in downtown Boulder. That was how we’d met. Last April, I’d answered his ad for office space in the Boulder Daily Camera.

  “That would be too distracting. I’d better go. I’ll see you at the softball game.” He looked so disappointed, it was painful to meet his gaze. My annoyance with him instantly evaporated. “Sorry, Russ. It’s been a weird day.”

  “Plus, you don’t want to share your troubles with me. Whenever things go wrong for you, you pull into yourself and push me away.”

  I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Wait a minute. Wasn’t it supposed to be the guy-thing to withdraw within one’s cave and the gal-thing to want to talk endlessly about feelings? If this was “life as a guy,” it was no fun. Nor was the female’s role of feeling shut out. This is why I prefer communicating with dogs, rather than people. Dogs live in the moment. People aren’t even necessarily experiencing their current location or whomever they’re with, let alone the particular moment in time.

  “Russell,” I began, my voice even to my own ear much sterner than I’d intended, “it’s the middle of the afternoon, and weekends are my busiest time. I just…wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. I’m sure if I followed you to one of your meetings with your clients, you’d feel the same way.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be thrilled. But you just don’t feel the same way about me that I do about you.”

  Oh, damn it all! I was thrilled. Not in the set-off-firecrackers, throw-me-on-the-floor way, but still. Did I have to explain myself? Right when I was looking at possible lawsuits myself as the “trainer” of a borderline killer dog? “Don’t do this right now, Russell. Please.”

  The muscles in Russell’s jaw were working. “I’m crowding you, aren’t I? Sorry. You’d think I’d learn.”

  He threw open his car door, got in, then drove off without another word.

  I got into my car and headed back to my office, alone. What had just happened here? Was this my fault? Had Russ backed me into a corner that I was defending just as vociferously as the Samoyed?

  Maybe it had just been too long between romances for me. Everything felt so forced and out of sync all of a sudden.

  After an hour in my office, all I had to show for it was one phone call to Damian Hesk—I’d left a message on his machine—and a lot of pointless ruminating. I’d tried to call various dog-rescue places in Nevada as well, but gave up after ten minutes on hold at the third attempt. Truth is, I wanted to keep my phone line open, just in case Russell called, having already gotten his machine several times.

  There was something to be said for the canine style of this whole mating ritual. Sammy could just back her rear end against a wall and tell Kaia, “Hey. I don’t care if you’re a wolf. You’re too late, buster.” And you certainly weren’t going to see her pining that “Doobie never calls. He never brings me flowers.” Nor, for that matter, do female dogs go eight years or so till they finally choose to send out some come-hither signals.

  The phone rang. I snatched up the handset as the first ring had barely sounded. The moment I said hello, a distraught woman’s voice said, “Allida? Thank God. This is Beverly. Some terrible dog fight is going on next door. Please come help.”

  “A dog fight?” I repeated, rising and grabbing my keys. “In Ty’s yard?”

  “No, inside their house. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. I don’t know for sure. There are all these…snarls and whines. I heard shouts, too.”

  “Shouts? Do you think Ty is home?”

  “I don’t know.” Beverly was so upset, I could barely understand her, but she continued, “Cheshire’s van is gone. I tried to call over there, but there was no answer. Maybe I should go knock on the door.”

  If Ty was in the midst of some dog fight between Doobie and some other unfortunate canine, I doubted he’d take the time to answer the door. “I’ll get out there as fast as I can, but by then, it’ll probably be over.” Dog fights usually only last a few minutes. I hung up, grabbed two of my sturdiest leads and choke collars, and bolted through the door and into my car.

  I drove as fast as I could without being a menace, all the while wondering what I hoped to accomplish. Even if the fight was still going on by the time I arrived, it was extremely risky to try to break up a dog fight. Invariably, the person gets badly bitten in the process, and if both dogs were large, I’d be physically unable to separate them. The best course of action was to startle the dogs—drop a platter right next to them—and work like mad to get the dogs separated and under control in the second or two that followed.

  When I pulled into the driveway, Paige Atkinson was pacing on the Bellinghams’ front porch. Still wearing her peach-colored pants suit, she rushed toward me as I got of my car, bringing the leashes with me. “You need to go in there! A few minutes ago, I think I heard Ty cry for help!”

  “Did you call the police?”

  She shook her head, all the while sputtering, “I didn’t know what to do. Then Beverly told me you were on your way.” It was surprising that these two women could even communicate that much to each other, but Paige continued without hesitation, “She’s waiting for you by Ty’s back door. Something’s terribly wrong. I think Sammy might be in there.”

  “Your Samoyed? But how can that be? She can’t jump the fence in her condition.”

  “Nevertheless, she’s missing.”

  “Is Hank home?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain he didn’t take the dog with him?”

  “No, but he was so upset today, he said he was going to bring her over to the Bellinghams’. That they could take care of her and the pups till they were born.”

  What an idiot! This couple deserved one another! “I’ll see what I can do.” There were no noises whatsoever emanating from inside the house now. “How long has it been quiet like this?”

  She gestured at me to hurry to the back yard. “I don’t know! Just get Sammy out of there!”

  The heck with my ex-husband; just save my dog. I opened the gate and trotted around the house to the backyard. I understood the sentiment, but for heaven’s sake! She’d heard the man call for help!

  Beverly was sitting on the redwood deck by the dog door, rocking herself, her face drained of all color. “Beverly? Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t fit through the dog door. There’s blood everywhere. Fight’s over. I keep hearing this noise. Whining and scratching sounds. I think one of the dogs got locked in a closet.”

  “That means somebody has to be home.” I had visions of Ty Bellingham badly injured and collapsing as he finally managed to get one of the dogs closed off in a separate room. If one dog was in a closet, a second dog could be loose and in a crazed state, and might attack the first person who went inside.

  Beverly shook her head, still apparently in shock. She was wearing work boots, shorts, and an orange blouse over her T-shirt that made her unkempt blond hair look reddish. “Paige and I were banging on both doors. Nobody answered.”

  “
What about the shouts you heard? Paige said she thought she heard a man cry for help a little while ago. Ty could be in there, passed out from blood loss.”

  She just shook her head again. “All that blood.”

  I was really losing my patience. “Did you call the police, Beverly? Didn’t anybody call the police?”

  My question snapped Beverly out of her numbed state. “Paige told me she was calling! Just before I came back here and tried to get through the dog door.”

  “She told me she didn’t call!” I cried in exasperation. “Damn it! Ty could be in there bleeding to death while we’re out here bickering about whose going to call nine-one-one! I’ll go in and use Ty’s phone!”

  I pushed the little plastic flap fully open. From my position flat on the deck, I could see that there were indeed blood splatters all over the kitchen floor, which grew ever denser farther from the door. My vision, however, was blocked by the kitchen island.

  Keeping a tight grip on the dog leashes, I got my arms, head, and finally shoulders through the door, which was a tight fit, the thick fabric of my teal-colored T-shirt snagging in the process. I needed to move quickly. I was absolutely defenseless in this position and would look like prey to a dog inside. This was as risky an entrance as I could possibly make. As Beverly had described, I could now clearly hear the sounds of a dog straining to escape some inner confines of the house.

  While I was halfway in, Beverly said, “Allida. Be careful.”

  I made it inside and stood up, surveying the gruesome scene around me with as much detachment as I could muster. Blood splatters and paw prints had come from the other side of the kitchen island. Almost unwillingly, I followed the crimson trail toward the beaded entranceway. I had to grab onto the countertop for support at the horrific vision at its other side. I had never seen so much blood in my life, and I felt woozy.

  It was Ty. He was now wearing a long black wig instead of his blond one. He was bare chested and barefoot, wearing only his bell-bottoms. He was on his side, curled in the fetal position. His exposed cheek sported three bright red, finger-wide marks that appeared to be grease paint. It was as if Ty’s features had been graced with Indian war paint.