It was then I realized what else was different about her. Her ubiquitous cat was nowhere to be seen. I’d gotten used to seeing her constantly held over Mrs. Krantz’s abdomen, like a live, smug-looking muff.
As I sank into a stiff green parlor chair, I noticed the rocker didn’t have a fur seat cushion after all. It was simply covered inch-deep in feline hair.
“Where is Mrs. B?” I asked.
“She’s napping in the next room. We’ll need to keep our voices down.”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Krantz pushed her glasses up her nose and then folded her hands primly in her lap. “So this is the one you told me about,” she said, peering at Seamus. I could tell she was trying to be cordial, but she just couldn’t. As she attempted a smile, the corners of her mouth wavered and twitched. She seemed almost disgusted—as if I were presenting her a shined-up turd in a red collar.
“Yes. This is Seamus,” I said, lifting him up slightly. Seamus’s rumbling had kicked into first gear and his body trembled in my grasp.
“Mmm.” She nodded politely. “And what sort of breed is Seamus?”
“He’s a . . . well . . . he’s a mutt, I guess. A terrier mix. Normally he’s very sweet.”
Mrs. Krantz fiddled with her glasses as an excuse to look away. “You’ll pardon me for saying this, but he doesn’t seem all that sweet to me right now.”
“He’s just uncomfortable, that’s all. He actually loves people. Or . . . most people. He’s always licking me. And he loves Matt, one of our neighbors.” I nodded in the direction of Matt’s condo.
“Really?” she said, perking up slightly. “So you’ve met Matthew?”
“Yes. He, um, helped us out while you were gone.”
She smiled her first real smile since we’d arrived. “Such a nice boy,” she said, staring toward his place. Then she turned and pointed at Seamus. “Our Matthew’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?” she asked him playfully. “I’m not surprised that you like him.”
Yeah. Too bad it isn’t mutual, I thought glumly. Still, I felt better overall. Dropping Matt’s name seemed to raise her opinion of Seamus a little.
Only I should never have gotten my hopes up. Because right at that moment, everything went berserk.
Something colorful streaked into the room, and Seamus leaped out of my arms and charged after it. It was Mrs. B, who looked nothing like her normal composed self. She was all hissing and yowling and porcupine-like. She ran for Mrs. Krantz, who shrieked and tried to grab her. Instead Mrs. B used her as a human launch-pad, jumping from Mrs. Krantz’s arms to her shoulders, up to her bouffant bob, and eventually to a high wall shelf crammed with several tiny porcelain kittens and, now, one live, freaked-out cat.
“No! No! Bad boy!” I yelled. I lunged for Seamus and instead grabbed air as he ran under the glass-topped coffee table and pounced on Mrs. Krantz, trying to follow Mrs. B’s path to the overhead shelf.
By the time I skirted the table and snatched him, Mrs. Krantz was in a doddering, slack-jawed state of shock. Tufts of her heavily sprayed hair stuck out at all angles, her glasses hung lopsided, and her blouse was bunched and half untucked. On her right arm, a long C-shaped scratch glistened with blood.
“Mrs. Krantz! I’m so sorry!” I cried, clamping down harder on Seamus as he struggled in my grasp. “Are you all right?”
“I—I—I’m okay, I think,” she stammered. Her eyes blinked rapidly, growing gradually sharper. “Yes, I’m all right.” Suddenly she spun around and lifted her hands up toward Mrs. B. “Oh, my poor little cupcake! It’s okay, Missy-boo! Come to Mommy!”
Seamus let out a loud bark and Mrs. B skittered backward along the narrow ledge, knocking off a ceramic Siamese. It bounced off the top of Mrs. Krantz’s head and crashed onto the wooden floor, where it broke into several pieces.
“I’m so sorry!” I cried again. By this point all I could do was shuffle slowly backward, shaking my head as if I could somehow erase the scene before me like a gigantic Etch A Sketch.
Mrs. Krantz regained her composure first. With surprising agility, she climbed onto the loveseat, pulled Mrs. B down from her perch, and carried her to the bedroom, cooing to her the entire time. Once the cat was safely stowed, she smoothed her blouse and strode over to me.
“You’re hurt,” I said, staring in horror as tiny drips of blood striped her arm.
She straightened her glasses and looked down at the wound. “It’ll be all right,” she said tersely. “But about your dog—”
“Please,” I interrupted. I had to stop her from saying it. For some muddled reason, I felt I could stop the inevitable by simply preventing the words from leaving her mouth. “He’s not a bad dog. Really.”
Mrs. Krantz blew out her breath. “Be that as it may, I feel—”
“I’ll keep him away from Mrs. B at all times. I promise. You’ll never see him. Never.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid it’s best if—”
“But they’ll kill him!” I screeched, my voice breaking on the word kill. “If I take him back to the shelter, they’ll put him to sleep! Please don’t let that happen. He’s not bad. He’s just a dog. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” My lips were trembling something terrible. I pursed them together, holding my breath as I watched her reaction.
Mrs. Krantz let out a long sigh, her battle stance gradually crumpling. Her shoulders slumped, her chin lowered, and her large, golf-ball eyes sagged with pity. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally.
“Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Krantz!” I exclaimed, my voice airy from holding my breath so long.
“You’ll have my final answer tomorrow night. In the meantime, you have to promise me he won’t come near Mrs. B.”
“I promise. Not a problem. They’ll never see each other.” I gave Seamus a squeeze, nuzzling the top of his head with my chin. “You won’t be sorry,” I went on, heading for the door. “Everything will work out great.”
Mrs. Krantz smiled feebly and cradled her bloody arm. “Yes, well . . . we’ll see.”
When I got back to the condo, the band had cleared out with their equipment, and the rest of the furniture had been returned to its usual layout. Christine was sprawled across the couch holding a can of Coke to her forehead.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, putting Seamus out on the balcony.
“Uhhhhhh,” she replied.
I fixed a crooked cushion on the yellow armchair and plopped into it. “So Mrs. Krantz and I had a little . . . talk. I guess.”
“Uhh?” Her head tilted toward me slightly.
“Yeah. Seamus is on probation. She wants to think about it and will let me know her verdict tomorrow night.” I decided not to bring up the fight, the blood or the broken figurine.
Christine set the soda on the coffee table and struggled onto her elbows. “That’s good. I guess,” she said in a monotone. “By the way, your mom called. She wanted to know if you’d called some guy named Aaron?”
My stomach clenched. “God, I wish she’d leave me alone about that.” I filled her in on how Mom wanted to fix me up with the gay son of her old college roommate. For some reason Christine thought that was really funny.
“Your mom is a piece of work,” she said, chuckling weakly. “Oh yeah. And she also wanted to know if you’d bought your textbooks yet. Something about not waiting till the last minute. Yadda, yadda.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you had.” She plopped back against the cushions, closed her eyes, and began massaging the triangular space between her eyebrows.
“Thanks.”
“You mean you haven’t got them yet?”
“No,” I said, yawning. “Have you?”
“Uh-uh.”
I toyed with a loose thread on my skirt. “I guess we should, huh? Classes start tomorrow.” It was hard to think about school after everything that had happened. I knew it was the main reason I was there, but with all the other stuff I was dealing with, it suddenly seemed a real n
uisance.
Christine grabbed her head and struggled to a sitting position. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Want to go together?”
“Now? Are you sure you’re up for it?”
She shrugged lazily. “I have nothing left to puke.”
Right then Seamus started barking loudly. Leaning sideways, I peered through the glass patio door and saw him lunging toward the railing that separated our balcony from Mrs. Krantz’s.
“Oh no!”
I raced outside. Seamus had his forepaws perched on one of the big stones and his head was thrust between two rails, the studs on his collar clanging against the metal each time he barked.
Sure enough, Mrs. B stood in the middle of their balcony, eyeing Seamus warily.
“Stop!” I cried. “You’re supposed to stay away from her!” I tried to pick him up, but only managed to slide his head a few inches up the balusters. Crouching down, I threw my arms around him and tugged again. But just like before, I could only move him up or down—not back. He was stuck!
Seamus was just figuring that out himself. His barking had stopped and he whined and fretted as he tried unsuccessfully to back out of there. He hunched his body, bracing himself as he yanked his head, but all he managed to do was clang his ID tag against the bars over and over.
Behind me Christine started laughing and clutching her head. “Ha, ha, ha, ow! Ha, ha, ha!”
“How the hell did you get in this mess?” I grumbled to Seamus while trying to flatten his ears.
Mrs. B craned her head, fascinated by Seamus’s plight. She took a few steps toward us, stopped, and sniffed the air, as if pretending she was just out for a stroll among the potted plants. Again she glanced at him, her tail twitching, and ventured a little closer, then closer still, until she stood right in front of him, staying just out of reach of his jaws. There she sat herself down and stared at him with a smug little look on her face. I could almost hear a breathy femme fatale voice taunting, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
I grunted in frustration as I desperately tried to guide Seamus’s head back between the balusters. Each time I pulled, he would let out a high-pitched yelp as if scared or in pain. “Sorry,” I said again and again. After a while, I sat back on my rear and rubbed my aching fingers on my skirt.
Seamus let out another yowl.
“I didn’t even touch you,” I snapped.
And then I saw. It was Mrs. B. She had risen up on her haunches and was batting his face over and over like a punching bag. Pow! went her left paw across his snout. Bam! came her right hook. Poor Seamus could only stand there helplessly and take it.
Behind me Christine took turns screeching with laughter and groaning in agony.
I reached over the railing and swiped at Mrs. B. “Stop it, you little—!”
“My baby!” Mrs. Krantz came barreling into view wearing a bathrobe and towel turban. “What’s he doing to my baby?”
I stood there frozen, my hand still raised over Mrs. B. O-o-okay. This doesn’t look good. Mrs. B ran right to her master’s feet, like some furry, namby-pamby little tattletale. She even had the nerve to look frightened.
Somehow, in the midst of all this, Seamus managed to wrench his head back forcefully enough to free himself from the bars. He wandered around our balcony, whimpering and shaking his head over and over.
“Are you all right, Missy-Bee?” Mrs. Krantz clucked as she snatched her up. “Did that doggie hurt you?”
“But she was attacking him. He was stuck and she was whacking him with her claws!” I explained, my voice high and shrill.
“I find that very hard to believe,” Mrs. Krantz said huffily.
“It’s true.” Christine stepped onto the balcony. “I’m sure Mrs. B thought she was defending herself. And I have to say, she did an excellent job.” She was speaking in that honey-coated voice again—the one that hypnotized anyone over the age of forty—and her features were reset into her placid, goody-goody mode (although still drawn and pale).
“Christine, dear. My, you do look sick, you poor thing. I hope this little to-do didn’t wake you.” Mrs. Krantz was speaking to her in the same gooey, cooing voice she used with Mrs. B.
“No, I was up,” she replied, smiling beatifically. “Like I said, your cat really taught Seamus a lesson. I’m sure he won’t be bothering her anymore. Right, Katie?” She glanced over to where I stood fussing over Seamus and raised her eyebrows pointedly.
I got the message. “Right,” I muttered.
Mrs. Krantz relaxed visibly. “Well . . . I’m sure she didn’t harm him. Her front paws are declawed.”
“He’s fine,” I said. “Not hurt at all.” Traumatized, maybe. Humiliated, definitely. But not hurt.
Mrs. Krantz nodded. “All right, then. If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to finish my bath.” As she walked back into her condo, I could hear her whispering to Mrs. B. “You showed that mean doggie, didn’t you? Yes, you did.”
“Thanks,” I said to Christine as soon as they disappeared inside. “I thought Seamus would be kicked out of here for sure. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she tossed him off the balcony herself.”
“Don’t mention it,” Christine said, staring down at her nails, her voice back to normal again. “I hate that stupid cat.”
“Me too.”
“So let’s get out of here and get those books while I still have enough energy to walk.”
“But . . . what about him?” I looked at Seamus, who was hunkered down beside me, looking kind of hungover and depressed.
“What about him?” she asked.
“I can’t just leave him like this.”
“Well, don’t leave him out here, that’s for sure. Just put him in your room. He’ll be okay.”
I bit my lip. “Are you sure?”
“He’ll be fine. Trust me.”
When we returned two and a half hours later, Mrs. Krantz met us on the landing.
Christine saw her first. After griping about the service elevator being out of order and how climbing the stairs made her head throb, she suddenly stopped in mid-complaint and broke into one of her blissed-out smiles. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Krantz,” she said in her Disney princess voice.
“Afternoon, girls,” Mrs. Krantz called. I could tell by her clipped tone that something was really wrong.
Christine didn’t seem to pick up on it, though. “How’s your arm?” she went on, as if trying for extra credit.
“It’s fine, dear. Thank you.” Mrs. Krantz turned toward me, her expression instantly grim. “Katie, may I speak with you a moment?”
My limbs turned to icicles. “Uh . . . sure.”
“Here, give me your bag, Katie. I’ll wait for you inside,” Christine said, her pitch all hush-hush and her face so solemn it made me want to punch her. I was really getting tired of this whole good-renter, bad-renter routine she thought we were playing.
“Thanks,” I muttered, enjoying her slight wince as I handed over my bulging Co-op Bookstore sack.
Mrs. Krantz smiled benignly and waited until Christine shut the door behind her. Then she pushed her glasses up her nose and cleared her throat. “I’m afraid we had a little . . . incident while you were gone.”
“An incident?” I repeated. “What kind of an incident?” I could guess what kind. A Seamus-related one, I was sure. But I wanted to play this as innocent as possible.
“Soon after you girls left, your dog began howling nonstop. Such loud, anguished cries.” She touched her hand to heart for some reason, as if to demonstrate the drama of it all. “It really upset poor Mrs. B.”
Dammit! I knew I shouldn’t have left him. He was still so freaked out and I abandoned him.
“I’m really sorry.” I paused, listening. “But . . . how did you get him to stop?”
She fiddled with her eyeglass chain. “Well, I have to admit, after the little ruckus this morning, I was too afraid to go near him. But luckily Matthew showed up.”
“Matthew? You mean Matt?”
She
nodded, smiling. “Such a sweet young man. He offered to take your dog and keep him quiet until you came home. So we let ourselves in and got him. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You mean . . . Seamus is over at Matt’s?”
She nodded again, her glasses slipping to the tip of her nose. “Yes. He’s there now. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks.”
Mrs. Krantz headed into her condo. “Oh, and Katie?” she added, pausing on the threshold.
“Yes?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet. But you have to know, this cannot happen again.”
“I understand. Thanks.”
After she shut her door, I began pacing the landing. My mind was so stockpiled with stress, I didn’t know what to think. Obviously things were not working. And I was beginning to wonder if even Seamus would be happier elsewhere. But if I took him back to the shelter, he’d be finished. Gone. Mrs. Krantz would let me keep him if he behaved. Only I couldn’t put him on the balcony or he might chase her precious devil-spawn cat. I couldn’t let him roam the apartment or he would chew and ingest various things. And thanks to this latest development, it seemed I couldn’t leave him in my room either.
Basically, I was screwed. Seamus was screwed.
Now Matt was involved. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he hated me for this, having to take in an animal he loathed so much. It would be like me having to babysit that spoiled brat Mrs. B.
I shut my eyes and tried to stuff all my panic and frustration into some impenetrable part of me. The process was near impossible—like trying to close a huge, virtual suitcase crammed full of ugly clothes. Eventually my breathing steadied enough for me to approach Matt’s door.
Brace yourself. He’s going to be mad, I thought as I knocked.
Matt opened up, took one look at me and smiled. “You’re back,” he remarked. “Come in.”
“Thanks,” I said, disarmed by his good mood and (as always) his cuteness.
I headed into his condo, which had the exact same layout as ours only more guy-like. He had modular, comfy-looking furniture, all in different shades of brown—whereas our décor was more little-old-lady, circa mid-1980s, with a heavy wiener dog motif.
Alpha Dog Page 13
