by Nic Saint
“What did she suffer from this time?” asked Odelia. Mrs. Baumgartner was Dad’s most loyal patient. Not a day went by that she wasn’t in his office with some new illness.
“Today she thought she just might be pregnant.”
“Pregnant!” Mom cried.
“I told her that being pregnant at the age of sixty-one is highly unlikely. Also because she claims not to have been with a man since her husband died, which makes it even more unlikely. But she says she’s heard about women getting pregnant without the assistance of a man, and she thinks she just might be one of those women.”
“I think she’s running out of diseases,” said Mom. “She’s used up all of them and now she’s grasping at straws.”
“Oh, there’s still plenty of diseases she hasn’t suffered from yet,” said Dad, rubbing his face.
“Your daughter has a hot date with Carl Strauss tonight,” said Mom, giving Odelia a pointed look. “Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Do about it? Our daughter is old and wise enough to handle herself, honey.”
“And it’s not a date, Mom,” said Odelia. “Like I said, it’s a business meeting.”
“In the middle of the night? At the man’s house? I don’t think so!”
“Oh, back off, woman,” said Dad good-naturedly. “We raised our daughter well. She can take care of herself just fine.”
And so it was decided: Odelia was going all by herself, no assistance needed, to wrangle Carl Strauss into accepting a divorce. And then they all sat down to enjoy Chase’s spaghetti bolognese—his not-so-secret secret ingredient included.
13
After the frankly humiliating display at the Trappers, Dooley and I decided to return home. But before we could, Harriet came tripping after us and said, “Please don’t leave me with these people, Max. They’re trying to turn me into a dog, too, and I don’t like it!”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re taking us out for walks twice a day—just like a dog!”
“That’s probably because they’re not used to having cats,” I said. “Just give them time. They’ll soon learn the difference between cats and dogs and treat you accordingly.”
“But, Max—I don’t want to be a dog!”
Rufus, who was right behind us, cleared his throat. “Why? Is being a dog so terrible?”
“No, it’s not, Rufus,” said Harriet in measured tones, “but I’m a cat, not a dog.”
“Then you shouldn’t have decided to run away from home and join a dog household,” said Rufus, offering a stark critique of Brutus and Harriet’s behavior.
“Run away from home? I didn’t run away from home.”
“Oh, and what do you call this, then?”
“My home is just next door! If I really wanted to run away from home don’t you think I’d gone a little farther afield than this?”
“You want to know what I think? I think you and Brutus were jealous of the nice life I lead, and you decided you wanted to cut in on the action, that’s what I think.”
“Jealous? Me? As if!”
“So why do this? Why exchange a perfectly fine home for my home?”
Rufus, usually such a placid and laid-back dog, seemed not only puzzled but actually displeased at Harriet and Brutus’s behavior and I didn’t blame him. I didn’t fully endorse their big move either, to be honest.
“Look, this wasn’t my idea, okay? This was Brutus’s idea—let’s be perfectly clear about that. The only reason I’m here is because I like to stand by my man.”
“Isn’t there a song that goes like that?” asked Dooley.
“I think there is,” I said.
“Well, if you’re going to join a dog household, don’t be surprised if they’re going to treat you like a dog is all I’m saying,” said Rufus. “Now let’s go before we’re too late.”
“Too late? Too late for what?”
“The dog park, of course!”
“Again?!” said Harriet, then gave me a hopeless look. “Don’t leave me alone with these people, Max. They’re going to turn me into a dog, I just know they will.”
“You mean, like for real?” asked Dooley, interested. “With plastic surgery and stuff?”
“No, silly,” said Harriet. “Just the behavior. Ted and Marcie expect Brutus and me to behave like dogs, and if we do, we get a biscuit.”
“Well, that’s not so bad, is it?” I asked.
“A dog biscuit, Max!”
“Let’s go, people! Time’s a-wasting!” Ted called out. He’d been staring up at the roof for the past ten minutes, presumably wondering how he was going to get that ball down from there without breaking his neck. But for the moment he seemed to have given up, and was now rattling several leashes to take his doggies for a walk to the dog park again.
“Mind if we tag along?” I asked, even though I knew Ted doesn’t speak cat—or dog, for that matter.
“Let’s get this show on the road!” Ted said, and attached a leash to Harriet’s collar, then a leash to Brutus’s collar, and finally a leash to Rufus’s collar, the only one who actually seemed to enjoy the process.
“This is so humiliating,” Harriet said, shaking her head.
“It’s all part of the process, honey bunch,” said Brutus. “Once Ted learns to trust us, he’ll understand we don’t need any leashes—or collars. Just you wait and see.”
And so we set out for the great unknown—the dog park!
“Do you know I’ve never been there before, Max?” said Dooley.
“Me neither, Dooley,” I confessed. “But I’m very curious to see what it looks like.”
Cats, as a rule, don’t go around visiting the dog park, for obvious reasons, but now that we were in the company of Ted and Rufus, and were there as official guests of the dog-and-owner combo, I didn’t think the other dogs would mind the intrusion into their midst of their mortal enemy. I just hoped they wouldn’t attack en masse. One or two dogs, I can handle, but a dozen or two dozen? Let’s just say I’m no Bruce Lee.
The dog park turned out to be a nice patch of greenery in the heart of our neighborhood, where dog owners come to take their dogs for a walk, and allow them to do their business, at which point the plastic baggies come out, and those products of their defecation are swiftly dealt with and magically disappear into those selfsame baggies. It’s a smooth and well-rehearsed process, and as I looked around I could easily see half a dozen dogs whose acquaintance I’d made in the recent past. One of those dogs was Fifi, who belongs to Odelia’s next-door neighbor Kurt Mayfield, a retired music teacher. Fifi is a small white fluffy Yorkshire terrier, and probably the sweetest dog on the planet. I like her a lot, not least because she once saved me from a watery death.
“Hey, you guys!” she said the moment she saw us. “Decided to see how the other half lives?”
“Brutus has decided he wants to become a dog,” I said. “So we decided to keep him company on one of his first outings as a New Dog.”
“Brutus wants to become a dog?” asked Fifi, much surprised as she studied Brutus intently. Our butch black friend was sniffing around a nearby tree, clearly debating whether to lift his hind leg or not. “But how? And why?”
“The how is a mystery, and the why even more so,” I admitted.
“I think he’ll have plastic surgery,” said Dooley. “He’ll surgically get himself changed into a dog.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“No, but it’s true,” said Dooley when Fifi merely gawked at him. “He’ll have to change his ears, and his face and his tail, of course. And then he’ll change his name to Rambo.”
“No way!” said Fifi.
“Dooley is simply speculating,” I said. “None of this is even remotely true. Yet.”
Though as we all looked at Brutus, suddenly he actually did raise his hind leg, and he actually did have a tinkle against that tree.
“He’s learned lesson number one of being a dog,” said Fifi admiringly. “And
his technique is impeccable. I have to give him that. Ten points for Brutus—or Rambo.”
“He’s also learning how to play fetch,” said Dooley. “And he’s getting pretty good at it, too.”
“Brutus is playing fetch?” said Fifi.
“Oh, yeah,” I said with a grin.
Just then Rufus came lumbering up. “I can’t watch this,” he said. “Max, can’t you do something? Other dogs are starting to make fun of me behind my back. They’re calling me names and telling me I’ve becomes a cat friend.”
“Is that so bad?” I asked.
“It is to some dogs. For them being a cat friend pretty much amounts to treason.”
“They need to learn to relax.”
“You tell them that,” he said, gesturing with his head to a small group of very mean-looking dogs, who stood eyeing Brutus with menace written all over their features.
Harriet now also came sidling up to us. “If this keeps up, Brutus is going to get mauled,” she announced.
“Yeah, unless the operation is a success,” said Dooley. “In which case he’ll join them.”
“Hiya fellas!” Brutus called out to the dangerous-looking dogs.
They didn’t respond, but merely growled something unintelligible that didn’t sound very hospitable at all.
“I think Max was right and Brutus should see a shrink,” said Harriet. “A cat shrink.”
“Or a dog shrink,” said Dooley helpfully.
“Any shrink!” She sighed. “If this keeps up, I just might have to leave him.”
“That would do the trick,” I told her. “If you threaten to leave him, he just might snap out of this delusion, and come home.”
“Do you think the Pooles will take us back?”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “They’ll be very happy to welcome you back. No doubt about it.”
“He’s going for it, you guys,” said Fifi suddenly. “He’s going for number two!”
And as we watched, Brutus assumed the position and deposited a neat little pile of doo-doo on the ground, and in perfect canine fashion, too.
“Good boy!” said Ted, and with a flourish took a little plastic baggie from his pocket.
“Gee, thanks, Ted,” said Brutus, looking very pleased with himself. “I didn’t know I had it in me.”
“It’s happening,” said Dooley. “He’s turning into a dog, and he doesn’t even need surgery!”
“This is a nightmare,” said Harriet, shaking her head. “An absolute nightmare.”
“It could be worse,” I said. “He could be…”
Suddenly Brutus started gamboling around like a dog, yapping and jumping up and down.
“… prancing.”
“Don’t come over here,” Harriet murmured. “Please don’t come over here.”
But of course Brutus did come over here, and announced, as he kept practicing his prancing moves, “Hey, you guys. I just had a great idea. From now on I’m denouncing the name Brutus. From now on I want to be called… Rambo!”
“The fever is getting worse, Max,” Dooley whispered. “Soon he’ll be beyond salvage.”
“You can say that again,” I whispered back.
From the corner of my eye, I suddenly thought I detected movement. And when I turned in the direction of the movement, I saw a man, hiding behind a tree, holding up his smartphone, and filming us!
“Look!” I called out. “That guy is filming us!”
“What man?” asked Harriet, looking in the direction indicated. “Oh, you’re right, Max. That man is actually filming us.”
“Isn’t that an invasion of privacy, Max?” asked Dooley.
“You bet it is,” I said. “Hey, fella! You have to stop that!” I called out. But of course the man couldn’t understand a word I said, and just kept on filming. He was a bearded individual, with a round face, and looked to be in his early twenties. He was dressed in cargo pants and a Star Wars T-shirt.
“Maybe he’s a movie producer,” said Harriet hopefully. “Or a Hollywood scout?”
“Why would a Hollywood scout scout out a dog park?” I asked.
“Casting parts in a new movie or TV series?”
“Is that man bothering you, Max?” asked Rufus.
“Yes, he most certainly is,” I told my friend the sheepdog.
“Fifi, let’s get him,” said Rufus, and Fifi barked in excited agreement. Dogs always like to chase something, you see, whether it’s a ball or a Hollywood scout.
And so they set out to catch this man, or chase him away. The guy, when he saw that he’d been well and truly busted, chose to beat an urgent retreat, and took off.
“Hey!” Rufus called out. “Hey, you there!”
But the man was running at full tilt, and since Rufus is a big lumbering sheepdog, and Fifi is a very tiny Yorkie, they were no match for him, unfortunately, and even less so when he mounted a flashy mountain bike and pedaled off at a high rate of speed.
“Max!” said Harriet, as she gave me a slap on the arm. “You just chased away my talent scout! Now the world will never know what a formidable artiste I am!”
And a good thing, too, I would have said, though I merely thought these words, not actually spoke them out loud. Hey, I don’t have a death wish, thank you very much!
14
Odelia arrived at Carl’s mansion feeling hopeful. She didn’t know what had made the golfer change his mind but she was sure her efforts that afternoon had something to do with it. She’d pleaded Erica’s case with poise and grace and without getting on her high horse and calling the obstinate golfer all kinds of names when he refused to budge.
Oddly enough the front gate was open so she drove right in. She would have expected a man of Carl’s stature to have a small contingent of security people guarding him around the clock, but as she zoomed along the gravel drive and up to the house she encountered none of them. That afternoon at the golf course she’d spotted at least two or three of his security detail, keeping a discreet distance, but now she didn’t see any.
She parked in front of the house and got out. The front door was open, which was also a little bizarre, but then she figured he’d probably told his people that she was coming, and had asked them to leave the door ajar so she could step right in.
“Carl?” she called out as she entered the front hall. “Mr. Strauss?”
The lights were dimmed, but she could see that the place was very nicely decorated, with golfing memorabilia welcoming Carl’s guests. There were glass display cases holding his many trophies, and even one with what looked like a golden golf club.
She decided to walk right through, hoping Carl hadn’t forgotten about their appointment, or had had a change of heart at the last minute. A big sports celebrity like him probably had dozens of balls in the air, no pun intended, and plenty of people wanting to encroach upon his precious leisure time.
She walked through to what looked like a large living room, with comfortable white leather couches set in front of a very large TV screen bolted to the wall, where a greatest hits video was playing showcasing Carl’s golfing prowess. The man clearly loved watching himself in action.
“Mr. Strauss?” she called out again, then moved beyond the living room and into the next room, which was the library. And when that proved empty, she walked into the man’s office, dominated by a large mahogany desk and more golfing trophies. Also framed pictures of Carl with presidents and other sports heroes. And as she moved into the direction of the man’s desk, that’s when she saw him: on the floor between the desk and the window behind it, Carl was lying face down on the carpet, a large gash on his head, and a golf club lying nearby, blood on the business end of the makeshift weapon.
“Carl!” she called out, and knelt down next to the fallen golfer. She felt for a pulse, and was relieved to find one, though extremely weak. Immediately she took out her phone, but before she could dial 911, suddenly she heard a noise, and when she looked up she saw five dark figures spring up from behind a Chesterfield, and
sprint for the door.
“Hold it!” she yelled, and went in pursuit of the figures, who were carrying bulky gym bags. They were quick off the mark, but she was no slouch either, and gave good pursuit. They were out and onto the patio in seconds, and then hauling ass in the direction of the fence lining the property. Odelia was giving it all she had, and as she gained on one of the figures, suddenly the person tripped over a root or a branch and did a face plant, and immediately she was on top of them and held the hooded figure down. The others, unfortunately, were scaling the fence as she watched and were out of sight in moments. She heard the noise of scooters’ engines gunning, and the noise disappeared into the night.
“Don’t move,” she told the person she caught. He or she was writhing and bucking, trying to shift Odelia’s weight and get away.
“Get off me!” said the figure, and when Odelia turned the person around, and yanked down the hood, she saw that it was a young girl, a teenager still, with purple hair, looking very upset at being caught.
“Did you do that?” Odelia demanded. “Did you hit Carl over the head just now?”
“No, I didn’t. Let me go!”
“Not a chance,” she said, and this time she did dial 911. “You’re the Hampton Heisters, aren’t you? You and your friends?”
“I’m not telling you shit, lady,” the girl spat.
“Well, you just went too far,” said Odelia. “You just graduated from being a thief and a burglar to attempted murder.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. And you better pray that Carl pulls through.”
“We didn’t do that! He was like that when we got here, okay?”
“You didn’t hit him over the head?”
“Of course not. I’m not crazy.”
“You better come with me,” said Odelia, and yanked the girl to her feet and marched her off to the house. “My uncle will be here soon, and you can tell him all about it.”
“You’re Odelia Poole, aren’t you? The reporter?”
“What’s your name?”
There was a pause, then: “Emma.”
