A Hell of a Dog (7 page)

Every dog person has an Achilles' hock joint. Mine was a recurring flare-up of the Jiminy Cricket syndrome, the belief that despite overwhelming odds what I wish for might come true. I watched a moment longer before letting the drape fall closed.

I tossed my things onto a chair, brushed my teeth, washed my face, then gave Dashiell a nudge so that he'd move over and give me some room.

I lay in the middle of the bed, where he had been, suddenly aware of something trainers stricter than myself didn't know. If you let your dog up on the bed, you get to sleep on a wet spot without the mess and bother of actually having sex.

Despite exhaustion, I stayed awake for what seemed like ages. It wasn't until I heard the jingle of Betty's ID tags out in the hall that I was able to fall asleep.

7

I WATCHED CHIP CROSSING THE STREET

We were a quiet group, quite a change for dog people. You usually have to call the cops to get any one of us to stop offering gratuitous opinions. But at six in the morning, after a night of heavy drinking, heated discussions, cigar smoking, and frustrated sex drives—though in truth I could only speak for myself on the latter—no one was saying much of anything.

There were ten of us huddled together without exactly touching at the Sixty-fifth Street entrance to the park. We had walked our dogs and left them in our rooms. This was to be a demonstration, with Betty tracking and then Chip talking to us about her performance at breakfast. Chip was wearing a wind-breaker and jeans, his hair rumpled as if he'd rolled out of bed two minutes before. Betty was in harness, whining and pacing, wondering why she couldn't get started. Still, there was no Alan.

“Boris,” Chip finally said, “why don't you just show us where the track begins, since Alan isn't here.”

“Sure. Easy for you to say.”

“Didn't you and Sasha go with him?” Chip asked.

“Boris not see him since dinner when he promise to meet me quarter to five. He want to give you track one hour old. But when I show up, no one here. I wait. I wait. No Mr. Know Everything. I go to room. No answer knock I think he stay asleep. Too much drink. Weak system. Not like Russian man, can drink wodka day and night and—”

“Boris!”

“I ask desk to call. No answer phone. I go to Columbus Street—”

“Avenue,” Rick said.

“Whatever,” Boris said, waving Rick away as if he were an annoying insect, “I get coffee, I come back to place he tell me to meet him, no here. Maybe he lay track. Maybe not. Who know?” Boris shrugged. “Not reliable. Russian man give his word—”

“Did anyone see him after dinner?” I asked, looking around the circle. That's when Cathy Powers showed up, running across Central Park West against the light, but not in much danger at this hour. The only traffic was a taxi, and that was several blocks away.

“Did you see Alan this morning?” Chip asked.

“Me?” Cathy asked, her face flushed from running. “What do you mean?”

“He wondered, we all wonder, if you might have seen Alan Cooper. He's not here, as you can see, dear, and it appears he may not have laid the track for Betty's demonstration,” Beryl said.

Cathy looked around at each of us and shook her head. I noticed she'd taken the time to blow-dry her hair. It was light brown, long, and smooth. Too smooth, if you ask me. She was wearing a pair of to-die-for suede boots that were going to be ruined the minute she stepped into the park. Didn't they have mud in California? The rest of her outfit was equally ill-suited for tracking, skintight Calvins and a revealing white sweater that was sure to be appreciated by several, if not all, of the gentlemen present. In fact, when I looked around again, several of them were appreciating her sweater while waiting for Alan to show up and tell us where the track began.

“Why don't we assume he laid the track,” Chip said. “Wait here. I'll go back to the hotel and see if Sam can get me into his room. I can cue Betty with the socks he wore last night, and we can have a much more interesting lesson than I'd originally planned. If he was out here, Betty will find the track.”

There was a murmuring in the group, some of us starting to look alive, even awake, at the thought of seeing Betty start her search from outside the park without knowing where the trail began, if indeed there was one.

I watched Chip crossing the street toward the hotel, Betty at his side.

“Oh, please,” Bucky said. He put the last piece of his Danish into his mouth and continued talking around it. “They planned this.” He hadn't shaved. In fact, the only man who had was Martyn. “It's just like those jerks to do something like this, high drama. ‘Oh, golly, there's no marker, but Betty the Wonder Dog will find the track anyway, from a pair of the track layer's dirty socks.' Does this smell like a setup, or what?”

Woody began to laugh. “Leave it to Pressman. No one loves a goof better than he does. We were doing Schutzhund, oh, ten years back, and he was supposed to be the guy hiding in the blind. We had really green dogs, beginners. So my turn comes. I have a young Dobie, a red male, barely one and a half, still not too sure of himself but coming up nicely. He begins his search, and we get to the blind where Pressman is, and he's got a paper bag over his head. Damn dog emptied his anal glands all over my pants. I never got the stink out, had to throw them away.”

“He wasn't goofing,” Bucky said. “He was just showing you your boy wasn't ready. Didn't have it yet.”

A couple of veins hitherto not visible were sticking out on Woody's neck and forehead, but he said nothing.

“I don't think he lay track. I would have seen him,” Boris said. “If not going into park, coming out from park. I wait long time.” He had what looked like a fresh grease stain at the bottom of his windbreaker. Coffee, my ass. He probably had a steak for breakfast, something to stick to his big, fat ribs while he made a major production about eating only salad at lunch.

“You said you went for coffee,” I said. “You said you went back to the hotel to—”

“I watch here, this spot, like he tell me, all time,” Boris said.

“Hey, who's to say?” Bucky said to no one in particular, “maybe Superman isn't the only one with X-ray vision.”

“Perhaps he simply got up earlier. Perhaps you misunderstood the time, Boris. Or the place. Perhaps he went another way,” Martyn said, “downtown, or further uptown. The way we were drinking last night, perhaps
he
got the time or place wrong.”

“He probably finished it before you got out of bed, Boris. Did anyone check the breakfast room? He's probably sitting there right now, drinking coffee, eating his pancakes,” Bucky said.

There was more mumbling, no one wanting to go back and look, and then Chip was approaching again, with Betty.

“I had the desk call up. There was no answer. I guess we'll have to reschedule this. What's on for tomorrow morning?”

“Not be so off the wall. Boris lay track,” he said.

Everyone turned to look at Boris, who was grinning because he'd fooled us. Or was he grinning over his mastery of American idiom? I couldn't be sure.

“When he no show, not answer door, I leave Sasha in room, come back, and lay track for you.”

“Oh, I get it,” Bucky said. “It was Boris and Chip doing the goof. Fine, we're ready. Surprise us.” He gestured with his hand when he spoke, his fingers as plump as Ballpark Franks.

“We've already wasted half an hour,” I said. “Let's get started. Boris?”

Boris led us a few feet into the park and pointed to an area between two trees.

“She'll move pretty fast once she gets the scent,” Chip said. “Boris, you better go have another breakfast since you laid the track. You'll confuse her if you stay.”

“No difficulty,” he said, smacking himself hard on the stomach. “In case you get lost, Boris do opening speech. You still not back, Boris eat your lunch and do afternoon, psychic readings by Boris. Boris hope you find way back by dinner. Radio predict more rain.”

“We're onto your scheme,” Rick said. “Time to confess, Pressman. The charade is over. So the three of you cooked up this little goof, right?”

“Whatever you say, Rick. I'm ready. Anyone for coming along?”

We each took one step forward. Even if it was a scam, hell, more's the fun if it was, we surely wouldn't want to miss seeing how it would play out. Maybe Betty would lead us on a long chase through the densest part of the park, and at the end of the trail Alan would be lying on the ground, mouth open, arms and legs askew, the found victim. Or he'd be sitting on a blanket in the middle of the Sheep Meadow with Sam, and a great, huge picnic breakfast for us all, both of them laughing.

Chip addressed Betty. “Good girl,” he told her, whispering urgently, “go find.” She began to sniff and circle, then suddenly she was moving, nose to the ground, Chip hanging tight to the long line attached to her padded harness. Going at a moderate pace at first, she headed farther and farther into the park. Every once in a while she'd stop and search the ground, circling or moving left or right. Or she'd sneeze, clearing the way for new scents, just as the family dog riding with his head out the car window does, then she'd be off again, pulling Chip behind her.

We all followed, running to keep up, finding ourselves being led through thick low bushes, our shoes sinking into the wet earth, winding our way around trees, being careful not to trip over roots and fallen branches as we snaked around the park. Betty was going at a steady clip, across the path and onto the grass, all of us following after her.

“Couldn't just do it straight,” Bucky mumbled, starting to get out of breath as we all hurried to keep up with Chip and Betty. “They had to make a big production out of it.”

“Be quiet,” Tracy said. “Let's just do this.” Her face was damp, as if she were a plant someone had just misted, but unlike Bucky, she kept up.

Betty veered toward the copse of trees where just yesterday I had taken Dash and then seen Alan working his dog in the meadow. So it was Alan after all, going exactly the same way he had gone yesterday. No imagination.

But Betty was already off in another direction. She didn't go into the meadow, nor did she continue along the way Dashiell and I had yesterday, toward the lake. She was heading north now, and she was covering ground fast.

We crossed over the bridle path, half our band having to wait for some early-morning riders to pass and hopping around the fresh manure as they rushed to catch up. Betty was whining, moving at a full clip toward a deserted pathway thick with trees on both sides. Suddenly her cries rewed up. Whatever Alan, Boris, and Chip had cooked up, we were there. But for those of us expecting the big gag, there was only disappointment. Sure, Betty had followed the track. She held a glove in her mouth to prove it. She and Chip were doing tug-of-war with it now, her reward for a job well done. But that was it. We had been promised tracking, and tracking was what we got. It was time for breakfast at the Ritz and no doubt a continuation of last night's argument about the relative merits of tracking versus air-scenting.

I wondered why I'd thought Alan would be waiting for us with a picnic of goodies from Zabar's, or be lying faceup in the dirt, a small red circle over his heart and ketchup drooling out of his mouth. Alan Cooper, as far as I could tell, had no sense of humor whatsoever. Perhaps that was why he used a shock collar to train dogs, because he lacked the capacity to laugh at himself when a dog made him look like a fool. Hell, you can't do that, you don't belong around dogs.

So what did this all mean—that Boris was simply telling the truth? If so, where was Alan?

8

OLD-FASHIONED

“That's what Jack Godsil always told me,” Bucky was saying between bites of bagels, lox, and cream cheese in the Ritz breakfast room. “Every handler ends up with the dog he deserves.”

Chip tugged at my sleeve, just like the old days, to let me know he, too, knew the real source of that quote.

“‘Bucky,' he'd say …”

“Put a zipper on it, King,” Rick Shelbert said. Then he looked startled by his own boldness.

“It's amazing how many students a trainer picks up after he's died,” Woody said. He put some milk into his coffee and took a sip. “Rachel, weren't you telling me the other night that you were taught by Blanche Saunders?”

“You know, my dears,” Beryl said, “none of the students coming today would have any idea what you are talking about.” She picked up a knife and slid a little pot of marmalade closer to her plate of toast. We didn't only have our own pots of jam and jelly, we had individual creamers, sugar bowls, salt and pepper shakers, every amenity for people who usually ate greasy hot dogs on the fly between training jobs. “For them,” Beryl continued, “history begins with the people out there teaching seminars now, some of you, some far younger and far less experienced. Nor do they study breed differences. They choose a gadget and advertise themselves as experts. I hope this week inspires one or two of them to better scholarship.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Bucky said.

“At my age, I don't count on much.”

“I don't think that all the changes are bad ones, Beryl,” Rick said, putting down his coffee, ready for battle.

“Of course you don't,” Beryl said, dismissing him.

“I think the introduction of scientific—” Rick started to say, but Beryl didn't let him finish.

“Scientific? Scientific only means you have no feeling for dogs, no insights, no respect for their intelligence and ability to learn, no—”

“My good woman—”

“I am not your good woman, nor anyone else's.” Beryl pinned Rick with an alpha stare. “You are about to be very condescending toward me, and I suggest you rethink your position. Actually, rolling over, exposing your neck, and urinating would be more appropriate.”