The computer’s been left on. When I move the mouse, the screen lights up, and it’s on the e-mail in-box. Instead of hitting the browser right away, I sit back and scan the list of e-mails. Dakota has a dozen exchanges with Winnie the Horse Gentler from the day before. Big surprise. But she’s also got at least that many from Eddy Barker, the kid Hank calls a dog whisperer.
I’m not being nosy or reading her mail or anything. But the screen’s right here, out in the open. I can’t help it if I happen to read the messages.
Winnie,
Thanks for the tips on soaking Blackfire’s hoof. You were right about everything. Yesterday I forgot the music, and Blackfire got restless and hard to handle. I was afraid he was going to splash Wes like he did the first day. Not that I couldn’t use a good laugh like that again. But I’ll be sure to remember the tunes tomorrow.
Okay. Here’s what I need to know now: What if the abscess doesn’t open up and drain? What if the infection backs up inside the bloodstream? Hank drove me to the Nice Library yesterday, and I checked out 11 books on horses (six on dogs). One of the horse health books said that this kind of infection can turn into something more serious.
Winnie, if anything happens to Blackfire, I don’t think I could handle it. What if the abscess never breaks out? What if it keeps getting worse and worse? What if . . . What will I do then?
Dakota
I admit that I’d never thought about any of this. Dakota didn’t tell me she was still scared for Blackfire.
I only meant to read Dakota’s part of the e-mail. I wanted to see if she said anything about me to Winnie the Horse Gentler. But now I have to keep reading to see Winnie’s answers about Blackfire’s hoof.
Dakota,
Sorry things aren’t going better with Blackfire. But it sounds like you and Wes are doing a great job. Wes isn’t still angry with your horse for splashing him, is he? Of course Blackfire didn’t mean anything by it.
As for the what-ifs, don’t go there. You’re doing everything you can do. Hank’s giving the gelding penicillin. All that’s left is for you to pray. Hey—God cares. He created that horse. He loves Blackfire even more than you do.
Praying with you, Winnie
P.S. Catman says to give a special “hey” to that groovy cat, Kat (his words, not mine). But you can tell Kat hi for me, too.
“Who are you writing, Wes?” Kat appears out of nowhere.
I wheel around to face her. She’s carrying two of her cats, an orange tabby that’s bigger than the Pomeranian and a dirty, white, scroungy cat named Kitten. “Didn’t hear you come up, Kat.”
“I figured, since you jumped liked a scared cat.” She puts the cats outside, then pulls up a kitchen stool. Kat looks better than she has in days. She’s wearing jeans, a red polo shirt, and her long blonde wig.
“You look okay,” I tell her, scooting over so we can both see the screen.
“Wow. I’ll bet you get lots of girls with that line.” She grins and elbows me. “So, whose mail are you reading?”
“Stuff from the Pet Helpline. I was going to do some apartment hunting for Mom and me. Then I saw the e-mails.”
“Anything from Barker? You and Eddy Barker ought to e-mail each other. He’s so great with dogs.”
Usually I hate it when anybody talks to me about how awesome Barker is with dogs. But right now, I guess I can use all the help I can get, even from Barker. I’d like a quick fix for the bulldog, for one thing. “Maybe I’ll e-mail him,” I tell Kat. “I’m pretty desperate. Mrs. Coolidge isn’t giving me enough time to get the dogs ready for this thing. She’s coming this afternoon.”
“Gram’s just excited. She thinks this is the best idea since sliced bread. It doesn’t hurt that it’s her idea. But I happen to agree with her.”
I turn back to the screen and scroll through the horse messages until I get to some from Eddy Barker.
Dakota,
Winnie filled me in on how you’re helping get dogs into the assisted-living home. As Catman would say, “Far out! Right on!” Did you know dogs can lower people’s heart rates and blood pressure? Some insurance companies even give discounts for pet owners.
First, take a deep breath. You sound pretty fried. Don’t worry about not being a “dog whisperer.” There’s no such thing as dog magic. People who are good with dogs just go with the dog’s natural instincts. It helps to remember that dogs are pack animals. Every person and animal in the house—or the nursing home—will end up being part of the pack, whether they realize it or not. Dogs need to know where they stand, where their rank falls in the house. And life will go a lot smoother for everybody if the two-legged pack members outrank the four-legged ones. People need to be top dog.
So ask me anything you think could help. Fire away!
Barker
Dakota didn’t waste any time taking Barker up on his offer:
Hey, Barker,
Thanks for doing this. Wes, the guy I’m helping with the dogs, knows a lot about dogs. He’s just not that easy to talk to. I feel like it makes him mad when I ask him too many questions. So I really appreciate your help.
Dakota had followed that up with a list of questions, and Barker had answered every one.
Only I stop reading the questions, and I don’t feel like reading any more answers.
“Why would she do that?” I mutter.
“Do what?” Kat asked.
“Go to this Barker kid to ask about dogs. I know about dogs. She could have asked me. Why would she say that? That I’m hard to talk to? I don’t get mad when she asks me questions.” But I’m mad now. “She should have asked me. Not some stranger.”
Eleven
“Dakota didn’t mean anything by it,” Kat says. “I think you’re easy to talk to, Wes.” She puts her small hand on my arm. If anybody else did that, I’d shake them off without a second thought.
But not Kat.
“You know what?” Kat says. “I was just about to ask you something about dogs myself. Like why they don’t like cats more.”
I give her my “yeah, right” look. But Kat makes it hard to stay mad. She also makes me wonder what it would have been like to have a sister. My mom never really wanted kids. One was more than enough for her.
“Do you want to help me search for an apartment in Chicago, or what?” I scoot my chair back, turning the keyboard over to Kat because we both know she’s better at finding stuff online than I am. “Maybe we can find me a job, too, so I can pay the rent.”
Kat glances at me. Her eyes are watery. She’s known all along I’m going back to Chicago as soon as I can.
I clear my throat. “Apartments, Kat?”
“Okay.” She clicks straight to a Web site that claims to specialize in “affordable” apartments. They’re affordable, all right. As long as your name is Bill Gates or Trump, or maybe Michael Jordan.
“Try the south side of Chicago,” I tell her. “See if they list apartments in the projects.”
“I’ll bet you could get a great job training dogs, Wes,” Kat says. “Then you and your mom could get one of these apartments with a swimming pool. I’d come and visit.”
“Try another site, Kat.” I could never afford a place like that. But getting a job training dogs isn’t a half-bad idea.
Kat surfs to a dozen different sites, but even the cheapest apartment costs way more than Mom and I could ever afford.
“Maybe I should be looking for rooms to rent instead of apartments.” No way that room above the bar cost this much. But places like that probably don’t show up in cyberspace.
Kat squints at me. “When do you think you’ll move away and live with your mom? I’m going to miss you, Wes.”
Being missed isn’t something I’ve counted on. Or missing. I’ll miss Kat, even though I don’t want to. “Not sure,” I answer. “Guess I’ll know more after I see Mom on Saturday.”
“You must be so excited.”
I glance back at the computer screen. “I was hoping to get some leads on an
apartment before she gets out.”
“I’ll bet Ms. Bean can help,” Kat suggests.
“Maybe.” Ms. Bean’s okay, for a social worker. But she never lived in the projects or over a bar.
“Morning!” Popeye calls, thundering downstairs. “You two are up mighty early.” He sneezes.
“Bless you, Dad!” Kat calls.
“I am indeed blessed, my little Kat. And so are you. Which reminds me of a joke.” He heads for the fridge.
I grin because that’s the funniest part of Popeye’s jokes. Everything reminds him of a joke, but nobody else ever sees the connection.
“Which side of a dog has the most hair?” he asks, opening the fridge and staring inside.
Kat glides over to him and gives him her morning hug.
“Ah, that won’t get you out of answering this riddle, Kat.” He lifts her off the ground, hugs her, then sets her down.
“Wes?” Popeye grins at me. We both know I’m not the hugging kind.
I’m pretty sure I know the answer to his joke, even though I haven’t heard the riddle before. But I won’t spoil his morning. I shake my head and shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Which side of a dog has the most hair? The outside!” he shouts. “Get it?”
“We all get it.” Dakota trudges down the stairs and stops behind Popeye. I try to wipe out of my mind what she said about me being hard to talk to. “Even the neighbors a mile over got it, Popeye.”
“And top of the morning to you, Dakota,” Popeye says. “I’ve got another one almost as good as that one. Why did the schnauzer—?” He breaks off in midquestion, tilts his head toward the stairs, then dashes to the foot of the stairs and gazes up as if he’s waiting for the queen of England to strut down the red carpet. “My Annie!” he declares. “A vision of loveliness.”
Annie shuffles down the stairs in her tan robe and fuzzy red slippers. Her hair is wound around plastic curlers. A couple of pink curlers dangle from the sides of her head like giant earrings. Wednesday is supposed to be her day off from the hospital, but it’s pretty rare when she actually stays home the whole day. “Morning, all!”
Rex trots over to her and demands to be petted.
“How about if I make my special apricot pancakes?” she asks.
A second of silence passes. Annie Coolidge may be able to cook up miracle cures on her cancer ward, but she can’t fry an egg without burning it.
“On your day off?” Popeye roars. “I won’t hear of it.”
“Popeye’s right,” Dakota agrees.
Kat and I grin at each other.
“You come sit here, my Annie, and rest those beautiful feet.” Popeye pulls the chair out for her. “I’ll whip up some chocolate chip pancakes. How’d that be?”
“You’re too good for your own good, Mr. Coolidge,” Annie says, taking the seat he holds out for her.
The screen door slams and in storms Georgette Coolidge, looking even taller than she actually is. Her long, bloodhound face would make her easy to pick out in a lineup. If the face didn’t do it, then her hair would. It’s blonde, but I’m guessing it didn’t get that way on its own. Kat told me Mrs. Coolidge drives into Chicago every few days to get her hair done. She’s wearing a light blue skirt and jacket that would fit perfectly in her parts of Chicago—downtown or the north side—but not my Chicago. And not out here.
“Mother!” Popeye runs to his mother and gives her a one-second hug. He’s bald and she’s blonde, but there’s no doubt they’re blood. “We weren’t expecting you until this afternoon.”
She raises her eyebrows at her son. “Sorry to disappoint, Chester.”
“What? I-I-I didn’t mean . . . I mean, we’re glad you’re here. Of course.” He stammers and glances at Dr. Annie for help.
Annie strolls up to her mother-in-law. “You look lovely, George,” she says. “Come on in.”
“Wish I could.” Mrs. Coolidge’s back is so straight you could play pool on it. “But we’re on our way to Nice Manor, aren’t we, Wes and Dakota?”
Dakota drops her spoon. “Now?”
“Chill, Dakota. Mrs. Coolidge doesn’t mean now,” I say.
“Now means now,” Mrs. Coolidge says evenly.
I haven’t talked through the training plan with Dakota. I didn’t get to brush the dogs after their walk. I need time to work with that bulldog. Plus, I wanted to get more information from Mrs. Coolidge about the Nice Manor residents. “Mrs. Coolidge, I need more time. I’ll bet the Manor people need more time. Seriously, are you sure they’re ready for us?”
“Wes is right, Mrs. Coolidge,” Dakota agrees. For once, she’s on my side. “Are you sure they’re expecting us this early?”
“Not at all!” Mrs. Coolidge exclaims. A tiny smile creeps onto her bright red lips. “That will be half the fun.”
Twelve
Kat helps us get the dogs to the car. Popeye helps me carry the kennels. We’re still only using two kennels because I don’t have the heart to put the Pomeranian or the frightened terrier into cages again.
Dakota climbs in front. Mrs. Coolidge doesn’t allow animals in the front seat of her new car, even though the car’s big enough for a couple of horses, so that leaves me in back with all the dogs.
“Mrs. C.,” Dakota reasons, “don’t you think we should at least call the activities director and tell her we’re on our way?”
“No, sirree,” Mrs. Coolidge answers. “We don’t want to give them fair warning.”
“But it’s all set up, isn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, they know we’re coming. They’re up for this pilot pet program, aren’t they?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Mrs. Coolidge?” I press. “They want our dogs, don’t they?”
“Well, not exactly. Not yet,” she admits. “Consider this an audition. A tryout.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dakota says.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Coolidge says. “Don’t be such a worrywart. The board at Nice Manor approved our pet project, although they left the details to their activities director.” She adjusts her air-conditioning vent, even though she hasn’t turned on the AC yet. “The problem is their activities director. As soon as she found out I was behind the project, she got cold feet. I’m afraid Miss Golf and I have a history.”
This can’t be good. Mrs. Coolidge should have told us before now. “What if nobody’s there to meet the dogs?” I ask.
The woman shoots me a frown in the rearview mirror. “It’s all under control,” she says. “I have an inside man.”
“An inside man?” Dakota repeats.
“Woman, actually,” Mrs. Coolidge clarifies. “Her name is Buddy, and she’s got spunk. Believe me, our Miss Golf is no match for Buddy.”
I don’t ask anything else, and neither does Dakota. I’m trying to picture an inside woman with spunk who goes by the name of Buddy. It’s enough to keep me busy until we get there.
Nice Manor is set back from the road and surrounded by trees. The brick building isn’t a skyscraper or anything, but there must be at least five stories. Hard to believe this is an old people’s home. They probably fix up the outside and leave the inside junky.
“Out you go!” Mrs. Coolidge commands.
“You’re not coming?” Dakota sounds terrified.
“Places to go, people to see,” Mrs. Coolidge explains.
I have to hang on to the Pomeranian so he won’t bolt out of the car when Dakota opens the door. The terrier acts like she’s glued to my thigh, but I wrestle her loose and hand her to Dakota. The other dogs are banging to get out of their kennels. Dakota leashes the terrier and the Blab while I juggle the Pom and the bulldog.
Mrs. Coolidge taps the steering wheel. “Call my cell when you’re ready to be picked up.”
Dakota and I back away from the car, our dogs straining at the leashes. I feel like I did the first time I was dropped off at a foster home.
Before she drives away, Mrs. Coolidge rolls down her window and calls out,
“Get along, little doggies!”
We don’t move. I couldn’t wave good-bye if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. This whole thing is her fault.
Mrs. Coolidge honks her horn twice, then peels out of the parking lot, leaving Dakota and me on our own, with four dogs who are as scared as we are.
Every other time I’ve wanted to find a home for one of the rescued dogs, I’ve been able to reach inside and bring out “friendly Wes.” That’s what Kat calls me when I kick into gear to gain the confidence of strangers so they’ll trust me to give them a good pet.
The first time Kat saw friendly Wes, I was placing an Irish setter with the perfect owners, an older woman and her teenage grandson. Kat waited until they left with their new dog. Then she stomped up behind me and demanded to know who I was and what I’d done with the real Wes.
Now, standing outside Nice Manor, I’m wondering what I’ve done with friendly Wes. I could use him about now because I’m feeling more like Mad Dog with every minute. Mrs. Coolidge should have given us more time to work with the dogs. She should have set everything up for us at the Manor. She shouldn’t have left us to face them alone.
“You okay?” Dakota asks. She’s staring at me, probably wishing Eddy Barker were standing here instead of Wes “Mad Dog” Williams.
“Okay?” I ask, the sarcasm not coming from friendly Wes. “What’s not to be okay about, Dakota? Let’s go meet old people.” I lead the way through the covered porch and into Nice Manor.
I was wrong about the place only looking good on the outside. If anything, Nice Manor is even nicer on the inside. The entryway is all wood and plush carpet, with a fireplace and sofas. I can see past it to a dining room with white tablecloths and flowers. Glassed-in shelves run the length of the hallway, filled with fancy plates and little glass animals. My grandma would have loved this stuff. Come to think of it, this place smells a lot like my grandmother’s apartment did.
“Pssst! This way!”
I pivot in the direction of the whisper, but I don’t see anybody. Not until I look down.
Mad Dog Page 6
