by Nancy Bush
"Hi, this is Megan Adair. Um, y’know I have Binky with me? I was supposed to drop her off ?"
"Who’s Binky?"
"Aunt Eugenie’s dog?" She faded out for a moment.
Another jolt like electricity. My eyes felt like they did not belong in my skull. "I’m not taking that dog."
"What?" Her voice was scratchy and faraway. I could scarcely hear her.
"I’m not taking the dog!" I yelled.
"Are you there? I can’t hear you. Listen, if you’re there, I’m just down the street. I’ll be at your place in a few minutes..."
"I’m not taking the dog!" I practically screamed into the receiver but the phone was dead. I hung up and looked blankly around the kitchen. "Binky?" I repeated, dazed.
Coffee... and aspirin...or acetominophen . . . stuff...
I dug through my cupboards and found some baby aspirin. Little tiny yellow pills with mini milligrams. Still, I’m a chicken when it comes to drugs. I swallowed four, which I suspected wasn’t half of my normal dosage, but it pays to be careful. My shoulder sent little pain signals along my left arm. Just a reminder that last night hadn’t been without its dangers.
Nothing helped and I was lying on my couch, arms cradled against my chest when my guest arrived. Megan Adair was true to her word. She knocked on my door so hard I thought she might break through the panel.
With an effort I climbed off the couch and opened the door. She was tall with a spiky cap of blond hair. She wore tan shorts, a red tank top and in her arms was the ugliest dog on record-a walleyed pug with a snorting habit that made me wonder if sticking the nozzle of a bottle of nose spray up its snout might be in order.
"This is-Binky?" I asked.
"Mind if I put her on the ground?" She didn’t wait for a response as she set the dog on my hardwood floor and dusted her hands on her shorts. The pug snorted rapidly a few more times, turned a quick circle, then propped its tiny front paws on my leg and looked up at me. Its pink tongue lolled out of its mouth and it panted furiously.
"She could use a drink," Megan said.
Couldn’t we all.
"I can’t have a dog named Binky," I said. But I dutifully walked to the kitchen, took down my grand-mother’s blue-flowered bowl and filled it with tap water.
"Eugenie was pretty specific." Megan followed after me, glancing around my small bungalow with interest. "How do you know her?"
"I don’t know Aunt Eugenie." I paused. "How do you know Aunt Eugenie?"
"She’s my aunt."
We stared at each other for several seconds. "You want a drink?" I asked, automatically pulling open the refrigerator door even though I knew better.
"What have you got?"
I leaned on the door. Without the shriveled carrots and milk there was nothing to commend it. "Tap water," I offered.
"Terrific."
I poured her a glass. Oregon water is not only drinkable, it’s good. Having lived in southern California most of my life and dealing with water that tastes as if it’s been fortified with soap, I sometimes forget that I can drink right out of the faucet. Right now it was all I had on tap, so to speak, so I poured myself a glass as well.
Binky squeezed between me and the refrigerator, propping her little paws against the lowest shelf. "Hey!" I yelled, to which she smacked her lips several times and panted some more.
"I’ve got her things in the car," Megan said, setting down her glass.
I watched her head outside. Her things? I glanced down at the dog who was sitting in a kind of odd sidesaddle position and gazing up at me as if ready for me to make a decision of some kind. "What things?" I asked. Binky closed her mouth and tilted her head, listening hard. I half expected her to respond, but all she did was resume panting.
The "things" proved to be a little furry bed, a leash, a half-full bag of dry dog food and a metal food bowl stamped with BINKY in big, raised letters. I was going to be able to save my grandmother’s bowl for better things, apparently. Megan left this stuff in a pile in the middle of the living room and Binky ran over and snuffled everything before jumping in the bed and curling up, happy.
Megan glanced at her watch. "Gotta run."
"I really can’t take this dog. I know my mother said I would, but it’s a responsibility I can’t handle."
Megan looked a bit crushed. She pulled out a pack of Players and turned them around in her fingers. "Can you keep her for a while? I don’t have a place right now. I’m kind of in between living arrangements. I love the dog, but..."
"Sure," I said quickly, seeing my out. "Hey, for a while, no problem."
"Great," she said, heading for the door. She pulled out a cigarette as soon as she was on my porch. I followed her to her ancient Land Rover and watched her light up. The sharp smoke wafted my way as she waved out the match. Don’t ask me why, but sometimes I like the first scent of a lit cigarette. It’s a guilty pleasure most people don’t understand, myself included. I’ve never been a smoker but sometimes that first whiff of tobacco is aromatherapy at its finest. Maybe I’m a latent pyromaniac. I inhaled a lungful of secondhand smoke as Binky shot through the door and came over to us, weaving between our legs.
"Does she understand about the road?" I asked. I lived on West Bay Road, a small connecting street between Bryant and South Shore, but it had its share of traffic. Twenty-five miles an hour be damned. People drove like maniacs.
"I don’t think so. You’ll have to watch her." Binks settled at Megan’s feet, staring up at her. "I couldn’t hand her over to Deirdre. Her husband’s a complete ass and those kids don’t look fully evolved. They’re from the Pleistocene era, or something. They didn’t want Binky and I didn’t want them to have her."
It was interesting she was so averse to Deirdre-the correct name for Aunt Eugenie’s daughter, apparently. Deirdre must be spurious indeed, if Megan were more interested in handing the pooch over to a complete stranger. What did that say about relatives?
"Deirdre would be Aunt Eugenie’s daughter?" I said, to clarify.
Megan snorted. Binky, watching and listening, snorted, too. I hoped to hear additional dirt on Deirdre, so to speak, but Megan had the good grace to keep her thoughts to herself, more’s the pity. "You’re lucky you’re not related to her," was her final pronouncement. She reached into a Velcro pocket on the side of her shorts, withdrew a pen and piece of paper and wrote down a number. "That’s my cell. If you need me, call."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I’m a bartender."
"Really? I used to be a bartender in California. You’re at a bar in Portland?"
"The Crock, short for Crocodile. You know it?"
"I’ve heard of it."
"Good Mojitos. Lousy tips. Young crowd." She shrugged. "On the east side. Not too far from Twin Peaks."
Twin Peaks was the name dubbed to the two bluish-green glass pyramids that rose above the convention center. The structure, with its glowing red lights crowning the tip of each pyramid, had been built around the time of the popular TV show and though the show was long defunct, its moniker lived on in Portland.
I found myself warming to her in a way I generally reserved for only a few close, twisted individuals.
"She’s been spayed. And she’s house-trained," Megan said, returning to Binky. "Her vet was down the street from my aunt. I don’t have the number but I’ll get it. They’ll fax over her medical info."
I was overwhelmed. I didn’t think I was ready to assume responsibility over another living creature. "My friend Dwayne has a fax machine." I reluctantly gave Megan the number and she promised the vet would send over all the medical information.
Megan finished her cigarette, ground it underfoot, then conscientiously picked up the butt and carried it to her car’s ashtray. "Oh, and here are her papers. She’s registered with the AKC."
I had an immediate vision of Binky wearing a white sheet with cutout eyeholes and carrying an automatic weapon before I realized I’d mixed KKK with AK-47. "What’s the AKC?" I
asked cautiously.
Megan was digging through the stuff thrown on the passenger seat of the Land Rover. She pulled out an envelope and put it in my hands. "American Kennel Club."
She fired up the Land Rover, sketched me a wave, then backed expertly out of my drive. Certain I was in over my head, I turned toward the house, Binky dogging my heels. We headed into the living room and I closed the door.
"Okay," I said, gazing down at the dog. She was one sorry-looking creature. Her eyes were so far apart I wondered if she really possessed stereoscopic vision. She looked more like a bird or a fish than a predatory mammal who relied on its eyes working together to hunt prey. It was doubtful Binky would hunt anything, for that matter, just based on shape alone. She was built like a wide, torpedo-shaped footstool, broad back and short legs. Her face and tail were black; her body light tan. She was like a Siamese cat on steroids who’d undergone a species-change and then taken up chasing parked cars.
I opened the papers. Binky’s full name was THE BINKSTER. How cute. Aunt Eugenie had shortened it to Binky. Like something you’d stick in a baby’s mouth. Or maybe some minor indiscretion, like a fart. I could see someone saying, "Oh, my. That was me. I just let loose with a binky."
The name had to go.
"Anyone tell you you look a lot like Ernest Borgnine?" I asked her seriously. "Maybe I’ll call you Borg. How’s that? Hello there, BORG!"
Binky turned around, faced the front door and started barking furiously. Her barking was close to hilarious. About as far down the scary scale from the Dobermans as one could get. She glanced back at me. My shouting had convinced her someone was here. "Not exactly swift on the uptake, are you?" I suggested.
She collapsed into her sidesaddle lounge and began panting anew.
"I don’t understand how dogs can just accept that they’re somewhere else and someone else is taking care of them," I complained into the phone later to Dwayne.
"What do you think they should do?"
"I don’t know. Howl. Whine. Run away."
"Some dogs do."
"Not this dog," I said darkly. "It’s made itself at home on my couch. And I’ve got the fan going full blast because all it does is pant and drink water."
"Have you fed it?"
"I’ve only had it an hour," I responded a tad testily. "I’m going to feed it tonight."
"What’s its name again?"
I clamped my teeth together and counted to five. "Binky," I said evenly. Dwayne wasn’t listening. He hadn’t been listening throughout my diatribe, though he’d accepted that a fax would be appearing on behalf of the dog. Why I’d felt he could somehow help, or commiserate, escaped me now. "I’ve got to change it. I can’t live with it. Even though this dog’s going away at the first-"
"Did you go to the benefit?" he cut in.
Well, how rude. "Yes." I had half a mind to say nothing else. Name, rank, and serial number. That’s all you get, buddy. But I had another bone to pick. "And I damn near got myself killed in the process!"
"Yeah?"
He seemed only mildly interested as I regaled him with the previous night’s escapades, and he had the colossal nerve to respond with merely, "Write it down. All of it. Your impressions."
"Thanks for caring. You want me to put down the sight of Cotton’s bare ass pumping up and down? Tess’ll love that."
"When did you turn into such a prude?"
"That’s such a . . . wrong thing to say. I do not do voyeurism well."
"Maybe you need some lessons."
I nearly bit out a response before I realized he was teasing me. Good old Dwayne, always trying to get my goat. "What kind of mother names her child Dwayne?" I said, jumping into battle.
"The kind who’s in love with his father, Dwayne the dad."
"Oh. God. Seriously? Dwayne’s your dad’s name? Are you a junior?"
"Different middle names."
"What’s yours?" I asked curiously.
"Austin."
"Dwayne Austin Durbin?" Much as I hated to admit it, I kind of liked the sound of that.
Dwayne got back to the subject. "Put your notes together. Put ’em on a file on your computer, or better yet, a disk or flash drive. You can write up a report for Tess and make her feel she’s gotten her money’s worth. Clients like hard copy."
"Flash drive?"
"An external piece you stick into a USB port. Mine’s silver, about the size of my little finger but flat. Comes in all different storage amounts. Mine’s 512 K. The size of the storage affects the price. Don’t be cheap."
"I’m not cheap," I protested, lying through my teeth.
"They’re also called flash hoppers, grasshoppers, a bunch of stuff. I know you don’t have a zip drive, so we can forget that. You do have a USB port on that dinosaur, right?"
"Of course." I was pretty sure I did. He meant that little rectangular opening, didn’t he? I wasn’t about to ask.
"Get a flash drive. Better yet, get a new computer. It’s past time, Jane."
"I love my computer."
"No, you don’t. You’re just afraid to upgrade."
"Fine, fine." I just wanted to get off the phone. Dwayne’s relentless dragging of me into the current millennium tried my patience to the extreme. I practically slammed the phone down, then called Tess. My headache had diminished to a tiny throb and my shoulder felt stiff but okay. I wondered if I had time for a run, or if the heat was too unbearable.
Tess’s answering machine picked up; a relief to me. In a cheery voice I told her I’d spoken to Cotton at the benefit about nothing important. I let her know I was awaiting further instructions. I did not mention the five hundred dollars I was now owed, but it took all my mother’s hard-fought years of discipline to keep me from screaming the reminder to her.
I headed outside. My route to the Coffee Nook is shaded ninety percent of the way. I tested the air and thought I could make it. I hadn’t had the nerve to call Booth yet. I knew I was running away from the phone.
Back inside I changed into sweats and Nikes. I was heading for the door when I saw the dog staring at the front door panels. Another tinkle trip, apparently, or else Binky was merely contemplating the value of oak versus maple.
Hmmmm...
"Come on, you," I said, wondering if this were a fool’s errand. I found the leash Megan had left. The dog regarded me blankly. "I’m not going to call you Binky," I said sternly to which the dog raced over and started furiously licking my hand. I jerked back, wiped my hand on my pants, clipped the leash on Binky’s collar and we were out the door. I wondered if this show of affection was because I’d mentioned its name. I was hoping it had understood me and was consumed with delight over the thought of being called something other than Binky. It made sense to me.
Silently daring the dog to keep up with me, I took off at a slow lope. My challenge was a joke. Binky was fairly swift on her stumpy little legs. Of course, she nearly ripped my arm off every time she stopped to sniff, which was often. We ended up walking most of the route which was just as well because the weather was turning beastly.
By the time we reached the Coffee Nook, my right arm was practically numb and this was my good one! The dog just kept yanking me to a stop. I was drenched in sweat and Binky, panting furiously, definitely showed signs of wear. I clipped the leash to a metal loop screwed into the building siding. The Coffee Nook was pet friendly. Not only were the metal loops ready for leashes, there was a large bowl full of water sitting invitingly under the roof overhang. Binky slurped noisily then flopped down beneath one of the outdoor chairs. She didn’t seem to mind cement.
I wandered inside. Binky’s walleyes watched me enter. I waved at her and was surprised and a little thrilled to see her curly tail wag. The weekend employees smiled at me, high school or college-age girls who all are blond and bordering on anorexia. Not my usual crowd. I felt them watching me as I poured myself a cup of black coffee from the help-yourself counter. I loved that about the Nook. If it’s plain coffee you want, you can h
elp yourself. The exotics have to line up for their caramel-mocha-frappe-what-the-hells. One of the coffee girls, Kate, the only one I truly know, caught my eye. I lifted my paper coffee cup and she nodded. I have a coffee card which is good for ten cups. They just mark me off until the card’s done. The eleventh one is free.
I sat down on my usual stool but the weekend crowd didn’t contain anyone I knew. Finishing my coffee, I drank a paper cup of water for the return trip, then somewhat deflated, headed back outside. Binky barked in greeting. She’d recovered her stamina and was on her feet. She’d also garnered a small group of children while I was gone. They all wanted to pet her but were afraid.
"Mad dog," I whispered to them as I unclipped the leash. I felt glaring eyes digging into the back of my neck. Soccer moms. Lake Chinook was rife with them. And the two soccer moms standing behind me didn’t find me funny in the least. I often ask myself why I live in an area that is not single-woman friendly, and the answer continually escapes me. Murphy had introduced me to Lake Chinook and so I stayed.
"Charity, Julianne..." Soccer mom number one waved two of the little girls over. Reluctantly they turned away from the Pug.
"Whitney!" the other, shriller mom cried to the remaining girl.
"What’s his name?" Whitney asked me, ignoring mom.
"She doesn’t have a name yet," I said.
She gazed at Binky critically. "When does he get one?"
"She," I repeated.
"He looks like a boy."
I silently agreed. That face...I finally buckled, "She responds to Binky."
"Binky?" Whitney brightened and Binks yelped and jerked eagerly against her leash as the little girl bent down to pet her.
"Whitney!" The mother screeched as Whitney’s fingers reached toward Binky’s grinning, sloppy mouth. Binky promptly licked the girl’s whole arm, sending her into fits of laughter and turning mom’s face a brick red. Mom yanked on Whitney’s free arm, and the little girl nearly tumbled off her feet. She glanced back as mom dragged her to the car, waving forlornly to me and Binky. The dog gazed after her as if she’d just lost a best friend. Or, maybe she just wanted a ride.
I suddenly thought of Kit, Bobby’s youngest, and realized she would have been around Whitney’s age if she’d lived. It hit me in the gut. Sobered, I pulled on Binky’s leash and we started the slow walk home.
