2
Betty opened an Earl Grey teabag and dropped it in a porcelain mug that was still in one piece. As she poured the steaming water over it, she just shook her head. “Love your neighbor, bah humbug,” she muttered as she went to the dining room. This was the spot where she normally enjoyed her afternoon cup of tea and looked out into her yard as the afternoon light came through the branches of the old maple tree. But she had barely sat down by the sliding glass door when she glimpsed a streak of blackish fur darting across her backyard like a hairy little demon. She blinked, then stood to peer out the window. “What in tarnation?”
There, hoisting his leg next to her beloved dogwood tree, a tree she’d nurtured and babied for years in a shady corner of her yard, was a scruffy-looking blackish-brown dog. At least she thought it was a dog. But it was a very ugly dog and not one she’d seen in the neighborhood before, although she couldn’t be certain that it was a stray. With each passing year, it became harder and harder to keep track of people and pets.
She opened the sliding door and stepped out. “Shoo, shoo!” she called out. The dog looked at her with startled eyes as he lowered his leg, but he didn’t run. “Go away,” she yelled, waving her arms to scare him out of her yard. “Go home, you bad dog!” She clapped her hands and stomped her feet, and she was just about to either give up or throw something (perhaps the stupid dog was deaf and very dumb) when he took off running. He made a beeline straight for the fallen-down fence, neatly squeezing beneath the gap where fence boards had broken off, and escaped into Jack Jones’s yard—just like he lived there!
“Well, of course,” she said as she shut the door, locked it, and pulled her drapes closed. She picked up her teacup and went into the living room. “A mongrel dog for a mongrel man. Why should that surprise me in the least?”
She sat down in her favorite rocker-recliner and pondered her situation. What could possibly be done? How could she manage to survive not merely her loutish neighbor but his nasty little dog as well? It almost seemed as if Jack had sent the dog her way just to torture her some more. If a person couldn’t feel comfortable and at home in their own house, what was the point of staying? What was keeping her here?
It was as if the writing were on the wall—a day of reckoning. Betty knew what she would do. She would sell her house and move away. That was the only way out of this dilemma. She wondered why she hadn’t considered this solution last summer, back when Jack had first taken occupancy in the Spencer home. Didn’t houses sell better in the warmer months? But perhaps it didn’t matter. Still, she wasn’t sure it made much sense to put up a For Sale sign during the holidays. Who would be out house shopping with less than two weeks before Christmas?
“Christmas . . .” She sighed, then sipped her lukewarm tea. How could it possibly be that time of year again? And what did she need to do in preparation for it? Or perhaps she didn’t need to do anything. Who would really care if she baked cookies or not? Who would even notice if she didn’t get out her old decorations? Christmas seemed like much ado about nothing. Oh, she didn’t think the birth of Christ was nothing. But all the hullabaloo and overspending and commercialism that seemed to come with the holiday these days . . . When had it gone from being a wholesome family celebration to a stressful, jam-packed holiday that left everyone totally exhausted and up to their eyeballs in debt when it was over and done?
Betty used to love Christmastime. She would begin planning for it long in advance. Even the year that Chuck had died suddenly and unexpectedly just two days after Thanksgiving, Betty had somehow mustered the strength to give her children a fairly merry Christmas. They’d been grade schoolers at the time and felt just as confused and bereaved as she had. Still, she had known it was up to her to put forth her best effort. And so, shortly after the funeral, Betty had worn a brave smile and climbed up the rickety ladder to hang colorful strings of Christmas lights on the eaves of the house, “just like Daddy used to do.” And then she got and decorated a six-foot fir tree, baked some cookies, wrapped a few gifts . . . all for the sake of her children. Somehow they made it through Christmas that year. And the Christmases thereafter.
When her son Gary was old enough (and taller than Betty), he eagerly took over the task of hanging lights on the house. And Susan happily took over the trimming of the tree. Each year the three of them would gather in the kitchen to bake all sorts of goodies, and then they would deliver festive cookie platters to everyone in the neighborhood. It became an expected tradition. And always their threesome family was lovingly welcomed into neighbors’ homes, often with hot cocoa and glad tidings.
But times had changed since then. Betty had taken cookie platters to only a couple of neighbors last year. And perhaps this year she would take none. What difference would it make?
Betty set her empty tea mug aside and leaned back in her recliner. She reached down to pull out the footrest and soon felt herself drifting to sleep. She wished that she, like Rip Van Winkle, could simply close her eyes and sleep, sleep, sleep. She’d be perfectly happy if she were able to sleep right through Christmas. And then January would come, and she would figure out a way to sell this house and get out of this neighborhood. She would escape that horrid Jack Jones as well as the ugly mutt that most likely intended to turn her backyard into a doggy dump site.
3
A little before seven on Monday morning, Betty woke to the sound of someone trying to break into her house. At least that was what it sounded like to her. She got out of bed and pulled on her old chenille robe, then reached for the cordless phone as she shoved her feet into her slippers. Some people, like her friend Marsha, would’ve been scared to death by something like this, but Betty had lived alone for so many years that she’d long since given up panic attacks. Besides, they weren’t good for one’s blood pressure.
But the screen door banged again, and she knew that someone was definitely on her porch. And so she shuffled out of her bedroom and peered through the peephole on the front door. But try as she might, she saw no one. Then she heard a whimpering sound and knew that it was an animal. Perhaps a raccoon or a possum, which often wandered into the neighborhood. She knew it could be dangerous, so she cautiously opened the front door. She quickly reached out to hook the screen door firmly before she looked down to see that it wasn’t a raccoon or possum. It was that scruffy dog again. Jack Jones’s mongrel. The dog crouched down, whimpering, and despite Betty’s bitter feelings toward her neighbor, she felt a tinge of pity for the poor, dirty animal. And Betty didn’t even like dogs.
“Go home, you foolish thing,” she said. “Go bother your owner.”
The dog just whined.
Betty knelt down with the screen still between her and the dog. “Go home,” she said again. “Shoo!”
But the dog didn’t budge. And now Betty didn’t know what to do. So she closed the door and just stood there. If she knew Jack’s phone number, she would call him and complain. But she didn’t. She suspected the dog was hungry and cold, but she had no intention of letting the mongrel into her house. He looked as if he’d been rolling in the mud, and she’d just cleaned her floors on Saturday. But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to feed him a bit. Who knew when Jack had last given him a meal?
She went to look in her refrigerator, trying to determine what a hungry dog might eat. Finally, she decided on lunch meat. She peeled off several slices of processed turkey, then cautiously unlocked and opened the screen door just wide enough for her hand to slip out and toss the slices onto the porch. The dog was on them in seconds.
Betty went to her bedroom and took her time getting dressed, hoping that Jack’s mutt would be gone by the time she finished. Perhaps he would beg food from another neighbor. But when she went to check her porch, he was still there. So she went to the laundry room and found a piece of clothesline to use as a leash.
“I hope you’re friendly,” she said. She bent over, hoping to tie the cord to the mutt’s collar. But the dog had no collar. Instead he had a piece of string tied
tightly around his neck. What kind of cruel gesture was that? She broke the dirty string and fashioned a looser sort of collar from the clothesline cord, looping it around his neck. To her relief, the mutt didn’t make it difficult, didn’t growl, didn’t pull away. He simply looked up at her with sad brown eyes.
She stepped down from the porch and said, “Come!” The dog obeyed, walking obediently beside her. “Well, at least Jack has taught you some obedience,” she said as she headed down the footpath to the sidewalk. “I’m taking you home now.” Then she turned and marched down the sidewalk toward Jack’s house. But now she wasn’t so sure. What if this wasn’t Jack’s dog?
“Hello, Betty,” Katie Gilmore called out. She stepped away from where the school bus had just picked up her twin girls. “How are you today?”
Betty smiled. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Katie frowned down at the dog, then lowered her voice. “Does that dog belong to, uh, Jack Jones?”
“That’s what I assume,” Betty said. “I saw him in Jack’s backyard yesterday.”
“Yes, I noticed him over there too.” Katie looked uneasy. “I hadn’t known Jack had a dog. I hope he’s friendly.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot we don’t know about Jack.” Betty forced a wry smile as she looked down at the dog. “But the dog seems to be friendly enough.”
Katie frowned at the animal. “Poor thing.”
Betty suspected Katie meant “poor thing” in relation to having Jack Jones as an owner. Everyone knew that Katie’s husband, Martin, had experienced a bit of go-around with Jack last summer. Quiet Martin Gilmore had walked over and politely asked Jack to turn down his music one day. But according to Penny Horton, who’d been home at the time, Martin had been answered with a raised power tool and some rough language.
“Are you taking the dog to Jack’s house?” Katie glanced over her shoulder toward the shabby-looking house.
“Yes. And I intend to give him a piece of my mind too.”
Katie’s brows arched. “Oh . . .” Then she reached in her coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Want me to stick around, just in case?”
Betty wanted to dismiss Katie’s offer as unnecessary, but then reconsidered. “I suppose that’s not a bad idea.”
“He can be a little unpredictable,” Katie said quietly. “That’s the main reason I’ve been making sure the girls get safely on and off the school bus these days.”
Betty nodded. “I see.”
“I’ll just wait here,” Katie said. “I’ll keep an eye on you while you return the dog.” She shook her head. “It looks neglected . . . and like it needs a bath.”
Betty thought that wasn’t the only thing the dog needed, and she intended to say as much to Jack Jones. Naturally, she would control her temper, but she would also let him know that organizations like the Humane Society or ASPCA would not be the least bit impressed with Jack’s dog-owner skills.
When she got to Jack’s house and knocked on the door, no one answered. However, his pickup was still parked in the front yard, so she suspected he was home and knocked again, louder this time. But still no answer. Finally, she didn’t know what to do, so she simply tied the makeshift leash to a rickety-looking porch railing and left.
“He didn’t answer the door?” Katie asked when Betty rejoined her.
“No.” Betty turned and scowled at Jack’s house. “I’ve a mind to call the Humane Society.”
“It seems cruel to leave the dog tied to the porch,” Katie said.
Betty shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Well, I can see Jack’s porch from my house. I’ll keep an eye on the dog, and if Jack doesn’t come out and let the dog inside or care for it, I’ll give you a call.”
Betty wanted to protest this idea. After all, why should that dog be her concern or responsibility? But she knew that would sound heartless and mean, so she just thanked Katie.
“Martin and I just don’t know what to do about him,” Katie said as she walked Betty back to her house. “I’ll admit we didn’t get off on the best foot with him, but we’ve tried to be friendly since then, and he just shuts us down.”
“I know,” Betty said. “He shuts everyone down.”
“Now Martin is talking about moving. He’s worried about the girls. He even did one of those police checks on Jack—you know, where you go online to see if the person has a record for being a sexual predator.”
Betty’s eyes opened wide. “Did he discover anything?”
“No.” Katie looked dismal. “But now Martin is worried that Jack Jones might not be his real name.”
Betty nodded. “The thought crossed my mind too.”
“So what do you do about something like this?” Katie’s tone was desperate now. “Do you simply allow some nutcase to ruin your neighborhood and drive you out of your home? Do you just give in?”
Betty sighed as she paused in front of her house. “I don’t know what to tell you, Katie. I wish I did. And even though I’ve lived in this neighborhood for nearly forty years, I really don’t have any answers. The truth is, I’m considering moving myself.”
Katie shook her head. “That’s just not fair.”
“Well, I’m getting old.” Betty forced a weak smile. “My house and yard are a lot of work for me, and the winters are long. Really, it might be for the best.”
“Maybe so. But I have to say that Jack Jones has put a real damper on the holidays for me. The girls’ last day of school is Wednesday, and I told Martin that I’m thinking about taking them to my mother’s for all of winter break. Martin wasn’t happy about that. He still has to work and isn’t looking forward to coming home to an empty house while we’re gone. But I told him that I didn’t look forward to two weeks of being home with the girls with someone like Jack next door.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I’ll say. It’s too bad that we don’t feel safe or comfortable in our home.”
Betty just shook her head. What was this neighborhood coming to?
“Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes with that poor dog,” Katie said. And then they said good-bye and went their separate ways.
Once inside her house, Betty decided to call her daughter. Susan had always been sensible, not to mention a strong Christian woman. Plus she was a family counselor with a practice in her home. Surely she would have some words of wisdom to share. Some sage advice for her poor old mother. Betty planned to explain the situation in a calm and controlled manner, but once they got past the perfunctory greetings, Betty simply blurted out her plan to sell her home as soon as possible.
“When did you think you’d list it?” Susan sounded a little concerned.
“I’d like to put up a sign right now. But it probably makes more sense to wait until after the New Year.”
“So . . . in January?”
“Yes. I didn’t think anyone would want to buy a house right before Christmas.”
“But you’re coming here in January.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll put my house up for sale and leave.”
“But the market is so low right now, Mom.”
“I don’t care.”
“And I’ll bet you haven’t fixed anything up, have you?”
“I’ll sell it as is.”
“Yes . . . you could do that.”
But Betty could hear the doubtful tone in Susan’s voice growing stronger. “You think it’s a bad idea, don’t you?”
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea to sell your house. But I suppose I’m just questioning your timing. January isn’t a good time to sell a house. The market is low right now. And I know you have some deferred maintenance issues to deal with and—”
“You think I should wait?”
“I think waiting until summer would be smarter.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you in this sudden rush, Mom?”
Betty felt silly now. To admit that it was her rude neighbor sounded so childish. And yet it was the tru
th. So she spilled the whole story, clear down to the scratch on her car, the broken tea mug, and the dirty dog.
Susan actually laughed.
“It is not funny.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sure it’s not funny to you. But hearing you tell it, well . . .” She chortled again. “It is kind of humorous.”
“Humph.”
“What kind of a dog was it?”
“What kind of a dog?” Betty frowned. “Good grief, how would I know? It was a mutt, a mongrel, a filthy dog that I would never allow inside my house. I can only imagine what Jack Jones’s house must look like inside. It’s a dump site outside. Did you know that there is a pink toilet in his backyard right this moment?” Betty went on to tell her daughter that Katie Gilmore was considering evacuating for Christmas and that Martin had actually done a criminal check on Jack.
“Oh dear,” Susan said. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know he’s very rude and inconsiderate and strange. I can only imagine what he’s doing to the Spencer house. For all I know, he might even be a squatter or an escapee from the nut hatch, hiding out until the men in white coats show up to cart him away.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Have you even given him a chance, Mom? Maybe he’s just lonely.”
“Of course he’s lonely. He pushes everyone away from him.”
“But it sounds as if everyone is being confrontational.”
“He invites confrontation!”
“Have you tried being kind to him?”
Betty didn’t answer.
“I remember how we used to take cookies to our neighbors . . .”
Betty laughed now, but it was edged with bitterness. “I do not think Jack Jones would appreciate cookies, Susan. You don’t understand the situation at all.”
“Maybe not. But I do remember that my mother once told me that kindness builds bridges.”
“All I want to build is a tall brick wall between Jack’s house and mine.” Betty mentioned the falling-down fence and disputed property line.
The Christmas Dog Page 2
