4 Woof at the Door (2 page)

“Nope.”

“Anything significant happen three months ago?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Not a thing.”

“You didn’t change jobs or change daily schedules?” I prompted.

He shook his head. The action seemed to shift his hair slightly off-center. “Not at all. I run my own store at the mall, and my wife and me take turns there. When business is good, we’re both there, but generally, we only need one person to run it. You ever shop there?”

“‘Fraid not.”

He smirked at me. “Figures. You’re too young to appreciate it. You probably missed the sixties entirely.”

Being thirty-two, that was obviously true, but I didn’t want to go off on a tangent. “So you’ve been compensating for the barking by keeping Doobie inside. Is that correct?”

He sighed and nodded. “We’ve had to lock up the doggie door and everything. Makes poor Doobie nuts, but we’ve got to keep him away from the maniac who lives next door.”

Since the house on the west was Beverly’s and Doobie was barking at the window to the east, it was easy to guess which house he meant. “You told me that your neighbor has a dog, as well. Right?”

“Yeah. Big white fluffy thing with pointy ears. Looks like an albino huskie.”

“A Samoyed.”

“Whatever. That’s the dog that started all this trouble.”

“Is this Samoyed new to the neighborhood?” Such as acquired three months ago? I silently added. Samoyeds were not nervous dogs in general, and if this one was a “problem barker,” it would be a first for me.

He shook his head, which re-centered his hair part. “No, but his owner seems to think just ’cause his dog’s white, she’s as pure as the driven snow in all of this. Let me show you something.”

Ty unlocked the dog door, which looked comically small for the size of his dog, but Doobie slithered through in a heartbeat. For a moment, I wondered if Ty intended for us all to squeeze through this opening as well, but he opened a half-dozen deadbolts on the back door and finally had the people-sized door open. Apparently, Ty was very security conscious, which seemed unnecessary, given the furnishings. Then again, he did have that lovely Buddha collectible.

Doobie had rushed to the cedar privacy fence that separated Ty’s property from that of the Samoyed’s owner. Doobie sniffed along the length of the fence along the ground, where there was only the smallest of gaps.

“Watch this,” Ty said, folding his arms across his satin-clad chest and pointing with his chin in the direction of the fence.

After a few more trips up and back along the fence, Doobie jumped up against the fence, managing to get his paws on two of the three supporting beams. He ladder-stepped his way up to get his muzzle over the top of the six-foot fence.

A deep male voice boomed, “Bad dog! Put your paws down and back away from the fence!”

“What the—” I muttered in amazement. I located a loudspeaker attached by a stand such that it was clearly inside this neighbor’s fence, but aimed directly at Ty’s yard.

“That’s Hank Atkinson’s doing,” Ty said through clenched teeth. “My illustrious neighbor.”

Hank Atkinson,
I repeated to myself. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it.

“He works in security. Installs home-security systems, that is. He’s got this motion detector set up so that anytime anyone so much as reaches an inch over the fence, that thing goes off.”

Doobie whined, got down, then tried it again. Once again, the stern-voiced recording admonished him.

“I’m surprised your neighbor doesn’t find that loud recording more offensive than the barking itself.”

“Oh, I know. The guy’s a crackpot.”

This from such a fine source of mental stability. I’d glanced at Mr. Atkinson’s house while checking addresses on my way to the Bellinghams’. It had seemed normal—gray siding with white trim—but then, so had Ty’s house. “Is Mr. Atkinson’s dog home now?”

“Beats me. Might be inside of the house. But, believe me, it’s unusual that only my Doobie is barking. His dog is usually barking back every bit as loud. Tends to be the two of ’em going at it, and she’s the female. She’s the one that starts everything.”

This was probably a sexist conclusion, but I was too busy pondering the situation to care. Excessive barking is often a sign of boredom or separation anxiety. Judging by what I’d seen so far, in Doobie’s case it was likely caused by lack of training.

“Have you tried talking with your neighbor about your dogs?”

“Hell, if I could talk to the guy, I wouldn’t have had to call you. He and I have a personal history.”

“Does this ’personal history’ have anything to do with your dogs?”

He let out a guffaw. “Not of the four-legged variety.”

That could only be a misogynistic crack—unless “dogs” referred to his feet, which I doubted. Ty ignored my withering glare and continued, “Hank’s a Nazi conservative, and he thinks I’m a hippie degenerate.” He peered over the frames of his glasses and wiggled his eyebrows at me. “I’m hoping he’ll like you. The guy thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

Regardless of Mr. Atkinson’s personal appraisal of me, getting his perspective on the barking situation would be helpful. Doobie took another leap at the fence, and nearly managed to climb over the fence, which finally got a rise out of Ty. Joining the recorded voice, he cried, “No, Doobie! Down, boy!” Ty pulled the dog’s massive back paws off the fence support beam, which caused Doobie to yelp as he fell onto our side of the fence. “Bad dog!” Ty shouted, yet, for the first time in my presence, he patted his dog. He glanced at me. “Let’s go back inside the house.”

I said nothing, watching with interest as Ty tried to coax his dog away from the fence. “Come on, boy.” Doobie jumped up on the fence again. Ty grabbed his collar and needed every ounce of strength to drag Doobie back to the house. Ty’s smile while doing so hinted that he was proud of the dog’s disobedience.

Once inside, I leaned against the kitchen counter and watched the difficult procedure as Ty strained to lock the dog door despite his dog’s noisy and furious attempts to bull his way through it. Afterwards, Ty bolted the series of locks on the door, then turned toward me, laughing. “See what I mean? He’s really something to handle. You sure you’re up for this?”

I stared at the gray eyes above those silly rose-colored glasses. “Do you want your dog to be trained?”

His smile faded. “Of course. I hired you, didn’t I?”

“Out of duress. You’re afraid the authorities will take your dog unless you get his barking under control.”

He scowled. “All right, yes. You got me. I believe in letting everybody do their own thing. I’m a free spirit—” he indicated his clothes—”as if you couldn’t figure that out for yourself. That’s why I chose Doobie in the first place. He’s got a lot of energy, and he can handle himself real well. I don’t want to break his spirit.”

“Do you consider training a dog ’breaking his spirit’?” I asked pointedly.

He hesitated, but finally frowned and muttered, “Obviously I’ve got no choice in the matter. I need to be able to control Doobie, or those whiney neighbors of mine are going to see to it that he’s declared a nuisance. Can you get him to quiet down enough to suit the neighbors, without turning him into some kind of a Hush Puppy?”

I resisted a smile. “The only way I can do that is if you’re willing to assert yourself as his master.”

“Fine, fine. We’ll buy into the whole dog-obedience scene, if that’s what it’ll take.” He sighed as he stared at the ever-barking Doobie. “I sure wish you could tell me what’s going on today, though. He’s never barked quite this bad before. It’s gotta be Atkinson’s dog. Maybe she’s in heat, or something.”

That was the first sensible thing Ty had said—an assessment which reinforced my core issue: Without the dog owner’s full cooperation and approval, there was little chance my program would succeed. I did my best to explain this to Ty, who assured me he understood and that, even if he disagreed “on principle” about my wanting to train dogs, he would still comply fully with my instructions.

During the rest of our hour, I discussed the standard ways that Ty would need to assert himself over Doobie. Ty also needed to tone down his dog’s aggressiveness, which meant giving Doobie a lower-protein diet, more exercise, and staying away from rough-housing and tug-of-war games. Ty nodded throughout, but I could tell that, underneath that silly wig of his, my words were falling on deaf ears. Secretly I was putting my hopes on his wife’s assistance, but she never arrived. Not a good sign.

After our hour was up, I headed next door to Hank Atkinson’s house to find out if Ty’s hunch about the Samoyed being in heat was correct. Preoccupied, I almost bumped into an elderly man on the sidewalk, who had bent down to tie his shoe and was partially hidden in the shadows. The man let out a howl of protest at our near collision.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there.”

He merely glared at me, cleared his throat noisily, and shuffled off down the street. Apparently this was not the friendliest of neighborhoods.

Hank Atkinson’s front door was wide open, except for the thin screen door. A dog was whining.

I peered through the screen. No dogs were within view, though the whines sounded like a dog was just on the other side of the doorway. A pair of male voices were coming from the next room, which, if the general layout was the same as Ty’s house, would be the kitchen. I rang the doorbell.

A gray wolf charged through the house, straight toward me.

Chapter 2

I gasped, automatically putting a hand over my exposed throat. All that separated me from the wolf was a thin screen. The wolf could leap through that in the blink of an eye.

I stood my ground and hoped the wolf was domesticated. In any case, if I turned and ran, I would only trigger chase-of-prey instincts. The wolf stopped at the other side of the door, and we stood staring at each other.

What was going on here? There was no way Ty Bellingham’s description of his neighbor’s “white fluffy” Samoyed could have actually referred to this wolf.

A male voice chuckled, and I was vaguely aware of a figure in the shadowed inner doorway behind the animal. “I see you’ve met Kaia, our local celebrity,” said the man. “Don’t worry. He’s perfectly harmless.”

“That’s nice to know,” I replied, though I was fully aware that was a false statement on his part. Kaia had his teeth and his claws intact, so while he might be completely domesticated, he was not harmless. Nor, for that matter, was any canine.

The man stepped into view alongside the vigilant wolf. He was in his sixties, rather dumpy looking with tobacco-stained teeth and a week’s worth of gray whiskers. He wore unbelted and low-riding brown pants, and a stained light blue T-shirt. Was this the neighbor Ty Bellingham had implied was a skirt chaser? If so, he must be deceptively fleet of foot.

“Are you Hank Atkinson?” I asked, recalling a joke that if this was “God’s gift to women,” I hope He kept the receipt.

“No, that would be me,” a second man said from the background. The first man stepped aside to allow Hank access to his own door, but kept a watchful eye on me over Hank’s shoulder. Hank Atkinson was in his forties, strikingly attractive with reddish-brown hair graying at the temples. He wore khaki shorts and a denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves that accentuated his muscular, stocky frame. “And whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.” He started to shut the door on me.

“I’m not a salesperson. My name is Allida Babcock. I’m a dog behaviorist. Do you have a couple of minutes to discuss your dog with me?”

“Sammy?” he rolled his eyes. “Why? Are you in the market for a used Samoyed? If so, this might be your lucky day.”

“No, actually—”

“So. You’re a dog behaviorist, eh?” He gave me a salesman smile of his own and leaned against the door frame. “Maybe you can answer some questions. I’d been hoping to breed my Samoyed to Kaia here, but it looks like that’s not gonna happen. She backed herself into a corner and is protecting herself for all she’s worth. Can she tell Kaia isn’t a dog?”

“Yes, and she might be frightened. Some female dogs can be very discriminating when it comes to mating.”

Actually, I silently considered, I’d known of many instances where female dogs had rejected male dogs, albeit in those cases that immediately came to mind, the male dogs were of the same or smaller breeds than the female. I’d had no experience whatsoever when it came to mating dogs with wolves, but, it was logical to assume that his dog was frightened. I sure would be.

The man who’d first come to the door chuckled again. “How d’ya like that? Your Samantha thinks she’s too good for Kaia. Ain’t that just like your typical dame?” He jabbed Hank in the shoulder.

Hank stiffened, but made no reply.

“Why’n’t you invite the lady in?” He gave me a sly smile, “‘Less you’re afraid of being in the same house with a wolf.” He laughed again, then added, “And I ain’t talkin’ ’bout the four-legged kind.”

Charmed, I’m sure.

“Come on in.” Hank opened the screen door. “It’s not as if you’ll be seeing anything illicit going on, damn it all.”

I stepped inside, keeping a wary eye on the wolf, who returned the favor, his nostrils flaring as he checked me out. Kaia, the two men, and I shared a relatively small square of hardwood flooring that marked the entranceway to a nicely decorated living room. The air bore an unwashed-dog odor. I couldn’t identify its source, but I was betting on Hank’s human visitor. I glanced over at him. He blatantly gawked at my chest. Was he hoping my blouse would suddenly spring open like the doors of a cuckoo clock?

I heard another whimper and glanced to my left, along the front wall. Except for her head, which poked out from around the edge of the love seat, my view of the Samoyed was blocked. She had a few square feet in the corner of the living room between a roll-top desk and the love seat. She was whining and clearly ill at ease, staring at Kaia, who, in turn, seemed utterly indifferent, showing more interest in me than in her. If Sammy was truly in heat, Kaia was strangely unaffected.

“That’s my Samantha, over there.” Hank frowned as he looked at her and crossed his tanned arms across his broad chest.