Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) (10 page)

“I have an announcement on that score myself,” I said. “I'm going back to school too.”

For the majority of my adult life I had been employed as a teacher, working first in the Stamford public school system and more recently as special needs tutor at Howard Academy, a private day school located in Greenwich. I had taken maternity leave after Kevin was born, and my scheduled break had now stretched through several extra semesters. I'd recently been contacted by the school's headmaster, however, and now it looked as though my sabbatical was coming to an end.

“That's great!” said Bertie. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to go back.”

“Me too,” I admitted. “But it turns out that the wife of the man they hired to replace me is taking a job transfer to Belgium. So the position is open again and it's mine if I want it.”

“Which you do,” Bertie confirmed.

“You're right,” I agreed. “I do want it. I miss being a teacher. And Howard Academy was a great place to work.”

“What about Kev?”

“Sam and I have two months to get the details ironed out. He works at home and he says he'll manage. I'm going to ease back into the position gradually. I'll start in September with three half days a week.”

Bertie picked up a handful of chips and dropped them on my plate next to the baby carrots. I considered them for about ten seconds, then dug in and helped myself.

“And in the meantime . . . ?” She let the question dangle.

“It's summer,” I said. “And I'm taking it easy.”

Bertie shook her head.

“Screw that,” she said. “I've never seen you take the easy way yet. What about Nick Walden?”

“I don't know,” I told her. “Bob was pretty vehement about wanting my help. So I guess I'll talk to Claire again. And then we'll see what happens after that.”

W
hen I arrived home, Sam acted as if nothing had changed between us. Indeed he behaved as if nothing unusual had happened at all. He and Kevin were in the room off the kitchen that had become the locus for our Poodle grooming activities.

Kevin was on the floor in the corner, playing with a set of Legos. According to the picture on the Lego box, he was supposed to be building a castle. Instead his structure looked more like an igloo. Or maybe an ancient burial mound. He seemed to be having fun, however, so who was I to quibble with the results?

Sam had Augie lying on his side on the grooming table. The puppy was freshly bathed and Sam was busy blowing him dry. With a Poodle in show trim it isn't enough to simply get the moisture out of the hair. The coat must also be carefully straightened and detangled as it dries.

It's a painstaking job that requires patience. What it doesn't require is undivided attention. Once the large, freestanding dryer is correctly positioned, with the nozzle pointing where it needs to go, the fingers can usually fly through the exercise without much input from the brain. So I thought that we'd be able to talk while he worked.

Sam didn't agree however. Instead he mimed that the noise from the dryer would make conversation difficult. And we both knew that if he turned the blower off mid-task to talk to me, Augie's coat would curl and mat before he'd be able to finish it. So instead I left him to the chore, whistled up the other Poodles, and took them for a walk. The pack was delighted to take a spin around the neighborhood, and the exercise enabled me to work off some frustration.

I couldn't help but wonder why Sam had decided to give Augie a bath at the very time that would coincide with my return. Usually that was a job he and Davey did together. Not only that, but the puppy's coat had appeared to be in decent shape earlier. I hadn't noticed anything that would have required urgent care.

Or maybe I was just being paranoid, I thought. But now that I knew I'd spent the last several months in blissful ignorance, never dreaming for a moment that my own family was conspiring to keep secrets from me, I felt like I needed to question everything.

It was no way to run a marriage.

 

When Davey got home that afternoon he was delighted to discover that while he'd spent the day playing with Joey Brickman, his puppy had been given a bath and had his ears and topknot freshly rewrapped.

“Wow, he looks great.” Davey wound his arms around Augie's neck and gave him a hug. “He even smells good. Thanks, Sam!”

Davey grabbed his little brother's hand. Together the two boys ran through the house and out to the backyard. The Poodles, who love a good chasing game, went flying after them.

“You missed a call from Bob earlier,” Sam said as we heard the back door slam. “He wanted us to know that Nick is being buried at the end of the week. Claire's parents are flying up from North Carolina and they're having a private family funeral. Later on, after everything gets sorted out, there'll be a memorial service to celebrate Nick's life.”

“Is Bob going to the funeral?” I asked.

Sam hesitated briefly, then nodded. “So he said.”

That answer revealed more about the state of Bob and Claire's relationship than anything I'd heard previously. Good for Bob
,
I thought.

“I need to talk to Davey about Claire,” I said.

“Why?”

Maybe I should have tried again to explain how I was feeling. Perhaps Sam's question was the opening I needed to start a discussion between us. But half of me was feeling mulish and the other half was more than a little afraid that Sam would simply blow off my concerns again.

So instead I gave him the answer he deserved. “Because Davey will tell me what's going on,” I said.

I found the two boys in the middle of the yard at the foot of the old oak tree. A fork in the branches, ten feet above the ground, held the tree house that Sam and Davey had built together several years earlier. A rope ladder dangled down to provide access. Davey had wrapped Kevin's small hands around the sides of the ladder, and he was trying to hoist his brother up the length of the broad trunk.

The Poodles were circling the tree, observing the activity with varying degrees of interest and concern. Tar's tail was whipping back and forth eagerly. Faith, a mother herself, was pacing and whining under her breath.

It looked as though I'd arrived just in time.

“Davey, you know Kev's too young for the tree house.”

A firm hand on my older son's shoulder separated the two boys. Then I reached around and pried Kevin's fingers loose from the ladder. As soon as he let go, I swung him down to the ground.

“He wanted to go up,” Davey said in his own defense. “He asked me to take him, didn't you?”

The toddler nodded happily.

“Kevin's too young to know what's good for him and what isn't. That's why it's your job—as his big brother—to keep him safe.”

“But Sam takes him up there!”

“Sam's a lot bigger than you are,” I pointed out. “He climbs the ladder carrying Kevin in his arms. Can you do that?”

“No.” Davey looked at the ground. “I guess not.”

“In another few years, the two of you will be able to go up there together whenever you want.”

“That's a long time,” said Davey.

“Long time!” Kevin echoed. He pumped a fist in the air for good measure. Even when he has no idea what the conversation is about, he always agrees with his brother.

Looking at the two boys standing there side by side, united in their support for one another, a wave of tenderness washed over me. I suddenly felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Both my sons were happy and healthy. That was more than enough to make the other problems that had weighed down my day seem unimportant. I reached out and looped an arm around each of my sons and pulled them close in a hug.

“I love you guys,” I said.

“Aww, Mom,” Davey grumbled, his head pressed against my shoulder. “We already know that. You don't have to keep telling us.”

“Yes, I do,” I said.

Kevin disentangled himself and leaned back. “Love you, Mom. Want a Popsicle.”

I laughed and let them both go. “You're a little manipulator,” I told my younger son.

“I'm a 'lipulator,” he repeated happily. “I want grape!”

“Go back inside,” I said to Kev. I turned the toddler in the right direction and gave him a little push. “Dad will get you a Popsicle.”

“I'll take him,” Davey volunteered.

“No, I'd rather you stay out here with me a minute. I want to talk to you about something.”

Kevin, accompanied by several Poodles, trotted dutifully toward the house. Davey sat down on the grass and crossed his legs. “What's up?” he asked.

Raven and Eve lay down beside him. I took a spot opposite the trio. “So your father has a new girlfriend,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess.” Davey ducked his head. I couldn't see his expression.

“And he told you not to tell me about her?”

“He said it would be easier if you didn't know,” Davey admitted. “Are you mad?”

“Yes, I am,” I told him. “I don't like secrets. But I'm not mad at you. It's the grown-ups who should have known better.”

Davey lifted his head. He looked relieved.

“So now that I've met Claire, let's talk about her.”

“You met her? When?”

“She was here earlier, with your dad.” I didn't feel any need to explain the circumstances of their visit. “Do you like her?”

“Sure,” Davey replied. “She's nice.”

“Does she spend a lot of time with your dad?”

“I guess.”

“Do you mind about that?”

“No.” Davey frowned thoughtfully. “Why would I?”

“Maybe because it takes some of his attention away from you?”

“Nah, that's okay. Claire's pretty cool. Dad and I both like it when she comes over. She cooks sometimes. And she plays video games with me.”

“Really?” I hadn't expected that.

“Sure.” Davey grinned. “She's not very good. She screams and jumps around on the couch. Sometimes I let her win.”

“That's big of you,” I said with a laugh.

“Don't tell her. Okay?”

“I won't,” I said. “On one condition. I don't want you keeping any more secrets from me. No matter who tells you to.”

“Okay,” Davey agreed readily. “It's a deal.”

He pushed off with both hands and stood up. “Mom? About Claire . . .”

“Hmm?” I stood up as well.

“She makes Dad happy. He smiles a lot when she's around.”

I reached out and ruffled his short hair. “That's a good thing.”

“I think so too,” Davey said. He sounded unexpectedly grown up. Then he grabbed Raven and Eve and took off running toward the house. Just that quickly, the illusion of maturity vanished.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” I called after him.

Davey grinned back over his shoulder. “To get a Popsicle before Kevin eats them all!”

 

I waited until after the funeral to call Claire. She didn't seem surprised to hear from me and we agreed to get together that afternoon. By that time Davey's soccer camp had started, and Sam, who was between projects, agreed to watch Kevin.

Briefly I considered taking Faith with me. In a house with six dogs, it can be difficult to ensure that each one receives enough individual attention. And since Faith never takes advantage of her status as top dog, that makes me want to play favorites all the more.

But luckily before I loaded the big Poodle into the Volvo, I remembered that Claire had mentioned taking possession of Nick's two dogs after his death. A Rottie mix and a little terrier, she'd said. Considering that I barely knew Nick's sister, I wasn't at all sure how the visit might proceed. Things might be strained enough without adding the potential for canine tension to the mix.

Like her brother, Claire lived in Riverside, a subsection of Greenwich on the southeast side of town. GPS delivered me to a cute cottage at the end of a cul-de-sac near the turnpike. The house was set very near the road, and the yard behind it appeared almost non-existent. Based on Claire's description, Nick's dogs had sounded young and energetic. I wondered how all three of them—human and canine both—were dealing with the change in circumstance.

I hopped up two front stairs and rang the bell. Immediately I heard the rumble of heavy footsteps approaching the door. A cacophony of loud, deep-throated, barking sounded from within. If I'd been a burglar or a Jehovah's Witness, the noise alone would have been enough to make me reconsider visiting this address.

“Just a minute!” Claire called out.

Prudently I backed up. If the Rottie was about to come flying out when she opened the door, I didn't want to get knocked down the steps.

The same thought must have occurred to Claire because when she drew the door open a moment later, she had one hand on the knob and the other wrapped firmly around the big dog's leather collar. He was black with rust colored markings, and everything about him—from his deep chest, to his sturdy legs, to his broad, blunt, muzzle—gave the impression of barely restrained power.

Seeing me, the dog began to jump up and down in place. It was all Claire could do to hold him. It looked like any second he was going to drag her through the doorway and down the stairs.

“Thor, get down!” she commanded.

The dog dropped to all fours but continued to eye me warily. He didn't look like the kind of dog I'd want to meet in a dark alley.

“He's fine.” Claire said quickly. “Really, he is.” She only sounded half-convinced. “You're not afraid of dogs, are you? Oh no, of course not. You have big dogs of your own. Please come in. Thor will settle down as soon as he realizes you're not a threat.”

That didn't sound very reassuring. Considering Thor's size and his territorial attitude, it seemed to me it would be better if he accepted me as non-threatening
before
I entered his domain.

“Will he run away if you let go of him?” I asked.

“No.” Claire bit her lip. “But he might jump on you.”

“Does he bite?”

“I don't think so.”

Again, not the most reassuring answer I'd heard recently.

“Let's try it,” I said. “Let go of his collar and let him approach me on his own.”

Slowly Claire unwound her fingers. Once released, the big dog didn't charge at me. He did, however, rise up on his toes and lift his shoulders. The change in stance dropped his head into a more menacing position.

“Hey, Thor,” I said quietly. “You and I are going to be friends.”

I looked in the Rottie's direction, but not directly at him. When he advanced toward me, I held my ground and extended a hand. With luck, he'd inhale Faith's scent and realize I was an ally.

Or there was the other possibility: that he'd just go ahead and chomp my fingers before he took the time to sniff them.

Fortunately for all of us, Thor opted for the former. Claire exhaled the breath she'd been holding. I lifted my hand and ran it up over Thor's arched forehead. As I scratched between his ears, he managed a small wag of his stumpy tail.

“He really is a good dog,” Claire said. “It's just that he has these protective instincts. Nick knew how to keep them in check. The two of them trusted each other implicitly. But Thor and I don't have the same kind of relationship yet. Who knows? Maybe we never will.”